1 Limoncello Yellow

by Traci Andrighetti

  I looked at her uncomprehendingly for a few seconds and then realized that I'd forgotten to brush the grass out of my hair. "Give me a break, all right?" I asked as I combed the grass out of my hair with my fingers. "Within the past twelve hours, I've had run-ins with a voodoo priestess, Ryan Hunter, a Sicilian guy, a crazy kid on a bike, a bottle of Limoncello, and my nonna." I neglected to mention the jar of Nutella because it just made me look pathetic.

  "Oh wow, your nonna?" Veronica asked, clearly unfazed by the mention of the voodoo priestess et al. "What did she want?"

  "To alert me to the earth-shattering news that my womanly honor was besmirched after I jilted one of her saintly Sicilians." I started to remove my sunglasses and then quickly thought better of it. Even the dimly lit bar seemed excessively bright.

  "Your womanly honor." Veronica laughed. "That's a good one."

  Before I could shoot her a look of death, Phillip the bartender approached me. "What can I get ya?" he asked.

  The thought of alcohol made me feel like crawling back to that spot in the grass to lie down. "I think I'll just have a club soda and lime."

  Phillip walked away, muttering to himself.

  "So what did Ryan say about London?" Veronica fished a piece of orange out of her mimosa with a toothpick. "I've been dying of curiosity ever since you called me."

  "He said that he came home one day and found Jessica on the phone with someone whom he thought was an Italian girlfriend. She was really angry and reminded whoever was calling that she wasn't in London when something or other happened."

  "When what happened?" Veronica pressed.

  I gave her a look. "Don't you think I would have mentioned that if I knew?"

  She shrugged and popped the orange into her mouth. "So, why does Ryan think she was talking to an Italian woman?"

  I nodded my appreciation at Phillip as he passed me my drink. "Because she said an Italian woman's name."

  "Well, that doesn't mean anything. She could have just been gossiping about the woman or mentioning her for some reason."

  "True." I nursed my club soda. My brain was in no mood to hypothesize about the case today.

  "Hey, Phillip, can I get an order of onion rings?" Veronica shouted directly into my ear.

  "Sure thing, Ronnie! One order of onion rings, coming right up."

  "Sometimes, you just need a little greasy food in your diet, right Franki?" Veronica asked.

  I nodded, but I felt a queasy feeling in my stomach at the mention of grease, and not just because of my hangover. My first impression of Phillip was that he looked a little greasy himself. And since the last time I was in the bar, I'd learned through the neighborhood grapevine that he was in an environmentally conscious grunge rock band that didn't believe in showering more than once a week, to save water. Unfortunately, Phillip also did double duty at Thibodeaux's as the cook.

  "You know, normally I would say that Jessica's phone call was probably nothing," Veronica said. "But it is interesting that London keeps coming up, and in such negative contexts. By the way, I'm going to call the London College of Fashion first thing in the morning. I sure hope they have some information for us, because as of right now, we've got nothing on Jessica's past."

  "David hasn't been able to find anything?"

  "Oh, he's found some things all right. Too many," she said, gesticulating with her drink toothpick as she spoke. Veronica might not look Italian, but her habit of talking with her hands gave her heritage away.

  "What do you mean 'too many'?"

  "He did a Google search for 'Jessica Evans' and got over three hundred thousand hits, so I told him to not to bother checking out the links. With his part-time schedule, it could take him weeks or even months to find one related to our Jessica Evans," she lamented, waving the toothpick dangerously close to my cheek.

  Keeping a watchful eye on it, I asked, "Did he try narrowing down the search with any personal information, like her address?"

  "Yeah, but that didn't turn up anything concrete either." She looked down at the bar. "At this point, we really don't have much to go on. We know Ryan doesn't have a clue about Jessica's personal life, and the only information on the police report was her Louisiana driver's license number and birth date."

  Surprised by the unusual downturn in Veronica's steadfastly chipper demeanor, I mustered up as much positivity as I could bear. "Well, that's good, right? Since we have her birth date, we can get her birth certificate and find out her parents' names. Annabella said that Jessica referred to herself as a 'Louisiana native' when she was talking to the man at the store, so the certificate should be easy to find."

  She shook her head. "No, it's not good. Louisiana doesn't have a public birth index like Texas. It's a closed record state, so only Jessica or her parents could request her birth certificate, not us."

  "Oh. What about a Facebook page or Twitter account? Or wait! I bet she had a LinkedIn page!" I exclaimed, hoping that Veronica would perk up soon. Showing all this enthusiasm was killing me.

