"Franki, you are a private investigator, non?"
"Yes. Why?"
Her eyes filled with tears. "Yesterday I come home from work, and my petite Bijou, she is missing."
I wasn't entirely sure who or what a petite Bijou was, so I hazarded a guess. "Is Bijou your pet?"
"Oui, she is my chien—pardon, my dog. She was a gift from Thierry. She is just a puppy," she said between sobs.
"What kind of dog is she?"
"She is a bijon frise." She reached for her handbag under the counter and pulled out her phone. She pulled up a picture of Bijou for me. He looked a lot like a white powder puff with black eyes and a black nose. "Franki, can you please help me find her? I pay whatever you want."
"Of course, Corinne." I examined the picture. "How did the thief get into your house? Had any of the doors been tampered with? Or a window?"
"Non." She blew her nose with a honk. "I live in an appartement on ze fours floor."
"Was anything else taken?" I asked, handing the phone back to her.
"Only Bijou," she wailed, placing the phone on the counter and covering her eyes.
"So, it sounds like someone went there just to steal her. Corinne, the last time I was here, you said that you and Thierry had broken up. Are the two of you back together?"
"Non," she said bitterly. "We are fini." She put her head into her hands.
"Do you think he could have taken Bijou?"
"It is possible." She raised her tear-stained face to look at me. "He still has ze key, and he is very angry wis me. But he loves Bijou, so I don't know if he would do zat to her."
"Does anyone else have a key? Like your parents or a friend?"
"No, but in ze appartement office, zey have a key."
I pulled a notepad and pen from my purse. "Where does Thierry live?"
"He stay with a friend named Brady Reiff who lives near ze Place d'Armes. I don't know ze adresse."
"Where is the Place Darm?" I asked in my very best Texan-French.
"Ah, pardon. It is ze French name for Jackson Square, ze park by ze Mississippi River. You know, when Thierry live wis me, he take Bijou zere on Saturday afternoons for a walk."
"Then that will be the first place I look. I need you to text or email me the picture of Bijou and a few pictures of Thierry so that I know what he looks like." I wrote my contact information on a piece of notepaper for her.
"Tout de suite. But Franki, can I help you with somesing? You came to the bank…"
"No, I just wanted to check on my ATM card." I tore the paper from my pad and handed it to her.
"Ah, oui! It came yesterday afternoon. I was going to call you, but Mr. Hartmann say he would do it. I get it for you. Un moment."
"Non!" I shouted in French, not wanting to leave even the slightest bit of room for doubt. Nothing and no one was coming between me and a call from Bradley Hartmann.
Corinne blinked, confused.
"There's no time to lose! I have to get to work on your case right away," I gushed, trying to cover for my crazed outburst. I shoved my notepad and pen into my purse and started to leave. "Au revoir!"
"Franki!" Corinne called.
"Yeah?" I turned back to look at her.
"Merci beaucoup," she said, her big blue eyes full of gratitude.
"Prego," I replied in Italian in keeping with the foreign language theme. "And don't worry," I reassured with a wink, "Bijou will be back before you know it."
As I turned and headed for the door, I again scoured the room for Bradley, using my peripheral vision so as not to seem too obvious. But there was no sign of him, which either meant that I was a bad detective—entirely possible—or that he had the day off.
Once outside, I glanced at my watch and saw that it was 2 p.m. Marie Laveau's was open until 1:30 a.m. on Saturdays, so I had plenty of time to stake out Jackson Square before going to investigate the skull bead. But first I would need to let Veronica know that I had agreed to take a new case. I pulled my phone from my purse and dialed her number.
"Hello?" Veronica chirped.
"It's me. Any luck?"
"Well, I've found plenty of things for me, but I haven't found the scarf, if that's what you mean. What about you?"
"No scarf, but I did get a case."
"A case?" she asked, suddenly serious.
"Yeah, a bank teller I met named Corinne wants us to find her stolen dog. I know we're in the middle of the Evans investigation, but I'm thinking maybe her ex-boyfriend took the dog, so it should be a fairly simple case to solve."
"Way to go, Franki!"
I breathed a sigh of relief. "So, you don't mind?"
