Campari Crimson

by Traci Andrighetti

  Campari Crimson

  (Franki Amato Mysteries Book 4)

  Traci Andrighetti

  Contents

  Free Short Mystery Offer

  Book Backstory

  Cocktails

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Call to Action

  About the Author

  Also by Traci Andrighetti

  Sneak Peak

  Free Short Mystery Offer

  Sign up for my reader group at traciandrighetti.com to be the first to know about my new releases, deals, and giveaways. And I’ll email you a link to download “Fragolino Fuchsia,” a Franki-goes-to-Rome short mystery, for FREE!

  CAMPARI CRIMSON

  by

  * * *

  TRACI ANDRIGHETTI

  Copyright © 2018 by Traci Andrighetti

  Cover design by Lyndsey Lewellen

  Limoncello Press http://limoncellopress.com

  * * *

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  * * *

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Created with Vellum

  For my ex-colleagues. Thanks for the love and laughs. I hope this book gives you both.

  Book Backstory

  Campari Crimson began as the intentionally bad idea of two of my ex-colleagues, Gregg Charalambous and Josh Santo. They wanted to be werewolves in a Franki Amato mystery, but I can’t remember their plot idea because it was so absurd that I erased it from my mind. But werewolves made me think of vampires and all the Anne Rice novels set in New Orleans, and it occurred to me that there were probably a lot of vampire legends associated with The Crescent City.

  To find out, my husband and I went on a New Orleans vampire tour. As it turns out, not only does the city have vampire legends, it has also witnessed true vampire crimes, which I hadn’t expected. Another surprise—there was a female vampire on the tour, and she wasn’t a prop. She was a tourist from New York on vacation with her husband. I didn’t talk to her, but she looked at me and smiled, revealing sizeable fangs, and she wore white-blue contacts that made her eyes glow. Other than that, she looked like any other NOLA tourist in a T-shirt, jeans, and Mardi Gras boa.

  The woman was my first experience with a “real vampire,” a person who feeds on blood—human or animal—or physical energy. Apparently New Orleans and Buffalo have the largest vampire populations, but my hometown of Austin has an active group too. While I was researching these communities, I learned that an Italian occult watchdog group had warned the Vatican of the appeal of “sexy vampires” portrayed by beautiful actors and actresses on television and in movies. Besides the Twilight series, they were most concerned about the influence of True Blood, a TV show filmed in New Orleans. That’s when I knew I had to write Campari Crimson.

  And yes, the vampire I saw on the tour is a key character in the book, as are a lot of my ex-colleagues and friends. Rather than identify them, I’ll let them tell you if they’re real or not. Of course, you already know about Gregg and Josh. They’re characters in the mystery (and in life), and I had some fun with them. You’ll see what I mean when you read Campari Crimson.

  Speaking of real people who became book characters, Marissa Maggio (you know her as Veronica, Franki’s BFF and employer) lent her legal expertise to Campari Crimson. Grazie, amica mia.

  And thanks to all of you who support me in this crazy book-writing adventure. Even though I’m mostly in front of a computer, I’m having the time of my life.

  Now, as the say in New Orleans, laissez les bons temps rouler!

  * * *

  Baci e abbracci (XOXO),

  Traci

  Cocktails

  Here are two of my favorite drinks from Campari Crimson. And if you like cocktails, wait until you find out what the title refers to.

  * * *

  NEGRONI SBAGLIATO

  * * *

  When I finish a Franki Amato mystery, I toast with a drink made of the liqueur featured in the title. I also reference a drink in each book as a clue to my next title in the series (hint for the next Franki mystery: It’s a yellow liqueur, but not Limoncello). Anyway, my celebratory drink was a Negroni Sbagliato, which means wrong or mistaken Negroni, because it plays a role in the climax of Campari Crimson.

  * * *

  1 ounce Campari

  1 ounce sweet vermouth

  1 or 2 ounces Prosecco

  orange wedge

  * * *

  Fill an old-fashioned glass with ice. Add Campari and vermouth and stir. Top with Prosecco and stir again. You can also serve this drink without ice in a champagne flute. Garnish with an orange wedge.

  * * *

  VAMPIRE COCKTAIL

  * * *

  I made this drink with friends on Halloween because it’s served with syringes filled with raspberry puree to look like blood, of course. It’s not easy finding large syringes, so I need to thank my dermatologist for providing them (lucky I had an appointment that morning). The drink is deliciously decadent, so I included it in a scene at a vampire ball.

  * * *

  Raspberry puree

  2 cups raspberries

  ¼ cup sugar

  * * *

  The cocktail

  4 ounces vodka

  2 ounces amaretto

  2 ounces orange juice

  6 ounces club soda

  4 large plastic syringes

  * * *

  Puree the raspberries in a blender or food processor. Strain the puree to separate the pulp from the seeds. Discard the seeds.