  "Nope, not even a Pinterest page," Veronica proclaimed with a wild thrust of her toothpick.

  I scooted my bar stool a few inches away from her. "Maybe she's going by her middle name?"

  "Could be. It's also possible that she was using an assumed name," she replied, finally putting the toothpick in its rightful place—on the counter.

  "Yeah, I was just thinking the same thing." I laid my aching head down on my purse. "So what do we do next?"

  She sighed. "Well, let's hope the London College of Fashion has some information for us. Because if they don't, we're at a standstill in this case," she added as she rested her head on her fists and stared moodily into space.

  Phillip picked that moment to slide a steaming basket of onion rings down the length of the bar. I quickly raised my head to avoid getting hit in the face and watched as the basket stopped in front of Veronica, who perked right up and clapped.

  "Wow, nice sliding skills," I commented.

  "I know," Veronica said, casting an admiring glance at Phillip. "Want one, Franki?"

  "Nah." I eyed the basket with combined revulsion and suspicion.

  "Now, tell me about this voodoo priestess!" Veronica bit enthusiastically into an onion ring.

  "First off, it was one of the craziest experiences of my life! Her name is Odette Malveaux and—"

  "Odette Malveaux!" a familiar chain-smoker voice exclaimed from behind me. "You into voodoo, Miss Franki?"

  I turned to see Glenda in all her splendor. She was wearing what looked like a Kmart knockoff of J Lo's iconic jungle-green Versace dress—the one with the neckline that plunged several inches past the navel—only this dress plunged a good two inches lower, almost past something else.

  "Hardly," I scoffed, when I'd recovered from the shock. "I can barely handle the mysticism of yoga."

  Glenda cackled as she took a seat beside me at the bar.

  "What a stunning dress!" Veronica exclaimed.

  That's one way to describe it, I thought.

  "Thank you, sugar," Glenda purred. "So Miss Franki, how do you know Mambo Odette?" She crossed her legs and exposed six-inch-heeled stripper shoes with clear plastic, hollow bases that had something written on them.

  "I met her at Marie Laveau's House of Voodoo last night," I replied distractedly as I tried to decipher the word on Glenda's shoes. "Do you know her?"

  "Sure do," she responded. "A long time ago, I consulted with her about a man I was seeing."

  "Did you want to get even with him or something?" I asked.

  "Get even? Real voodoo isn't about hexes and sacrifices and things like that. But that's a common misconception thanks to the way Hollywood has sensationalized it. Voodoo is really about serving others, especially the poor, the sick, and the lonely. And Odette is one of the finest priestesses in all of Louisiana when it comes to matters of the heart, I guarantee you that."

  "Wow, I had no idea." I wondered how in the world that terrifying woman could have become an expert
on love.

  "Besides," Glenda continued, "if I wanted to get even with a man, I wouldn't need any help. Know what I mean, jelly bean?"

  I nodded. I had no doubt that Glenda could be a formidable foe. "Hey, before I forget, what do your shoes say?"

  "Tips. There's a slot for inserting bills right below the word, see?" She spun around seductively on her barstool and kicked a long, skinny leg out in front of her with the ease of a Rockette dancer so that I could examine her shoe, up close and personal.

  "Why would clients put the tips in your shoe?" I asked, dumbfounded.

  "Because they're too damn drunk to reach the G-string." Glenda leaned over the counter and waved Phillip over with a dollar bill in her hand, much like a customer in a strip club.

  "That's really clever," Veronica interjected.

  Phillip, who approached Glenda to take her drink order, flinched as he got a full-frontal glimpse of her in the dress. "The usual?"

  "No, sugar, I'll take a mint julep with extra powdered sugar." She gave him a cougarish wink. "I'm feeling like a Southern belle today."

  A mental image of Glenda in a hoop dress flashed through my mind. Never happen, I thought. She'd suffocate in all that clothing.

  "You know, Miss Franki," Glenda began in her story-telling voice, "I also consulted with Mambo Odette about a voodoo dance I used to do. It was inspired by Marie Laveau."

  "Really?" I replied, thinking that one of Glenda's striptease stories definitely called for a little hair of the dog.

  "I modeled the dress after Marie Laveau's own clothes," she said.

  Despite my better judgment, I did want to know about the dress. "Was it made of raffia and seashells like the voodoo priestess costumes I saw on sale for Mardi Gras the other day?"

  "Hell no!" Glenda wrinkled her mouth in disgust. "I wouldn't be caught dead in a cheap outfit like that!"

  "Of course not," Veronica said.

  "It was a long muslin dress with a tignon that had seven knots pointing up like a crown."

