Franki Amato Mysteries Box Set

by Traci Andrighetti

  I could make out enough of the French to know that it was the burial site of Delphine Lalaurie, a nineteenth-century socialite and sadistic serial killer of slaves. Despite being dead for over a century and a half, Lalaurie was still one of the most notorious killers in history—so much so that the TV series American Horror Story had created a fictionalized version of her for its "Coven" season.

  Theodora dropped to her knees. "Madame Lalaurie, may I collect dirt from your grave?"

  I didn't know what she was going to do with the dirt, but I took a step backwards nevertheless. It was wise to be wary of this witch.

  She cocked her orange-red head to the side and nodded as though Lalaurie were speaking to her from beyond. Next, she pulled a spoon and a small wooden box from her pocket and began digging dirt from a crack in the concrete at the base of the tomb.

  The dirt reminded me of Glenda's comment about the glass vial I'd found at Madame Moiselle's. I pulled the plastic baggie containing the vial from my purse. "Is this part of New Orleans witchcraft?"

  Theodora opened the baggie and sniffed it. "Smells like a mugwort and dragon's blood blend I use in my spell work. Where'd you find it?"

  I hesitated for a moment, remembering Detective Sullivan's request for discretion on the specifics of the case. But I seriously doubted that this witch was a snitch, and I hadn't used Amber's name, so I decided to give her some vague details. "Next to the crime scene. There was also a candle, some incense, and an unopened bottle of liquor."

  "It could be a spell, except for the booze. That's a voodoo offering to some loa or other. I never can keep those damn gods straight." She returned to her digging. "And I can't understand why people leave food and drink for them. It's such a waste."

  My sentiments exactly.

  She put a spoonful of dirt into the box. "Where was the oil used?"

  "Uh, in bath water," I replied evasively.

  "Well, why didn't you say so?" she asked snapping the lid shut.

  Before I could reply, she held out her hand to silence me. I watched as she dropped a dime in the hole and covered it with the remaining dirt.

  "As I have paid you in silver, Madame Lalaurie, so shall you pay me in labor!" she shouted, staring at the crypt like she was spellbound.

  At this point, I was scongiuri-ing left and right. I didn't know what this labor was that Lalaurie was supposed to do for her, but I hoped that she either couldn't or wouldn't do it right then.

  "So anyway," Theodora said as she stood up and brushed off her caftan like she'd been gardening instead of grave digging, "your victim was probably doing some good old-fashioned bathtub witchcraft."

  "Bathtub witchcraft?" I echoed. "Whatever happened to the cauldron? You know, 'double, double toil and trouble' and all of that?"

  She lowered her sunglasses and laid her eerie irises on me. "You've been reading too much Shakespeare."

  Honestly, I'd thought that the rhyme was from a Disney film, but I just went with it. "Do you have any idea whether that was a healing spell the victim was doing?"

  "Nah." She walked toward another tomb. "That would've involved a lavender and vetiver blend. Based on the oil in that vial, it was most likely an anti-hex spell."

  I looked up in surprise. It didn't make sense for Amber to invoke Jurate for healing if what she was after had to do with hexes. "So, does this spell ward off the evil eye?"

  "It undoes a curse that someone has already placed on you. And if your victim bought the spell, then he or she was definitely fighting witchcraft with witchcraft." She stopped to scowl at a pyramid-shaped tomb covered in lipstick prints with the Latin inscription omnia ab uno, all from one.

  I recognized the kissed crypt from the local news as the one the actor Nicolas Cage had bought for his eventual demise. Suddenly, I longed for a shot. "But how does the bottle of booze fit in?"

  "Like I said, Old New Orleans Traditional Witchcraft is often a mix." She plucked a weed from the exposed bricks of a deteriorate mausoleum and popped it into her mouth. "Your victim could've included a voodoo offering for good measure, or the killer might have put it there to throw you off track. But either way, you need to start by finding the witch who put the spell on your victim."

  My stomach bubbled like a cauldron at the sight of her chewing that weed. "And how, exactly, does one find a witch?"

  She turned and headed toward the exit. "One looks for the signs."

  "Like, a third nipple?" I asked hopefully. I mean, that wouldn't be hard to spot given the nature of this case.