"Mind? Private investigators work multiple cases all of the time! Besides, we could really use a bank contact."
"What for?"
"At the moment, for the Evans case. Ryan Hunter seems to think that Jessica Evans had more money than she should. Your teller might be able to help us find out if someone was paying her."
"I'll keep that in mind," I said. "Corinne is really nice, so she may be willing to help us. Speaking of the Evans case, I'm going to Marie Laveau's later today. Right now, I have to follow up on a lead about the dog."
Veronica sighed with mock despair. "I guess I'll have to go it alone in the scarf search, then."
"You're a real trooper, Veronica," I replied, fully aware that she was in her shopping element. "I'll call you later with an update." I closed the call and headed toward my car. I had parked at the office, which was just down the street from Jackson Square. But I needed to go home and get Napoleon. He and I were going undercover.
* * *
An hour later, Napoleon and I were walking up Decatur Street toward Jackson Square. I was fairly certain that Thierry wouldn't bring a stolen dog to the park, but it was as good a place as any to start. First I wanted to case the streets that bordered the square because they were more popular with pet-walking pedestrians than the park itself. Also, I had to keep Napoleon moving as I investigated the area because, as dogs go, he wasn't exactly the ideal park companion. For one thing, he either didn't understand the concept of fetch, or he just plain didn't want to play the game. And like the French conqueror after whom he was named, Napoleon was territorial and made darn sure the other dogs knew it. But on the plus side, he was the perfect cover for staking out a prospective dog thief.
When we arrived at the heavy iron fence that enclosed Jackson Square Park, I peered through the slats and noticed that it was fairly empty. The park was really lovely with its brilliant pink and yellow flowers, perfectly manicured lawns, and gorgeous old oak trees. In the center there was an equestrian statue of Major General Andrew Jackson, commemorating the Battle of New Orleans. Overlooking the park was the Cathedral-Basilica of St. Louis King of France, which was the oldest Catholic cathedral in continual use in the United States, with its stunning gray and white spires.
Just before the entrance to the park, I decided to walk across the street to the Washington Artillery Park on the Mississippi River. A crowd had gathered at the small amphitheater near the model civil war cannon to watch a couple of young boys tap dance, but there was no sign of Thierry or Bijou.
We walked back toward the entrance and turned left onto St. Peter Street, which ran along the west side of the park and was home to the famous French Market with the yellow-gold archway. While I was on St. Peter, I did some window-shopping at a cute little jewelry store called Ooh La La. After all, I had to look the part of a local on a Saturday afternoon stroll with her dog. Didn't I?
Next, Napoleon and I took a right onto Chartres Street, on the north side of the park. We were immediately thrust into the throng of tourists who had gathered to see the street musicians, mimes, and open-air artist colony. Although I have often enjoyed the work of street musicians and artists, I have never been a fan of the mime. The appeal of painting oneself monochrome and then silently pretending to do something like juggle or cry has always been lost on me. So, as I browsed the caricatures, portraits, and landscape pa
intings displayed on the iron fence that encircled the park, I did my best to ignore a pesky silver-colored mime who pretended to give me what I can only assume was a pretend flower.
After scouring the masses on Chartres, we turned right onto St. Ann Street where, for some reason, Napoleon stopped to growl at the tarot card readers who'd set up their little tables in front of the shops. Could it be that he didn't trust them? Before one of them could put a curse on us or something, I dragged him down the street to the gourmet and kitchen shop Creole Delicacies. Then I picked him up and tucked him under my arm so that I could pop inside to buy some pecan pralines—the riverfront streetcar box of twelve, to be precise. I didn't need the calories, but I considered sampling local specialties to be an essential part of my cover.
With pralines in hand (and in mouth), I decided it was time to stake out the park. We took a right onto Decatur and entered through the heavy iron gates. As we walked down the park's gravel-lined walkways, I kept my eyes peeled for Thierry and the powder puff, and Napoleon kept his peeled for pigeons and squirrels. After we'd circled the park a few times, I sat on a bench near the statue of Andrew Jackson. To pass the time, I pulled out my phone and snapped a few pictures of the statue and the St. Louis Cathedral. Then I began to review the pictures that Corinne had sent of Bijou and Thierry again. The photos of Thierry were blurred, so I wasn't sure if I would be able to identify him if he walked by dog-less.
