1 Limoncello Yellow

by Traci Andrighetti

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I was getting dressed for work the next morning when I heard a knock at the door. I went to open it, hopping from one foot to the other as I hurriedly pulled on my gray Kardashian Kollection pants I'd bought on sale at Sears. It was Veronica, rocking a sleek brown Elie Tahari pantsuit with a cream-colored silk blouse. She looked like a gazelle, while I was the spitting image of a hippo.

  "Hey, so how's Napoleon adjusting to his new surroundings?" Veronica asked before I could say hello.

  "Very well, actually," I responded, closing the door behind her as she entered the living room. "The bordello chic decor is really bringing out the animal in him. Last night when I came home from the bar, I found him lying on his back sound asleep on the zebra print chaise lounge with his legs splayed wide open."

  "Men—of any species—have no shame," Veronica said, following me into my bedroom.

  "I know, right?" I immediately thought of Vince and his brazen attitude about his infidelity. I walked into the adjoining bathroom to put on my makeup and was surprised by the scowling face looking back at me in the oval-shaped mirror of the knockoff red Louis XVI vanity. But then I forced myself to smile. I refused to waste anymore of my precious emotion on that cheat.

  Veronica flopped down on the bed next to Napoleon. "Speaking of shame, we're going to church this morning."

  "What?" My sudden anger toward Vince was instantly replaced by the waves of Catholic guilt washing over me. I tried to remember the last time I'd been to church. I'd visited the Vatican on my trip to Rome three years ago, but they turned me away at the door for having bare shoulders, so I was fairly certain that didn't count.

  Veronica sighed. "Relax, Franki. We're not going to mass."

  I shot her a questioning look from the bathroom doorway, holding my liquid eyeliner brush like a weapon.

  "Or confession," she added, correctly interpreting my gaze. "We're going there to meet Betty Friedan."

  I gasped. "The founder of the National Organization for Women?" Now I was wracked by feminist guilt for putting on my signature Sophia Loren–style cat eyeliner.

  "Gah, Franki! Calm down, will you?" Veronica was lying casually on her side with her head propped up by her arm, indifferent to my issues. "Betty Friedan is our informant's code name."

  "How was I supposed to know you were referring to an informant?" I asked, relieved that I could now wear blush and lipstick too. "I mean, why doesn't she have a normal informant name like 'Deep Throat' or 'Huggy Bear' or something?"

  "Because she's not Bob Woodward's Watergate source or a TV character from Starksy and Hutch. She's a feminist crime analyst from the New Orleans PD."

  "So, we're going to a church to pay off a corrupt feminist employee of the police department," I recapped. "What's the occasion?"

  "She's going to give us the police report on the Evans murder and photos of the crime scene. I called her and asked for them after David texted me the results of Ryan Hunter's background check. His record is clean, by the way. That is, except for the assault charge on Jessica he told us about and a surprising number of moving violations."

  I remembered how angry and aggressive he'd seemed yesterday. "I'm sure he's got a serious case of road rage. People like that are capable of anything."

  "That's a big accusation coming from a woman who once intentionally ran her car into her ex-boyfriend's house."

  I glared at her. "It wasn't his house, Veronica. It was his fence. The little picket fence we'd painted white together when I was still stupid enough to think he was going to marry me." I couldn't believe she would bring up my college boyfriend, Todd Rothman. Todd had wanted to marry me, but his wealthy parents hadn't approved. They had wanted him to settle down with a nice, upper-class girl who was more befitting of a soon-to-be doctor. So Todd found himself said girl, but he forgot to tell me about her until after they'd started sleeping together in the house that was supposed to have been ours. "But knocking down Todd's fence certainly doesn't make me like Ryan Hunter."

  "Of course not," she said as she rubbed Napoleon's belly. He had sidled up next to her and was looking at her with pure love in his eyes, the traitor. "I'm just trying to point out that road rage doesn't make someone a killer. So, until we find evidence to prove otherwise, we have to proceed on the assumption that Ryan is innocent, no matter how despicable he may be."