  She spun around and removed her sunglasses as her feline eyes flashed.

  I flinched, halfway expecting her to turn me into a big boob.

  "I was talking about a pagan tattoo or jewelry," she said between clenched teeth. "Like a triangle or a moon or a goddess."

  My blood ran as cold as a witch's teat. All this time I'd been focusing on Curaçao as the possible killer. But now I was wondering whether I'd made a potentially costly mistake. Because I'd seen someone at the club with a crescent moon tattoo.

  And that someone was Saddle.

  13

  When I walked into Lucky Pierre's, a Bourbon Street gay bar as famous for its 3-for-1 happy hours as it was for its drag and burlesque shows, the old wooden door groaned in protest.

  "Can't you read the closed sign, Hunty?" a Lucy Liu lookalike shouted from behind the bar.

  "Mind your manners, Miss Gaysia," Glenda said as she stood up from her stool in black thigh-high boots and a belted cutout romper that was more cut than not. "Miss Franki's with me."

  "What's a 'hunty'?" I whispered, hiding my mouth with my hand.

  "A combination of honey and the C word," she replied and then turned to the bitchy bar queen. "She'll have what I'm having."

  Gaysia gave me a glacial glare and grabbed a glass.

  Ignoring the drag diva's dis, I tossed my bag onto the transparent, liquid-filled bar counter and spotted a holster on Glenda's thigh. "What are you dressed as, anyway? A frisky FBI agent?"

  She looked at me like I'd pulled a gun on her. "This is my private-investigating suit."

  If anything, she looked more like a slutty spy than a private eye. "You're not actually packing heat, are you?"

  "I'm just using this holster to hold my PI supplies," she replied, returning to her seat.

  Prudently passing on asking about those supplies, I took a quick look around instead. Lucky Pierre's had once been a brothel, and it showed. The two-story structure had a wide staircase that appeared custom-made for grand entrances, and it was decorated with sensual chandeliers, gilded crown moldings, sumptuous sofas, and a rainbow-shaped Sinners sign that served as a nod to the bar's sexplicit past and present. Thanks to the décor of my apartment, I felt instantly at home there.

  Glenda scrutinized my face as she handed me the champagne. "You look like you've seen a ghost, sugar."

  I took a sip and slid onto the stool beside her. "No, just a witch."

  She didn't bat a feather false eyelash at my reply. "How'd you know where to find me?"

  "I stopped by the club looking for Saddle, and Bit-O-Honey said you'd come here to talk to Carnie." I scanned the room and spotted a Céline Dion doppelganger at a table in front of the stage. "Where is she, anyway?"

  "She'll be down in a minute." Glenda motioned to Gaysia for another glass of champagne. "She's getting ready to perform."

  It was only one o'clock, and Lucky Pierre's didn't open until four. "It takes her three hours to get ready?" I asked. Then I remembered Carnie's fearsome five o'clock shadow. "Never mind. Are you here to talk to her about the case?"

  "About arranging a funeral for Amber," she replied as she reached for her cigarette holder and lighter. "We entertainers take care of our own."

  "Well, a few of the witnesses have said that Amber had a mother." I angled a glance at Gaysia expecting her to go off about the no smoking sign above the bar. "You might want to find out what her plans are."

  "This is the first I've heard of any moth
er." She lit her cigarette and exhaled. "It seems odd that she hasn't come up before."

  I had to agree. And it was even odder that she hadn't come forward despite considerable publicity about the case. "What'd you find out about the dancers' rituals?"

  "So far I've only talked to the girls on the early shift," she replied as she adjusted a gadget on her belt. "Bit-O-Honey said that Amber used to light a candle before dancing, but that's all she remembers."

  This was big news. If Amber had been into lighting candles, then doing a spell wasn't out of the realm of possibility. "What about the others?"

  "The usual things," she said with a shrug. "Anointing themselves with oil, rubbing a dildo, carrying a lucky condom."

  I had some questions about that condom, but it was better not to ask. My stomach was already queasy from the lava-lamp-like counter.

  "Hello my lovelies," a falsetto voice crooned from the second floor. "And Franki," it added in a low, flat pitch.

  I smirked and looked up as Carnie sashayed down the staircase like a coquette at cotillion. Only, with her Mimi makeup, wig cap, and the lifelike latex breastplate strapped around her neck, she looked more like the Bride of Frankenstein.