  * * *

  Combine the pulp with the sugar in a small saucepan over medium-high heat. Stir frequently, and cook until the mixture darkens, about ten minutes. Chill and then fill the syringes with the puree.

  * * *

  Fill four old-fashioned glasses with ice. In a shaker, mix vodka, amaretto, orange juice, club soda. Pour into the glasses and add a puree-filled syringe. Before drinking, squeeze the puree into the glass. The end result resembles a bloody tequila sunrise.

  1

  “That vampire is staring at me.” I clenched my jaw and tipped my head at a fanged female standing among parade-goers at the gates of Jackson Square.

  Veronica Maggio stood on tiptoes and gazed over the crowd. “The one with the curls and blue dress?”

  “Uh-huh.” I pulled up the collar of my peacoat. “Every time I look at her, she’s ogling my throat.”

  She gave a get-a-grip gasp. “Franki, she’s barely twelve years old.”

  No matt
er how hard I tried, I could never convince my best friend and employer that danger was a daily concern. Sometimes it seemed like she clung to her perky-positive Elle Woods worldview to spite me, and the proof was in her Legally Blonde-inspired pink Playboy Bunny costume. “Go ahead—scoff. But she reminds me of Claudia, the blood-thirsty kid Kirsten Dunst played in Interview with a Vampire.”

  “Well, this little vampirette isn’t going to bite you, especially not at a Halloween parade.”

  I looked to the voodoo doll beside me for support, but she looked away. “How does that make any sense?”

  Veronica shot me the side-eye. “You’re one to talk about making sense. I don’t know why you’re always so suspicious of people.”

  “Uh…” I blinked, incredulous. “Because we’re private investigators, and we’re in New Orleans?”

  “We both know vampires aren’t real.” She turned toward Decatur Street, resuming her wait for the first float. “And no one comes to the Krewe of BOO! parade to bite anyone. They’re here to have fun.”

  Judging from the way the buzzed Betelgeuse to my right had been baring his teeth at me, I wasn’t so sure about the biting part. “Maybe, but as soon as Glenda gets here, I’m heading home.”

  She glanced at her phone. “It’s six-thirty, so I’m expecting them any minute.”

  If I hadn’t been sufficiently spooked by the vexing vampiress, the realization that my sixty-something ex-stripper landlady was bringing a companion did the trick. “Them? I thought it was her.”

  “Carnie’s coming too.”

  Dread filled my veins like a bad transfusion. As her stage name implied, Carnie Vaul was a carnival-clown-turned-drag-queen friend of Glenda’s who once hired me to investigate a homicide involving her priceless amber necklace. And even though I technically worked for Veronica’s PI firm, Private Chicks, Inc., Carnie had thrown her weight around—all three hundred fifty pounds of it. The worst part was that I’d solved the case six months before, but she was still hanging around like an albatross from my neck—or a big boobie-bib. “I would’ve appreciated a heads-up.”

  “You just got one.” She stood on her tiptoes and scoured the crowd. “Try not to pick a fight with her, okay?”

  “Me?” I said, shocked. “That devious diva has targeted me from day one.”

  “She’s difficult, I know. But you played right into her hand.”

  I snorted. “Maybe it’s because her hands are so huge.”

  The crowd gave a collective gasp followed by cheers, and Veronica and I strained to see the float.

  “Oh.” She covered her mouth. “It’s Count Dracula.”

  The old phrase, “I vant to suck your blood,” came to mind. With a grimace, I turned to eye my toothy little friend but came face-to-face with Glenda.

  “How do you like me, ladies?” She struck a pose in a floor-length black feather dress and matching cabaret shoulder collar. “Miss Carnie and I decided to go as each other this Halloween season.”

  “Local celebrities trade places,” Veronica said as Carnie waddled into view. “What a cute idea.”

  “Creepy” was a better term. Glenda looked like an old crow with clown hair, and Carnie, in a white, plus-sized halter-top and boy shorts, bore an unsettling resemblance to the New Orleans Pelicans’ King Cake Baby mascot in his giant bib and diaper—except for the platinum wig and cigarette holder.

  “You know me.” Glenda flapped her two-inch purple feather lashes. “I love an excuse to dress in costume.”

  I suppressed a smirk. Glenda O’Brien, in art Lorraine Lamour, had worn a stripper costume every day since she’d started dancing some fifty years before. And everyone in The Crescent City was acutely aware of it.

  “Franki likes costumes too,” Carnie said in a fierce falsetto. “And hers is so realistic—a worn-out working girl who’s given up on her looks and her life.”

  A float of Chucky and his axe-wielding bride came into view, which was appropriate since I was feeling stabby.

