"It's a voodoo store on Bourbon Street that uses her name, Franki," Veronica explained, leaning back in her fabulous maraschino cherry–colored leather chair.
"Yeah, my buddy Alex has a bracelet made of these beads hanging from the rearview mirror of his Honda," David replied. "He said he got them from there."
"Do you know what these beads signify?" Veronica sat forward in her chair. She had always been one to take an interest in jewelry, even of the voodoo variety.
"Nah, you'd have to ask the kid who works at the store. I'd check it out though, cause that place is rad," David explained in college speak. "They have voodoo dolls, chicken feet, gator heads, all kinds of potions. It's badass in there."
"Potions? For what?" I asked.
"Lots of stuff, like love potions and ones that'll help you score some cash," David replied. "There's even one that'll help you beat the law, like in court."
"Wow, there sure is a lot of voodoo that centers around winning court cases," I said, recalling the pound cake left for Saint Expedite. "I wonder if they make one that will help you solve a case."
"Speaking of solving cases, it's getting late, and tomorrow is Saturday. But there are a few things you and I will have to do this weekend, Franki." Veronica rose to her feet and removed a pale pink trench coat with a ruffled collar from the coat rack near her desk. "First, I need you to stop by Marie Laveau's sometime before Monday. If the murderer dropped the skull bead—and that's a big if—then we need to find out whether it came from that store."
"No problem," I replied, thinking that I might like to take a look at those love potions David had mentioned while I was there. Not that I believed in that sort of thing, of course. I mean, not completely. "Do you want me to call the police too?"
Veronica and David stared at me, motionless.
"What for?" Veronica asked.
"To tell them about the skull bead. If it does turn out to be connected to the Evans case, then it's evidence."
"Franki, we're not required to share evidence with the police." Veronica was speaking slowly, like I was a very stupid child. "Just like they're not obligated to turn over any evidence to us."
"Oh, right. I know that," I said, doing my best to sound like I'd just momentarily forgotten. To break the awkward silence that followed, I added, "Then I'll go call the London College of Fashion to verify that Jessica was a student there."
"It's too late to call London now, so I'll take care of that first thing Monday morning." Veronica slipped on her coat. "Anyhow, the other thing you and I have to do tomorrow, Franki, is to scour local shops for that scarf. If we find out where it came from, we might be able to track down who bought it. Besides, all this talk of scarves and London has put me in the mood to do some shopping."
* * *
Later that evening, as I was preparing to luxuriate in a lavender-scented bubble bath in my pink claw foot tub, my phone rang. A quick glance at the display indicated that the call was from my parents. I briefly considered letting it go to voicemail but then decided to answer. I would need a relaxing bath after a call from home. And maybe a bottle of Chianti. I took a deep breath and picked up.
"Hello?" I said, trying to conceal the anxiety in my voice.
"Francesca, I got-a you two," proclaimed the unmistakable voice of my nonna with the cadence of someone who'd just crossed the finish line of a long, arduous marathon.
"Two what, nonna?"
"Dates, Franki! Dates! Mamma mia!"
"Only two?" I asked relieved, before I could fully think through the ramifications of that question.
"Franki, it's-a hard work-a finding a date for a zitella who is-a twenty-nine years of age! Give-a me a break! Besides, you been around-a the block a time or two, eh? And you don't even go to church. Dio mio! I'm-a no Mother Theresa here! I don't work-a no miracles!"
There was no point in trying to argue. Grandmothers in contemporary Sicily may have modernized with the times, but those like my nonna, who immigrated to the United States in the first half of the twentieth century, were still mentally living in Fascist Italy. You could try to challenge their dictatorial rule, but you knew it was a futile and even risky endeavor.
"They are Bruno and Pio," nonna continued.
Brown and Pius, I mentally translated. With names like those, these guys were clearly the sons, grandsons, or nephews of her Sicilian friends. I just hoped that they didn't have the stereotypical Sicilian-American worldview, which necessarily precluded the best that modernity had to offer women. You know, things like working outside the home, eating pre-made food, and wearing brightly colored clothing.