  "I know, I know." It was so annoying when Veronica was right. I had all but convicted Ryan and was fully prepared to throw away the key. "But the jury's still out on that guy. And for the record, I've come a long way since Todd. Just look at how well I've handled Vince's cheating."

  "I know, and I'm very proud of you for that," she said, taking the angry wind out of my sails.

  "So where is this church?" I asked, eager to change the subject from my procession of cheating boyfriends to the business at hand.

  "On Rampart Street in the Quarter. It's The Old Mortuary Chapel."

  "A mortuary chapel, Veronica?" She knew how creeped out I was by cemeteries and churches, so I couldn't believe she would willingly take me to a combination of the two. "Really?"

  "Really. It's close to the police station where Betty works. And they haven't kept dead bodies there since the yellow fever epidemic of the 1800s, so you'll be fine. And you'll like it because it became an Italian immigrant church," she added, using our heritage to persuade me.

  Such an attorney, I thought.

  "Now let's go." Veronica gave Napoleon a final scratch and jumped off the bed. "I'll drive. You're kind of jumpy today."

  "Okay, but we're going out the back door. There is no way in hell I'm passing by the cemetery on my way to a mortuary chapel."

  * * *

  When we arrived at The Mortuary Chapel twenty minutes later, I was pleasantly surprised to find that there were no gothic spires or gargoyles on the exterior of the building. I was also surprised to see "Our Lady of Guadalupe Catholic Church" written on the sign out front.

  "Veronica, why did you tell me this church was called 'The Mortuary Chapel'? The sign says 'Our Lady of Guadalupe.'"

  "Because I know you, and if you'd read the historical plaque over there and learned that the original name had the word 'mortuary' in it, you would've caused a scene. Possibly even in the church." She turned off the engine and put her keys into her brown Balenciaga bag.

  Good point, I thought as I walked over to the plaque. I was eager to find out if there was anything else about the church she'd failed to mention. "Hey, this doesn't say anything about being an Italian immigrant church. But it does say that it's 'Now the official chapel of the New Orleans Police and Fire Departments.' Is it really a good idea to meet Betty here?"

  Veronica walked up behind me in her dainty Jimmy Choos. "It's the perfect place. No one in the police department would be surprised if an employee came here. Plus, with all these people around, no one would suspect a payoff was going down either."

  "I hope you're right. You know my nonna would never live it down if I got busted in a church," I said, totally serious. My nonna was convinced that my lapsed Catholicism was a major impediment to my ability to attract a suitable husband. If I got excommunicated too, it would surely seal my fate as a lifelong zitella in her eyes.

  Veronica looked at her phone, blatantly ignoring my concerns. "We're early. Betty might not be here yet. Let's go inside and wait."

  "Why not?" I asked—not without a note of bitterness.

  When I followed Veronica into the church, the first thing I noticed was a line of people in front of a statue of a Roman centurion holding a cross and stepping on a bird that, on closer inspection, appeared to be a crow. He looked like one of the modern-day Italian men who hang around the coliseum in Rome dressed in cheesy gladiator costumes to pose in pictures with tourists. I watched as each person who approached the statue rubbed its feet, murmured something, and then made the sign of the cross. A few people had deposited flowers at the base of the statue, but others had left slices of what looked like pound cake.


  "Man, I wish people would leave me flowers and pound cake," I said. "Which saint is that anyhow? The patron saint of florists and bakers?"

  "That's Saint Expedite," a strong masculine voice replied from behind me.

  I turned to see an unorthodoxly attractive young priest with thick, wavy brown hair, sensual lips, and a ravishing smile. If he'd lived in Rome he would have been a candidate for the annual priest calendar, which, in my mind, was the bizarre and seemingly sacrilegious Italian equivalent of the fireman's calendar. Of course, I didn't think this priest was good looking or anything—it's just that he wasn't anything like the old priests I'd grown up around in Houston.

  "I'm Father John." He reached out and clasped my hand in his. The minute his skin touched mine, I instantly felt itchy. Ever since I was a young girl in Sunday school, I'd been allergic to the clergy. Literally. It was a psychosomatic reaction to the Catholic guilt I felt about my sporadic visits to church as a child, thanks to my parents' seven-day-per-week work schedule and the fact that my over excitable nonna couldn't be trusted with a car.