  Glenda raised her glass. "Ladies and lady-boys, Miss Carnie Vaul."

  Carnie sauntered over and placed a manicured hand on her faux flesh. "Do you have an update on the case?"

  Her boobie-bib was more embarrassing than Bit-O-Honey's bare bosom, so I was glad to have an excuse to turn away. "Gaysia, can you give us a minute?"

  She gasped and stomped over to Céline, who was contouring her nose.

  I started to lean in, but because of the boobs—live and latex—I opted to lower my voice instead. "After consulting with a local witchcraft expert, I think Amber was doing an anti-hex spell when she died." I shifted in my seat before asking the next question, realizing how silly it would sound. "Can either of you think of anyone who would've put a hex on her?"

  "Curaçao, of course," Carnie said, putting her hands on her hoopskirt-sized hips. "I don't know if she was a witch witch, but she was definitely a witch bitch."

  "Thanks for clearing that up," I said, shooting her a sideways glance. "I'll follow up on the witchcraft angle with Maybe."

  "What about that Etsy charge?" Carnie asked. "Did you follow up on that?"

  I tossed back the rest of my champagne. "It turned out to be for a copy of your amber necklace."

  "That shady ho," she breathed. Then she stormed behind the bar and helped herself to a shot.

  Glenda leaned back on her stool and kicked her lipstick-heeled boots onto the counter. "I'll bet Amber planned to swap the copy with the original."

  "That's what I'm thinking," I said. "But I should notify the police in case there's more to it than that."

  Carnie lurched forward, causing her bib to bounce. "So you're going to turn me in for opening her credit card bill?"

  "Down, woman," I said, holding up my hands in case she hopped the bar. "I don't have to reveal my sources."

  Her blue-shadowed lids lowered to half-mast à la Herman Munster. "You'd better hope you don't."

  Unfazed by Carnie's behavior, Glenda blew a couple of smoke hearts. "What makes you think this copy is relevant, Miss Franki?"

  "Until we know where it is, I won't know whether it's relevant or not. What I need to figure out is whether the necklace is related to that mermaid on the tub." I turned to Carnie. "That reminds me, is there any chance that Amber was Lithuanian?"

  "She was as Cajun as they come," she replied as she poured herself some Piehole whiskey. "Why?"

  I put my forearms on the bar. "There was a drawing of a mermaid at the crime scene, and amber is associated with the legend of a mermaid who promotes healing."

  "Amber wasn't sick or broken, okay?" Carnie said, pointing the bottle of whiskey at me. "Now I don't know why that mermaid was there, but we need to be clear on something—it didn't have a damn thing to do with fixing Amber."

  I eyed the Piehole and wished that Carnie would shut hers.

  "What about your necklace?" Glenda asked as she stubbed out her cigarette in the dregs of her drink. "Why do you think she was wearing it?"

  Carnie slammed the bottle onto the bar. "Maybe she liked it, I don't know. But I can tell you this—she stole it because she wanted to sell it, not because she wanted to invoke some mermaid. That girl was about money and whatever it took to get it. End of story."

  My sense was that she was right about the reason Amber stole the necklace. But because Theodora had confirmed that amber was used in witchcraft, I had to consider all the possible angles.

  The door groaned, and a Dolly Parton drag queen in an Elly May Clampett costume flounced into the bar. She took a seat next to Glenda and tossed a roll of Tuck Tape into Carnie's outstretched hand.

  Carnie gave her the once over. "Pure country realness."

  "Well, you know what I always say," Drag Dolly said as chipper as a chipmunk as she fluffed her breasts. "It costs a lot of money to look this cheap."

  "Truth, gurl." Carnie turned and eyeballed my ten-dollar Target turtleneck. "Speaking of cheap, if you don't have anything else for me, then I need to finish painting."

  "By all means," I said. And I meant it.

  Carnie placed her whiskey on the bar and exchanged air kisses with Glenda.

  I glanced at the amber liquid, and a thought occurred to me. "You guys—I mean, ladies—wouldn't happen to know of a voodoo god that drinks amaretto, would you?"