"Franki, are you still-a there?"
"Yes, nonna." I was desperately trying to come up with a reason that would prevent me from going out with these guys. For lack of a better excuse, I opted for the truth. "Listen, I appreciate you trying to help me, but I just don't feel comfortable going on blind dates."
There was a long, frustrated sigh on the other end of the phone followed by silence—a sure sign that my nonna was summoning her inner matriarch in preparation for battle. And a Sicilian grandma is a formidable opponent, especially if she's your father's mamma. In that case, a girl can't rely on her dad for support because Sicilian mothers play their sons like finely tuned mandolins, and my dad was no exception.
"Francesca, you go on-a these dates, or I go to my grave," she declared. In one savvy maneuver, my nonna had won the battle before it had even begun. If I didn't go on the dates, she would tell my father that I was killing her. And my father, like a good Italian boy, would tell me that I was being selfish for making my nonna so unhappy and guilt me into complying with her demands. There was nothing left to do but feign acquiescence and then try to find an alternate method of escape.
"Okay, nonna." I sighed and flopped down on my bed next to Napoleon, who had one ear cocked to listen in. "What can you tell me about these guys?"
"Bruno, he is-a the son of-a my friend Santina. She's-a the one who hurt-a her back in that terrible car accident."
"What car accident?"
"The one where Bruno was-a driving her to mass, and he run-a the red light."
I seized upon Bruno's less-than-ideal driving skills as an excuse to get out of the date. "He doesn't sound like a safe driver, nonna. I'm not sure that I should be going anywhere with him."
"Don't-a worry, Franki. He don't have-a the drivers license no more. Besides, you gonna meet-a him at-a his house."
Foiled again. "I don't know this guy, nonna, so I'd rather meet him at a neutral place like a restaurant," I countered as I stroked the fur on Napoleon's back.
"No, because his mamma she gonna cook-a the dinner!"
"Nonna, I'm too old to be chaperoned on a date by someone's mother!" I protested in vain.
"Franki, she's-a no gonna chaperone. Bruno live-a with his mamma."
Of course he does—like all single Italian men, I thought.
"And he is a nice-a boy because he take-a good care of his mamma," she said with the utmost respect in her voice. "And he don't have-a no kids."
My nonna was clearly trying to sell me on this guy, which meant that she was hiding something.
"How old is he, and what does he do for a living?" I asked warily. Just then Napoleon opened one eye as though he were suspicious too.
"He is-a thirty-nine, and he work-a for the New Orleans Saints-a for twenty years!"
Now, my nonna knows that as a Texas girl I'm a huge football fan, and I have to confess that I was already envisioning a date that included box seats at the Superdome with catered Cajun food and a few Hurricanes thrown in. But I wondered if she knew that the Saints were a football team and not an association of Catholic martyrs. "What does he do for the Saints, exactly?"
"He manage a food-a stand at-a the stadium."
So much for the box seats, I thought. "What about Pio?"
"Pio, he is-a forty, and he is-a the nephew of Luisa, who is-a the cousin of my cousin, Agatina."
A relative? This was an e
asy out. "Nonna, I'm not going to date anyone I'm related to, no matter how old I get."
Napoleon must have felt comforted by my strong stance, because he closed his eye and began to doze off.
"Franki, he don't have-a our blood! And his famiglia they own-a the funeral parlor in-a my town, Porto Empedocle."
Of course they do, because that sort of thing makes my skin crawl. "Does he live at home with his mother too?"
"No, he live at-a the YN-aCA."
"The YMCA, nonna. Why does he live there?" I asked suspiciously. Napoleon reopened one eye.
"He can't-a live with his mamma because he pay-a for her to live at-a the retirement home, and he also have-a to pay-a the alimonies to his ex-wife and kids."
"He's divorced, and he has kids?"
"Sì, five. But he has a good-a job, eh Franki?" she reassured, knowing full well that an invalid mother, an ex-wife, and five kids definitely qualified as baggage.
