1 Limoncello Yellow

by Traci Andrighetti

  At a quarter till four, I heard a bell sound as someone entered the living room that served as our waiting area. Thinking that it might be Ryan Hunter, I walked out to greet him. I was met by a young man with a thin, angular face and lanky frame. He looked no more than sixteen or seventeen. He's clearly not Ryan, I thought, that is, unless Jessica Evans was into jailbait.

  "Franki, this is David Savoie," Veronica said, walking into the waiting room with her handbag and her laptop. "David, Franki Amato."

  David extended a hand with long spindly fingers. "Nice to meet you, Miss Amato."

  "Oh, call me Franki. Please," I said this last word with a wince—David had a powerful handshake for such a skinny kid.

  "Sure thing, Franki." He flashed an enthusiastic, toothy smile.

  "David is our computer Boy Friday," Veronica explained. "He can do anything from programming to research. We have him fifteen to twenty hours per week, depending on his school load."

  "Oh, you're in college?" I'd assumed he was barely in high school.

  "Yeah, I go to Tulane. But I can see how you'd be confused. People think I'm much older than I really am." David straightened up his posture a bit. "I'm nineteen, but I can pass for twenty-three easy."

  "Yes, I can see that," I lied. Veronica and I shared a smile at his boyish confidence.

  David slid out of his backpack and then his jacket, both of which he tossed onto a nearby desk. He looked like a boy who had just grown two feet over the course of a summer, and he was so thin that I had a sudden urge to feed him a pan of lasagna.

  All of the sudden, he spotted the laptop on my desk and ran over to pick it up. "Dude! That's your computer? Awwwesooome! Can I help you connect that to the printer, or anything?"

  I watched anxiously as he turned my laptop over in his hands. I still owed the credit card company over two thousand dollars for that computer and would never be able to replace it. I snatched it from his grasp. "Thanks, but I took care of that this morning. Right now, Veronica and I are just waiting on a client—"

  Our conversation was cut short as a tall, muscular man in his mid-to-late thirties entered the office. Speak of the devil, I thought. And then I wondered if Ryan Hunter was the devil. I could sense a darkness about the guy, and it wasn't just because he was under police suspicion. His ice blue eyes and cruel mouth spoke volumes about his character.

  "Ryan Hunter?" Veronica asked.

  "Yes. Are you Veronica Maggio?"

  "I am, and this is my colleague, Franki Amato, and our IT consultant, David Savoie. Franki and I will be handling your case. Let's walk over to our conference room so we can talk in private."

  "Sure," Ryan replied, furrowing his thick brow.

  I glanced at David before leaving the waiting room. His exuberant chatter of moments before had given way to an uneasy silence. Even he seemed disturbed by Ryan Hunter's presence. I smiled reassuringly at David and then closed the office door behind me.

  "Can I get you anything, Ryan? Coffee, water, a soda?" Veronica asked as we entered the dark wood-paneled conference room.

  I was suddenly reminded of the first time I'd met Veronica—she had shown up uninvited to a beer bash at my off-campus apartment with a bottle of Pepsi, of all things.

  Ryan settled into a brown leather chair. "Do you have any bourbon?"

  "No, but we have Pepsi," Veronica responded, like it was the next best thing to bourbon.

  Oh my God, what is her deal with Pepsi? I wondered.

  "I'll just skip the drink then," Ryan said, visibly annoyed. And then he added, as though he'd done us a favor by coming, "I don't have much time."

  "Okay, then. Let's get started." Veronica took a seat and opened up her laptop, careful not to break one of her perfectly manicured pink nails. "We have some routine questions that we typically ask our clients. So if you'll just bear with us for a few minutes, we'd appreciate it."

  Ryan stared at her blankly.

  "So, from what you told me over the phone," Veronica continued, unaffected by his rudeness, "you're the main suspect in the murder of Jessica Evans. Is that correct?"

  "I'm the only suspect in Jessica's murder," he replied in an irritated tone.

  "Did you give the police an alibi for the time of the murder?" I asked.