  I quickly withdrew my hand from his as though it had been burned by the fires of hell and blurted out, "Bless me father for I have sinned." It was the only thing I could remember ever saying to a priest. The moment the words were out of my mouth, I felt my face turning as red as communion wine.

  He looked confused. "Did you come for confession?"

  "Oh, no," I said with forced nonchalance as I scratched a spot on my left elbow. "I'm good. I'm here with a friend. She needs to confess, though," I added spitefully to pay her back for disappearing.

  "Oh, well, we can certainly help her with that," he replied and then flashed another gorgeous smile.

  "Gr-great," I stammered, feeling increasingly anxious and itchy. The icky combination of his handsomeness and his holiness was really freaking me out. "I don't remember learning about Saint Expedite in Sunday school," I said, desperately trying to think of something to say as I scanned the church for Veronica and scratched my right side.

  "You didn't learn about him in Sunday school because he's not officially recognized by the Catholic Church." He cast a doubtful look in Saint Expedite's direction. "But the Church occasionally tolerates the veneration of local saints."

  "What's he the patron saint of?" I asked, mentally cursing Veronica and then feeling guilty for thinking profanity in a church.

  "Anyone who's looking for a quick solution to a problem, who needs money, or wants to stop procrastinating."

  Me, me and me, I thought, developing a sudden interest in this saint. "So, why are those people leaving him pound cake? I mean, I can kind of understand the flowers, but cake?"

  "Well, in recent years, Expedite has become the patron saint of people who need to win court cases. They leave him a slice of pound cake as an offering so that he'll be more inclined to help them stay out of jail or—"

  "Wait," I interrupted. "They leave him pound cake so that he'll keep them out of the slammer?" I asked, now feeling a pang of guilt for cutting off a priest.

  "It has its origins in voodoo. In New Orleans, voodoo and the Catholic Church are closely related. The fusion of the French and African cultures in Louisiana resulted in an association of the voodoo spirits with Christian saints. Some people call Saint Expedite the 'Voodoo Saint' because he represents Baron Samedi, the voodoo loa of death."

  "The voodoo loa of death," I repeated, shocked that a saint would be associated with voodoo. "What's that?"

  "A 'loa' is a voodoo deity. And Baron Samedi is a shady voodoo god who wears a top hat and tails. Voodoo legend has it that when people die, he digs their graves, greets their souls, and leads them to the underworld. He's also a sexual loa who loves to swear, smoke, drink rum, tell filthy jokes to the other spirits, and chase women." Father John winked at me, and I could feel my cheeks flaming anew.

  Awk-ward, I thought, now feeling downright uncomfortable as I furiously scratched my neck. "I still don't understand what Saint Expedite has to do with voodoo," I said, trying to act natural as I looked for Veronica out of the corners of my eyes.

  "It works like this: Followers of New Orleans' legendary voodoo queen Marie Laveau, who died in the late 1800s, visit her tomb in Saint Louis cemetery #1 to ask her for help with a problem. Since the cemetery is right behind the church on Basin Street, afterward they come into the church and leave a slice of pound cake for Saint Expedite so that he'll fast track, or expedite, the favors asked of Marie Laveau. It's really a fascinating mixture of religions."

  "So, voodoo's a religion." I scratched my head. "I thought it was just like dark magic or something."

  He smiled. "That's how pop culture has painted it, but it really is centered around religious themes and a desire to do good in the world by channeling saints." He paused and added, "Hey, do you like James Bond?"

  I slowly shook my head, wondering if God would approve of priests watching James Bond movies.

  "No?" he asked, sounding shocked. "Too bad, because Baron Samedi is a character in Live and Let Die with Roger Moore."

  Just then I saw Veronica beckoning to me like a saving angel from near the altar. She was standing next to what could only be described as the anti-Veronica: a young woman with short, dark hair tucked behind her ears, black rectangular glasses, a thin mouth, and no makeup. She looked surprisingly like a real-life Velma from Scooby Doo. Has to be Betty, I thought.