"Nonna, I don't mean to sound like a snob, but I'd rather not date a man who works at a funeral home. You know that sort of thing is disturbing to me." This time Napoleon opened both eyes and raised his head. If he could talk, I knew he would agree with me.
"Franki, he work-a for the sanitation department!"
So did Tony Soprano, I thought. But if this guy was living at the Y, then I could rule out the Mafia. Well, maybe. "I have an idea, nonna. Why don't you give me their phone numbers so I can call them?" I asked, knowing that I never would. It was a weak last-ditch attempt, but it was all I had.
"I already gave-a them your number, Franki. And your street address and your address for the emails too."
Nonna had clearly covered her bases. This was no ordinary act of war—she had declared a full-on state of emergency.
"I gave-a them-a Veronica's number too, Franki," she continued. "It's-a better to be safe than-a sorry, no? And you've been-a sorry for a long-a time."
Okay, that's it. Time to cut the call short, with or without my dating exit strategy. "Nonna, I'll wait for Bruno and Pio to call. Give my love to Mom and Dad! Ciao!"
After hanging up the phone, I did what any self-respecting Italian-American girl would do following a crushing defeat from her nonna—I skipped the bubble bath and headed straight for the kitchen where I promptly opened the pantry door and grabbed a bottle of Chianti from the bottom shelf.
As I downed my first glass of the rich, red liquid, I wondered if my dating prospects were really so grim that I needed my grandmother to set me up with reckless mamma's boys who worked in concessions and divorced mobsters who lived at the Y. I mean, I'm not bad looking, and even though I've gained a few pounds, I'm trying to lose weight, I thought as I poured myself another glass and grabbed some fontina cheese from the refrigerator. Plus, I refused to believe that a single woman had to raise the white flag of dating surrender at the age of twenty-nine. So, to thwart the intentions of my nonna and her army of Sicilian suitors, I needed to find a guy and quick. And I couldn't lie about it because my nonna definitely had her sources. I took a swig of wine straight from the bottle, deciding to make another visit to the Ponchartrain Bank. If it was nonna's picks or Bradley who-may-or-may-not have been flirting with me, I'd give the sexy bank manager a second chance—that is, unless he had a Sicilian mamma or nonna.
CHAPTER SIX
"Veronica? It's me. Franki." I knocked on her apartment door for the second time and stood directly under her tiny front porch to avoid the pouring rain.
"Be right there!" she yelled through the door.
"Okay," I replied with a tinge of apprehension in my voice. I had been in New Orleans for almost a week and still hadn't seen the inside of Veronica's apartment. When we were in college, she had a Cinderella–style dorm room that had always made me uncomfortable. I could deal with the pink—even though I'd always been a purple girl myself—but her delicate princess furniture made me feel like Alice in Wonderland after she'd eaten the cake and grown to the size of a giantess.
Veronica threw open the door to reveal that both she and Hercules were dressed head to toe in matching orange rain gear. "Sorry it took me so long! I could not get Hercules' galoshes on!"
"No worries. Are you ready to go murder scarf shopping?"
"Yeah, I'm just going to run Hercules outside for a sec," Veronica explained as I stood there awkwardly. "To do his business," she added in a confidential whisper and then walked Hercules past me and out into the yard.
"Okay," I said, entering her apartment. As I turned to close the door behind me, I caught a glimpse of the living room and did a double take. Instead of the familiar princess furnishings, I saw chunky, animal print–upholstered furniture made of dark wood, the legs, arms, and backs of which had been carved to look like tiki idols. Adding to the bizarre décor were tropical curtains, lamps with fuzzy orange shades, lime green wall-to-wall shag carpeting and enough plants to simulate a rain forest. It looked like our landlady Glenda had bought out the contents of Elvis Presley's Jungle Room at Graceland on one of her antique-shopping trips.
Just then Veronica returned with Hercules. "What do you think of my new couch?" she asked, removing her raincoat.
"Th-This is your furniture?"
"Yes!" she said, beaming. "What do you think of it?"
"Uh…it's wild," I responded truthfully as I took a seat in an armchair that had what looked like an angry island god perched atop its back.