  "No, because I don't have one." I couldn't help but notice that he didn't offer any explanation of his whereabouts.

  "Do you know if the police have any other leads?" I continued.

  He frowned. "Either they don't have any, or, if they do, they're not interested in investigating them. That's why I'm here."

  "Okay. We'll look into that," Veronica said, typing a reminder to herself on her laptop. But for now, let's talk about Jessica. How long had you been seeing her?"

  "About six months." He was twisting a paper clip he'd found on the table.

  "Did you live together?"

  "Yeah, for the last couple months or so. She moved into my place." He glanced out the window, clearly bored.

  "Were the two of you close?" Veronica asked, almost hopefully.

  "Yes and no."

  I could see that Veronica was getting nowhere fast, so I took over the questioning. "How would you describe your relationship?"

  "Jessica and I had our ups and downs. Like other couples."

  "What do you mean by 'downs'?" I probed.

  Ryan snapped the paper clip in half and tossed it onto the table. "We fought."

  This guy wasn't going to give an inch, so I pressed the issue. "Can you tell us about the fights?"

  He sat up in his chair and cast daggers at me with his eyes. "What are you getting at, exactly?"

  "I mean, was there anything about your relationship that would cause the police to suspect you?" By now it was clear to me that Ryan had something to hide.

  He snorted and leaned back into his chair. "Apparently!"

  "Were the fights verbal? Or did they get physical?" I prompted, unfazed by his lack of cooperation.

  He looked at me hard and said nothing.

  "Look, Ryan," Veronica intervened, clearly sensing that I was running out of patience for this guy. "We want to help you, but we can't do that if you don't tell us everything we need to know."

  He let out a long sigh. "About a month ago, we had a fight. Things got out of hand, and Jessica called 911."

  "What did you fight about?" she continued.

  "Money. Jessica was private about money. Well, about everything. I really didn't know anything about her aside from the fact that she worked at LaMarca. And she always had way too much money for someone who managed a retail store. So I asked her about it. She got defensive, and we started fighting." He picked up a pen from the table and started twirling it with his fingers.

  "Was it a violent fight?"

  "I threw her purse at her. She got pissed and lunged at me with a bottle of wine. I bent her wrist until she dropped it, and then I hit her. She fell backward, grabbed her cell phone from her purse, and called the cops." He spoke as though describing scenes from a boring TV show.

  "So, she was afraid of you," I said, trying only half-heartedly to conceal the contempt I was feeling for him. During my short time as a cop, I'd met enough domestic abusers to last a lifetime.

  He laughed and put the pen back on the table. "Let me clarify something for you. Jessica wasn't afraid of anyone or anything, least of all me. She called 911 because she was a vindictive bitch."

  I watched a muscle working in his square jaw.

  "She actually had a smile on her face when she made that call," he added.

  "I'm not sure I understand," Veronica replied, confused. "Why would she be smiling?"

  He paused for a moment and then gave an ironic smile. "It's simple. Jessica liked to see people suffer. She enjoyed watching people squirm. I'd pissed her off, so she was going to make me pay. That's just who she was."

  "Then why were you still dating her?" I asked, despite the fact that I was starting to think Jessica and Ryan were made for one another.


  "Because she was beautiful, and she was good in bed," he replied, as though those were the only criteria to judge a woman by.

  Just like a man, I thought.

  "Well, if Jessica was like you say she was, then it's possible that she had enemies," I concluded. "Do you know of anyone who might have had a reason to kill her?"

  "Look, I don't know if she had family or friends, much less enemies. Like I said, she was private. Secretive even."

  Veronica looked at me and then nodded. "All right, Ryan, I think that's all we need for now. The first thing we'll do is find out where the police are in the investigation, then we'll start looking into Jessica's background to see if we can come up with other leads in the case. We'll also need to set a time to come by your place to look through Jessica's things for any clues."

  He frowned. "I'd rather you didn't. I only recently got the damn police out of my house. And besides, she really only had clothes and shoes and stuff. I'll box it all up and bring it to you next week. You can do whatever you want with it."