  "Well, thank you for the information, Joh—, er, Father," I faltered. It was hard for me to think of a good-looking young guy as a priest. "I need to join my friend," I said, thanking heaven that I had finally found an avenue of escape.

  "Anytime! I hope you'll join us for mass this Sunday."

  "Sure," I replied, knowing there wasn't a chance in hell I'd show up. Great, I just lied to a priest, I thought. I turned and hurried up the aisle to the altar, almost at a run.

  When I got to the altar, I turned right and walked to the end of the first pew where Veronica and Betty were sitting. "You must be Betty," I said, extending my hand.

  She opted to pass on the handshake to take a moment to size me up. "Who are you?"

  Before I could respond, Veronica introduced me. "Betty, this is Franki, my new partner I was telling you about. She's a super smart ex-cop," she added, playing up my credentials.

  "Oh, okay," Betty replied disinterestedly. Then she pulled a large manila envelope from a worn, brown leather bag and handed it to Veronica, who was inexplicably her favorite of the two of us. "So anyway, here's the information you asked for. You won't find much in the report that hasn't already been leaked to the press, but the pictures should be useful."

  Veronica, in turn, produced Betty's payoff, which she had cleverly disguised by placing it into a church-offering envelope. "Thank you so much, Betty," Veronica said handing her the envelope. "This is going to make a huge difference in our investigation."

  "No problem, V. I just hope you catch the sorry son of a bitch who committed this crime," Betty said.

  "You know, it might've been committed by a woman," I interjected, playing devil's advocate.

  "The odds are against it," Betty said. "Statistically speaking, this is likely an open-and-shut case of femicide—a man killing a woman just because she's a female—and we women need to come together to prevent this type of thing from happening." And with that she stood up, pushed her glasses up her nose, and added, "Let me know if you find the asshole who did this." Then she walked away, clutching her leather briefcase to her chest.

  "Wow, that Betty's a real charmer," I said.

  Veronica rose to her feet. "It's just that she takes crime very seriously, Franki. Now let's get going. I'm dying to look at the police report."

  As we walked out of the church, I saw Father John waving goodbye to me. Instead of simply waving back, I tried to duck all 5' 10" of me behind Veronica's tiny frame. I must have looked like I was having a seizure.

  The second we got into the car, Veronica tore open the envelope and began studying one of
the photos. "Look at this," she said, pointing to a picture of Jessica's body at the scene of the crime.

  I looked at the photo and saw a gruesome sight. Jessica was lying on her left side in the middle of four racks of scarves that were situated in the shape of a square. Her face was directed toward the ceiling, and her eyes were open in a look of shock. She had been strangled with a black-and-white checked scarf with a bright yellow border.

  Veronica, who owned a different scarf for every day of the year, was intently focused on the murder weapon. She pulled out the police report and quickly scanned the pages. "I knew it!"

  "What?"

  "The scarf used to strangle Jessica isn't from LaMarca!" Her eyes were dancing with excitement.

  "How do you know?"

  "It's a cheap cotton-polyester blend! Everyone knows that LaMarca only sells silk scarves."

  I didn't, in fact, know that, but I did know that LaMarca's signature scarves were the most sought after in the fashion industry. "So, the killer brought a scarf to a store that's famous for selling scarves." But why?

  * * *

  On the way back to the office, Veronica and I agreed that I would pay a visit to LaMarca posing as a client to see what I could find out about the crime. But first I had her drop me off at nearby Ponchartrain Bank on Canal Street so that I could make a withdrawal—in case I needed to buy something as part of my cover, of course. After my move to Nola, I was pretty sure that there wasn't enough room left on my credit cards to shop at the Dollar Tree, much less LaMarca. Thankfully, my parents had made a deposit to my account as a belated Christmas gift to help cover my moving expenses.

  "Next!" I heard the teller shout as I was putting the pen I'd used to fill out my withdrawal slip back into my knockoff Gucci shoulder bag. As I approached the window, I couldn't help but notice that the teller—who couldn't have been more than 4' 10"—looked remarkably like Tinker Bell sans bun and wings.