I sat on the bench for an hour munching on pralines and watching joggers, people pushing baby strollers, and other dog-walkers. And then suddenly, out of the corner of my right eye I saw a small, fluffy white puppy emerge from behind a giant oak tree. I quickly pulled out my phone and reviewed the photo of Bijou. As I looked from the photo to the dog, a big, strapping man with fiery red hair came out from behind the tree and playfully scooped up the tiny puppy into his powerful arms. I noticed that he had a tattoo on his right bicep, but I couldn't make out what it was.
I looked again at the picture of Thierry. He appeared to have light brown hair, not red, and he was wearing a sweater so it was impossible to tell whether he had a tattoo. I decided to call Corinne and ask for a description of her ex. As I dialed her number, the guy began to snuggle his ruddy red, freckled face into the little white ball of fur. Whoever this dude is, he sure loves that dog, I thought as I listened to the phone ring.
"Allo, Franki?" Corinne asked in an anxious tone.
"Yes, I'm at the park at Jackson Square," I said, my voice lowered to a whisper. "There's a little white dog here that could be Bijou—"
"Really? Are you sure?"
"No, I'm not. The dog is definitely a bijon frise puppy, but the photos you sent of Thierry aren't very clear. And the guy who's here with the dog looks, well, Irish."
"Sacre bleu! Zat is him!"
"What? Thierry is just Terry? I thought he was French!" I glanced nervously toward the man, but fortunately he didn't seem to have heard me.
"No, he is Irish. His surname is O'Callaghan," she explained. "Oh, Franki! It is him, non?"
"There's an easy way to find out. Does Thierry, er, Terry, have a tattoo on his right bicep?"
"Oui! It is a leprechaun. From ze Americain cereal."
"Wait a second. Do you mean Lucky? The Lucky Charms leprechaun?"
"Voilà! You know him, Franki?"
"I know him well, Corinne," I replied, thinking that this Thierry or Terry or whoever was kind of lame. I mean, an Irishman with a Lucky the Leprechaun tattoo was like an Italian with a tattoo of Super Mario. Pitiful. And besides, Notre Dame's Fighting Irish mascot would have made a way better stereotypical tattoo, especially for a big, muscular guy like the one romping around before me with the little powder puff of white.
"Franki, are you still zere?" She sounded panicked.
"Yes, Corinne. I'm sorry. I got distracted for a moment."
"Zis guy, does he have ze lucky leprechaun?" she asked in a desperate tone.
I turned to see that the guy was now walking the little dog. His right arm was extended from holding the leash, so I had a clear shot of the tattoo. Sure enough, it was Lucky on his arm. I would know that leprechaun anywhere.
"It's him, all right. You'd better get down here right away."
CHAPTER SEVEN
I looked at my watch for the umpteenth time. Twenty minutes had passed since I'd called Corinne, but there was still no sign of her. I anxiously wondered how much longer it was going to take for her to get to Jackson Square. Terry wasn't going to stay at the park forever, and I certainly didn't want to have to confront him over Bijou. After all, the guy was the size of The Jolly Green Giant.
I pulled out my phone and texted Corinne, asking where she was. No sooner had I hit send than Terry and Bijou began walking toward the exit. I had to act right away. I hurried over and stepped deliberately in front of Corinne's giant ex.
"Terry O'Callaghan?" I began with a slight quiver in my voice. "Stop right where you are!" I was deliberately throwing in some familiar police lingo for effect.
Terry slowly turned his bulky frame to look at me. It suddenly occurred to me that if his whole body were green like his Lucky the Leprechaun tattoo, he would look just like The Incredible Hulk.
"Do I know you?" His voice was dangerously soft.
"No, but I'm a private investigator, and I know that dog is stolen. So if you leave this park, I'm afraid I'm going to have to make a citizen's arrest."
He lowered his eyelids and looked at me long and hard. And then, to my complete surprise, he began to cry like a baby. A very large Irish baby. He sobbed and blubbered in a mix of English and Gaelic, calling Bijou his "wee aingeal" and "little leanbh," which I knew were terms of endearment from all the Murder She Wrote episodes set in Ireland. Who said you couldn't learn anything from TV?