  "Whatever works for you," Veronica replied.

  Ryan rose to his feet. "So when can I expect to hear from you?"

  "We'll call at least twice a week to update you on the investigation and to ask any follow-up questions."

  "I look forward to it." He nodded curtly and then walked out the door.

  "Wow. That's an oddly enthusiastic comment from such a reluctant client," I remarked.

  "Yeah." Veronica looked deep in thought with her index finger pressed to her mouth. "What do you make of that guy? He's a real weirdo, right?"

  I leaned back in my chair. "Well, judging from his defensive attitude and the matter-of-fact way he told us that he'd hit Jessica, I'd say he's a sociopath."

  "You know, we're going to have to do a full background check on this guy before we do anything else. If it turns out that he's a convicted felon or something, then I'm not sure we want him as a client. I'll have David start on that." She closed her laptop.

  "Good idea," I said. "I can call the detective in charge of the case."

  Veronica burst out laughing. "You're joking, right? As an ex-cop, you of all people should know that the police don't work with private investigators."

  I'd only worked as a beat cop in Austin, so I had no idea how detectives interacted with the public on a case. But I had seen a whole lot of Murder She Wrote episodes where detectives were all too willing to discuss cases with Jessica Fletcher. Okay, not the best example, but still. "That can't be right. Why wouldn't the police want to help us solve a high profile murder case?"

  "Because they're afraid we'll crack the case before they do! Then we'll make them look like fools—and on every news channel in Louisiana."

  "Then how do we get police information?"

  "Well, there are public records, which we can access like everyone else, but the police usually black out potentially compromising information on cases that are still under investigation. So, that means we either have to luck into a corrupt detective who's willing to trade information, or we use Benjamin."

  "Who's Benjamin? An informant?" If we couldn't get our hands on police information, we were doomed.

  Veronica reached into her handbag, pulled out her pink Chanel wallet, and extracted a crisp one hundred dollar bill with a flourish. "This is Benjamin. And sometimes I have to rely on a whole army of Benjamins to get the information I need from the police."

  I smiled with relief. "So, you do have an informant."

  "Yeah, a police crime analyst who feels like it's her duty to ensure that cases get solved—by any means necessary. Especially crimes against women."

  "Perfect. Then this is a case she's sure to help with. Murdering a woman who also had the great fortune to manage a LaMarca is a double crime against women," I said, and I wasn't kidding.

  "Agreed." Veronica looked at the clock. "It's five already. We'd better leave now, or traffic will be a nightmare. I'll drop you off at the apartment, but then I need to go run some errands."

  "All right," I replied dejectedly. I wasn't particularly eager to go home because I had two big boxes in my kitchen that I was doing my best to avoid unpacking.

  Veronica typed a message on her phone. "There. I just texted David and told him to do the background check on Ryan Hunter. Oh yeah, do you want to meet at Thibodeaux's at seven o'clock for a drink? I'll invite Glenda…"

  I laughed. "Now there's someone I'd like to see a background check on."

  * * *

  At 7 p.m. on the dot, I opened my front door and was assaulted by the grim reality of the cemetery across the street. This was some set up I had in Nola. My bordello-style apartment constantly reminded me that I wasn't having sex, and the cemetery constantly reminded me that I was going to die. Now I definitely needed a drink.

  I walked the short thirty or so steps to Thibodeaux's and entered the bar. Veronica hadn't arrived yet, but Glenda was already there contemplating three empty tequila shot glasses and smoking a cigarette from a long, elegant Breakfast at Tiffany's-style cigarette holder. To complete her Audrey Hepburn look, she was wearing a black-sequined jumpsuit à la Cher and red platform stripper shoes à la Lady Gaga. I noticed that she wasn't wearing a boa tonight, probably because it would cover the skin she was trying to expose.

  "Hi, Glenda. Heeeey, this place is really sophisticated for a tavern," I said, surprised by the sumptuous brown leather furnishings, the stainless steel-covered bar and the warm glow of candlelight.