"I know!" Veronica kicked off her galoshes and freed little Hercules from his teensy galoshes and itty-bitty raincoat, which looked a lot like a doggie straightjacket. "Franki, I think I've discovered something important about the Evans case."
"What?" I asked hesitantly. I was still trying to come to grips with her Polynesian Primitive style.
"Take a look at this." Veronica retrieved a crime scene photo from her lava rock coffee table and shoved it under my nose. "I don't know how I missed it before," she added, pointing to the photo, which featured the yellow-trimmed scarf that had apparently been used to strangle Jessica.
I scrutinized the edge of the scarf, which Veronica was jabbing at with a perfect pink nail. "I don't see anything."
"Here, use this." Veronica handed me a magnifying glass in the shape of a hibiscus flower.
As I looked through the magnifying glass, I saw something thin and white right where she was pointing. "What is that?"
Her eyes practically glowed with excitement. "It's a fine barb."
"Um, okay," I replied sarcastically. "I guess you could call the scarf 'fine garb'—that is, if you work at the Renaissance Fair."
Veronica rolled her eyes. "Franki, I said 'fine barb.' It's the piece of plastic used to attach a price tag to a garment."
I stared at her for a moment. "You would know what that thing is called."
"Yeah, me and the millions of people who work in retail." She took the photo and magnifying glass from my hands.
"So, what do you think that fine barb thingy means?" I leaned over to stroke Hercules' fluffy fur.
"It means that the scarf was new," she said, sitting daintily in the tiny armchair.
"Why do you say that? Someone could have left it there without noticing."
"Franki, what kind of person leaves a fine barb on clothing and doesn't notice?"
"I don't know," I said innocently, thinking of all the times I'd discovered that I had been walking around with stickers from the store still on my clothes, not to mention the occasions when I'd put on my underwear or even my T-shirt inside out. Come to think of it, had I managed to put everything on the right way today? I did a quick spot check and then, satisfied that I appeared properly dressed, returned my attention to the case. "But, so what if it was new?"
"I'm convinced that someone brought a brand new scarf there on purpose," she replied, crossing her arms with conviction.
"You mean, as a gift? But remember, Annabella said that Jessica hated cheap scarves. So why would someone bring her a scarf they knew she wouldn't like?" I asked as I smoothed Hercules' fur to see what
he would look like without his Pomeranian poof.
"Maybe the person who brought it to her didn't know that. If it was a man—well, you know how clueless men can be about clothing," Veronica said.
"And if it was a woman, she would probably know that Jessica wouldn't like the scarf," I deducted.
"Precisely," Veronica replied in a tone that indicated she suddenly understood everything perfectly. I, on the other hand, couldn't figure out how a gift-buying faux pas could solve a murder.
"So what do you make of it?" I asked, noting that, with his fur flattened, Hercules looked a lot like a Jorge.
"If you're talking about Hercules' fur, I think it looks awful. But if you mean the scarf, I'm not sure yet. But something tells me that if we find out why someone gave her that particular scarf, we may have our answer."
"Well, the fact that the scarf was new should make it easier for us to track down," I said, watching as Hercules struggled out of my arms and ran to Veronica.
"Right." Veronica repoofed Hercules' fur and gave him a reassuring pat. "So, I've made a list of local stores and their addresses. We'll have to split up to cover more ground."
"Split up? That's no fun!" I protested.
"Francesca Lucia Amato!" Veronica chided. "A day of shopping is always fun!"
* * *
After spending several hours fruitlessly scouring boutiques in the Canal Street area, I decided that it was time to break for a late lunch. The rain had stopped, and it was shaping up to be a sunny and unseasonably warm day. Fortunately for me, Ponchartrain Bank was open from noon until 6 p.m. on Saturdays. So, I decided to stop by before grabbing a bite—to check on the status of my ATM card, of course.
As I entered the lobby, I scanned the room for Bradley. There was no sign of him, but I did see Corinne. She was beckoning frantically to me from her teller window, and she looked pale and despondent, like Tinker Bell without her pixie dust.
I walked up to the window. "Is everything okay, Corrine?"
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