As I carefully took the leash from Terry's oversized hand, I saw Corinne running toward us out of the corner of my eye. She had a look of grave concern on her face.
"Thierry! What is ze matter? Why you are crying?"
Upon hearing Corinne's voice, Terry's sobs turned to wails. And oddly enough, he sounded exactly like a howling dog.
Before I knew it, Corinne had wrapped her tiny Tinker Bell arms around his Hulk-like waist. "Zere, zere. Everysing is okay now, Thierry."
I stood there open-mouthed, wondering what in the world I was witnessing. I left the two of them to work out their differences and headed to the office to drop off Napoleon before going over to nearby Bourbon Street to Marie Laveau's. Although I was starting to get hungry, I was going to have to skip dinner thanks to the four or so pralines I'd eaten for lunch while staking out the park. Mardi Gras was just around the corner, and Veronica had told me that the average New Orleanian gains six pounds during the season, which meant I was sure to gain at least ten. And frankly, I couldn't afford to gain another ten pounds because I was already bursting out of all seven pairs of jeans I owned. If I put on any more weight, I would have to buy a whole new wardrobe, and I certainly wasn't in any financial position to do that.
Trying desperately to drive all thoughts of food from my mind—a hard thing to do in the Quarter near dinnertime—I walked up Decatur Street toward Saint Ann. But after only about five minutes, I stopped dead in my tracks. Right in front of me at an outdoor table at Market Café sat none other than Bradley Hartmann. This was my chance to work my date-getting magic. I'd always been pretty good at getting a guy—I just had trouble keeping one.
I stood up straight, sucked in my stomach, and sauntered past his table, but he didn't notice me because he was absorbed in The Times-Picayune. I saw that there were some empty tables near where Bradley was sitting, so I hurried over to the hostess stand by the entrance to the café. In my haste, I accidentally bumped into a burly waitress with short, electric blue hair, a sleeve tattoo and triple-pierced eyebrows, causing her to drop a tray loaded with food.
"You just cost me a tip, lady," she said in a startlingly gruff voice.
"I'm so sorry." I bent down to help her pic
k up the dishes.
"Why don't you just let me take care of this? I think you've done enough already."
I looked up from the pile of broken dishes and saw that her nametag read "Charity." Talk about a misnomer, I thought. "Like I said, Charity, I'm sorry. And I can take care of that tip," I added as I put another plate shard on the tray.
"Like I said, lady, I got this." She shot me an aggressive look.
"Well, if you insist." I rose to my feet. The hostess was nowhere to be seen, so I said, "Listen, I'm really pressed for time. Would you mind if I seated myself?"
"A member of the staff has to seat you," she replied, visibly irritated. "Restaurant policy."
"All right. Can you seat me then, please?"
She stared at me for a moment. "Let me get you a menu," she replied through clenched teeth.
But by then I was in such a hurry that I didn't want to wait. I mean, this was the opportunity I'd been waiting for with Bradley. So I blew right past her and made a beeline for his table.
"Bradley!" I called as I rushed to his side.
Apparently, Bradley wasn't used to women shouting his name in restaurants, because he jumped and knocked over his beer, spilling gold liquid all over the bulk of his newspaper.
"I'm so sorry." I was starting to sound a lot like a broken record. "I didn't mean to startle you."
He gave an ironic smile as he rose to his feet. "I didn't want anymore of that beer, anyway."
Charity, who had been standing impatiently by what was supposed to be my table, rolled her eyes and then came over and helped us clean up the beer with a towel that was attached to her waist apron. She wadded up the wet newspaper. "Your menu is on the table over there." She pointed dramatically to a table far away.
"Thanks, Charity," I said none-too-appreciatively and then waited for her to leave. For reasons I simply couldn't fathom, she seemed adamant that I was going to sit at the table she'd selected for me, because she stood there waiting for me to go. But I wasn't budging an inch from Bradley's table.
Bradley, who couldn't help but notice the standoff between Charity and me, came to my rescue. "It's Franki, right?"
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