  Glenda, opting to dispense with the formalities, jumped right to the chase. "Did Miss Ronnie put you to work yet?" she asked, as though I'd been in New Orleans for weeks just lounging on her zebra print chaise lounge.

  "Yeah, we got a big case today." I sat down on a barstool to her right.

  "You lookin' for a runaway, or what?" Interesting that she would ask about a runaway, I thought. But then, she must have encountered quite a few of them in her line of work.

  "No, it's actually a murder case."

  Glenda took a drag off her cigarette. "It's not that strangled girl is it?"

  "Yes, it is." I was stunned by Glenda's insight.

  She exhaled a cloud of smoke directly into my face. "I heard about that. She worked at Prada, right?"

  "No, better." I coughed and waved the smoke away. "LaMarca."

  "Personally, I don't care for their designs," she said. "All that fabric they use on their evening dresses is frumpy and confining."

  Of course, LaMarca had the most sought-after gowns in all of fashion. But compared to the clothing Glenda wore, their evening dresses—even ones that were strapless, backless and slit all the way up to the pelvis—would inevitably seem like pilgrim apparel to her.

  The bartender walked up to me. "Can I get you something?"

  "Um—"

  "Another tequila shot," Glenda interrupted.

  "I'll have a glass of Prosecco, please."

  Veronica slid onto the barstool next to me. "Make that two, Phillip."

  I turned toward Veronica. "I didn't see you come in."

  "That's because you two ladies were deep in conversation." She smirked. "What were you talking about?"

  "We were talkin' about that girl who was strangled with the scarf," Glenda responded.

  Veronica looked at me quizzically. I shook my head to indicate that I hadn't told Glenda any specifics.

  "The case reminds me of a striptease I used to do when I was working at Madame Moiselle's in the Quarter."

  "Oh?" I was instantly drawn in. I couldn't help it—there was something about Glenda that intrigued me.

  "It was an artistic rendering of a woman's transformation from victimization to self-empowerment."

  "Wow," I said, at a loss for words in the face of her burst of intellectualism. Veronica wasn't kidding when she said Glenda was smart.

  "I dressed entirely in sheer scarves. As I stripped away each one, it signified her metamorphosis. There was a top layer of black scarves, then underneath a layer of gray, beneath that a layer
of white and then finally, a single pink scarf."

  "That's really beautiful, Glenda," I said, finding myself—to my complete and utter astonishment—moved by her description.

  "What did the pink scarf represent?" Veronica asked, entranced. "The woman's soul?"

  Glenda looked taken aback. "No. Her vagina."

  "Ah." I was once again speechless—but this time for a different reason. Fortunately, Phillip the bartender chose that moment to return with our drinks.

  "So, the woman reclaimed her power by taking back her vagina from her victimizer," Veronica interpreted, still completely engrossed in the significance of the dance.

  Oh God, I thought, taking a sip of the drink I was now overjoyed to have at hand.

  "Exactly." Glenda looked at her with renewed respect. "And after she took her vagina back, she did whatever the hell she wanted with it!" She cackled as she elbowed Veronica, truly tickled by her own zinger.

  Taking "The Vagina Monologues" as my cue to leave, I stood up and chugged the remainder of my glass of Prosecco. "Well, guys, I hate to drink and run, but I'd better head out. After all, I've got a case to start investigating tomorrow."

  Veronica looked up at me. "I haven't had a chance to tell you this Franki, but I feel so much better now that you're here. I just know I can't go wrong with an ex-cop on my team."

  "That's the first time I've ever heard that one," Glenda said as she tossed back another shot of tequila.

  Ignoring Glenda, I replied, "Thanks, Veronica. It's a nice change to work for someone who has so much confidence in my abilities. See you tomorrow."

  As I exited the bar into the crisp January air, it suddenly became clear to me just how much was riding on this case. It wasn't only about my self-esteem, pride, and career. It was also about Veronica's professional reputation and the success of the business she had worked so hard to establish. That night, the thirty or so steps back to my apartment seemed like the longest walk of my life.