  “I’m not wearing a costume because I was working.” I straightened my coat. “I had to finish my notes for an employee theft case.”

  Carnie’s eyes lit up like a jack-o’-lantern. “What did he steal? Your femininity?”

  That burned, especially coming from a queen.

  Glenda gave a raucous laugh. “If you need a costume, Miss Franki, you know I’ll do you right.”

  Wrong. Glenda was an avid stripper costume collector who’d provided me with outfits for a couple of cases. And thanks to her creations, I’d had wardrobe malfunctions that made Janet Jackson’s Super Bowl nip slip seem demure. “I don’t need a costume, thanks.” I hit Carnie with a direct stare. “But now I need a drink.”

  Veronica pulled some cash from her bunny suit. “I’ll buy us a round.”

  Before I could refuse, she took me by the arm and led me across the street. We walked along the gutter to bypass the partiers, and the Chucky float pulled up beside us.

  Glenda looked at its krewe. “Throw me something, Monster,” she shouted, using the Halloween variant of the Mardi Gras cry, Throw me something, Mister.

  A zombie chucked a painted oyster shell, but it sailed over Glenda and conked me in the head.

  “Ow!”

  The zombie looked dispirited. “Sorry, lady!”

  Carnie cackled as I checked for blood—and did a quick scan for the canined kid. Once I’d located her, I turned to take on the float. “You guys should stick to soft throws like Aunt Sally’s Pralinettes.”

  “Let’s get you to safety.” Veronica ushered me into Big Easy Daiquiris, and maybe it was the possible concussion, but I could have sworn I saw her smiling.

  Despite the crowd outside, there were only a handful of people in the shotgun-style establishment.

  “You have a seat,” Veronica said as she, Glenda, and Carnie approached the bartender.

  Following her advice, I sat at the bar and glanced at the TV hanging in the corner of the room. There was a Breaking News banner at the bottom of the screen, and it was clear from the gold New Orleans PD shield behind the empty podium that the police were about to hold a news conference.

  Glenda pulled out the barstool beside me and hiked her dress to her thighs before sitting down. “You going to meet your banker beau tonight, sugar?”

  The mention of my boyfriend, Bradley Hartmann, made my lips pucker—and not for a kiss. The day before he’d surprised me with the news that he was going on a two-week trip to New York for Pontchartrain Bank. The trip had been a surprise to him too, so I didn’t blame him for the late notice. What I did blame him for was not inviting me to come with him, not even for the weekend. “He’s wrapping up some things at the office.”

  She patted my knee. “I used to be like him, you know.”

  I couldn’t wait to hear how.

  “Hustling twelve-hour days, seven days a week.”

  “It must be tough being a stripper,” I said to commiserate. “And a bank president.”

  She gave a grave nod. “One day I realized that all of this”—she pointed to her body—“was no good to my clients if I wasn’t good with myself. So I made time to live a little.”

  Based on the stories she’d told me about her stripping days, she’d lived a little a lot. “Bradley can’t always control his own schedule. He just found out that he has to leave town tomorrow for work.”

  “And he’s not making time for you before he goes?” Carnie put a hand to her bogus bosom. “How telling.”

  I hit her with a don’t-go-there stare. “We’re meeting for brunch in the morning.”

  “Sounds about as sexy as a date at a grocery store.” She flopped onto the stool next to Glenda.

  Although I knew better than to fall victim to one of her jabs, it still hurt. I was sensitive enough about Bradley not inviting me to New York, so I didn’t need her picking apart our plans. “He has to be well rested for the trip.”

  “Well, you can hardly expect him to catch up on his beauty rest during a three
-hour flight, can you?” Carnie had raised her falsetto an octave to sound innocent.

  I lowered my voice an octave to sound incensed—which I was. “He can’t sleep on the plane because his secretary’s going with him.”

  Glenda and Carnie exchanged arched brows.

  “It isn’t like that,” I protested. “Ruth Walker’s at least sixty years old.”

  One of Glenda’s eyelash-wings lowered to mid-flap.

  “I think someone’s throwing shade at mature women, Glenda,” Carnie said, using drag speak for insult.

  “’Sixty’ and ‘sexy’ are practically the same word, Miss Franki. You’d do well to remember that.”

  I gave a three-second sigh. With Glenda’s feathers all ruffled and Carnie’s boy shorts in a bunch, I would’ve been better off at the parade with the vampire. “I wasn’t ‘throwing shade’ at anyone. All I meant was, Bradley’s not into older women.”

  Glenda flipped her Bozo hair, but it didn’t budge. “His loss, sugar.”

  Veronica walked up behind me as the bartender delivered our drinks. I started to compliment his Captain Jack Sparrow costume, but then it occurred to me that it might be his normal look.