  "Oh, I would," Dolly replied, tightening the bow in her wig. "The patron of gays and trans just loves amaretto, but her favorite is pink champagne."

  "Now that's a voodoo goddess I can get behind," Glenda said before tossing back the last of her bubbly. "Which loa is this, sugar?"

  Dolly toyed with the frayed ends of her rope belt. "Erzulie Freda."

  As soon as she said the name, I thought of the painting at Erzulie's Authentic Voodoo. The sales woman had said that Erzulie Freda was the goddess of love, among other things. But it didn't make sense to invoke a love loa during an anti-hex spell. And yet I knew that's what had happened because the bottle said it all.

  Amaretto di Amore.

  As I made my way up Canal Street to Pontchartrain Bank, I was met by an army of women in bodysuits, tights, and legwarmers. It was a terrifying sight, like an invasion of the '80s, but I forged through the fit females like a tank. All the talk about the goddess of love had made me want to see Bradley, and the fact that the goddess liked to drink had reminded me that I needed to invite him over to see my mom and nonna. If he didn't come there would be hell to pay, and my nonna would make sure that I was the one who paid it.

  When I finally made it inside the bank lobby, I could see that Ruth was worked up about something. My first clue was the pursed look on her perpetually puckered mouth. The second was that the chains hanging from the sides of her black horn-rimmed reading glasses were swinging like swords at a fencing fight.

  I eyed Bradley's closed door as I approached Ruth's desk. "Is everything okay?"

  She tightened her gray-brown bun. "I've just been informed that I need to make last-minute travel arrangements for twelve board members—and during a national Jazzercise convention, no less."

  That explained the warrior-like workout women.

  "And I'll tell you what," Ruth said, pointing a letter opener at my gut. "If one more person comes in here and shakes their jazz hands at me, I'm gonna up and stab someone."

  Given that I was ethnically inclined to gesture when I spoke, I took a step back. "Wait. Bradley just met with the board in New York. Why are they coming here?"

  She bowed her head. "The bank lost two more big clients yesterday, and a third is threatening to follow suit. If I were a betting woman—which I'm not," she clarified with a flourish of her letter opener, "I'd wager that a certain bank manager named Jeff Payne was behind this business."

  I happened to know that Ruth never missed Saturday night bingo at the Napoleon Room in Me
tairie and that she practically had a lifetime subscription to the Louisiana Lottery, but she called that "gaming," not "gambling," and I didn't dare disagree. "Why do you say that? Did you trace Jeff's restaurant receipt to Martin Slater?"

  She put her hands on her thighs and jutted out her lower lip. "Mr. Slater's secretary confirmed that he had lunch with Jeff at Casamento's."

  I was at a loss for words.

  She grimaced, and the lines around her lips bled into her cheeks. "And that's not the worst of it."

  I found my words. "Well, what is?"

  "A few of the board members have been calling the clients who've abandoned ship." She paused and glanced around to make sure that no one was listening. "And apparently, every one of them has received the same anonymous letter."

  I put my hand to my mouth. Anonymous letters abounded in the Sicilian culture, and they inevitably involved le corna, or bull horns, which were a symbol of infidelity in Italy. "What does it say?"

  "No idea." She grabbed a peppermint from a candy dish and popped it into her mouth. "But that's still not the worst of it."

  This time I took a step forward. "Would you just tell me what the worst of it is?" I asked through gritted teeth. "Or do I need to show you the worst of it?"

  "Now don't go gettin' all pissy on me, missy." She sat back and raised her nose in the air. "I'm the one who's been trying to save your beau's behind while you've been out toodlin' around in a titty bar."

  I clenched my fists one finger at a time. "How many times do I have to tell you that I'm working a homicide at Madame Moiselle's?"

  "It's none of my never mind what a woman like yourself is doing in a gentlemen's club." She looked from side to side again and leaned forward. "But you should know that the anonymous mailer, aka Mr. Payne In The Rear, has also been sending out compromising photographs with that letter."

  My mouth went as dry as her demeanor. "What do you mean by 'compromising'?"

  Ruth threw her hands in the air. "Well, if I don't know what's in the letter, then I don't know what's in the photos, do I?" She arched an over-tweezed eyebrow and moved so close that I could smell her minty fresh breath. "But evidently they have something to do with Bradley."