  Phillip appeared with the mint julep, blushing like a schoolboy as he handed it to Glenda.

  "Thank you, sugar." Glenda looked at Phillip suggestively while slowly licking the sugar from the entire rim of the glass.

  "What's a tignon?" I asked, just so she would have to put her tongue back into her mouth.

  "It's the type of headdress that Marie Laveau wore," Veronica, the resident fashion expert of every culture and era, explained. "What color was the dress, Glenda?"

  "It was white to symbolize inner purity."

  Veronica nodded in understanding.

  "And I had a boa around my neck," Glenda continued.

  "A boa?" I asked, confused. "I knew that women in New Orleans liked to wear boas during Mardi Gras and all, but I didn't realize that voodoo queens wore them too."

  Glenda stared at me open-mouthed like I had just sprouted another head. "A boa constrictor. You know, a snake?"

  "Oh, yeah, of course," I muttered, embarrassed.

  "What did the snake symbolize, Glenda?" Veronica asked.

  "Well, in voodoo, the snake represents the practitioner's spiritual connection to the otherworld. So, when I wore the snake, it meant that if you connected with me, it'd be outta this world!" Glenda laughed and slapped me on the back so hard that it felt like my brain rattled in my skull.

  It was time to put me out of my increasing misery. "Hey, Phillip!" I called across the bar. "How about a Bloody Mary?"

  Phillip nodded uncomfortably, as though he were disappointed at the prospect of returning to our area. Go figure.

  I turned to Glenda. "Was the snake real?" I hated to encourage her, but now I simply had to know.

  "Of course the snake was real! But this wasn't no Tijuana donkey show; this was a class act." She loudly slurped up the last of her mint julep through a straw and then let out a tremendous belch. "The snake was just a live accessory to cover my lady parts, no more no less."

  "Wait, you wanted your, um, lady parts covered?" I asked.

  "Well of course, child, until the big reveal!" Glenda exclaimed, again amazed at my complete lack of stripper sense.

  I considered asking how she got a live snake to cover her privates but then decided to quit while I was ahead.

  "Here you go," Phillip said as he placed the Bloody Mary on the bar in front of me, averting his eyes the entire time.

  "Thanks, Phillip. This should cover my tab." I shoved fifteen dollars under his chin so he could see it.

  He took the money and scurried to safety.

  "Are you leaving already, Franki?" Veronica asked, surprised. "You just got your drink!"

  "I know. I'm going to finish it and then head home."

  "What are you going to do today?" she asked.

  "This is it. I've done all I'm going to do," I replied quietly.

  "Your friend Miss Franki is a real live wire, Miss Ronnie," Glenda opined.

  "Right?" Veronica responded.

  I ignored them both and tossed back half of my drink. It went down dangerously smoothly.

  Glenda leaned forward to look at Veronica. "Whaddya say you and I celebrate our inner Southern belles by doing some corset shopping at Trashy Diva?"

  "That's a terrific idea!" Veronica enthused.

  And the perfect sounding place for this mismatched duo, I thought.

  "Good. This one's on me, Miss Ronnie." She pulled some crumpled bills from her lacy black bra and then dropped them on the bar. "Phillip, I'll see you later, sugar," she purred with a knowing look and then pulled a short red cigarette holder covered in cubic zirconia from her purse. Placing the cigarette holder between pursed lips, she turned and exited the bar shaking her bony hips from side to side.

  "See you tomorrow, Franki." Veronica waved as she followed Glenda out.

  I finished my drink in one big gulp and then headed out too. As soon as I got outside, I looked carefully each way for cars and wayward biker kids before crossing the street. My only goal for the rest of the day was to make it to my bed without incident.

  Just before I reached the front door of my apartment, my phone began to ring. I looked at the display and saw the now familiar theme of the day: "Unknown." So much for making it home unscathed, I thought. As I briefly debated whether to take the call or just go inside and hide, I reminded myself that it could be Bradley and tapped answer.

  "Hello?" I asked in a sultry voice that was only mildly tinged with apprehension.

  "Hey Franki, it's Bradley."

  "Oh thank God!" I exclaimed before I could stop myself.

  "What did you say? The phone cut out for a second."

  "Just 'hi,'" I replied, mentally thanking my cell phone for preventing me from making a complete fool of myself. Then I inserted my key into the lock and opened my front door.

  "Listen, I was hoping to take you to dinner next weekend, but I have to leave town Thursday on business, and I won't be back until Sunday."

  "Oh, I understand," I lied as I closed the door and tossed my purse in frustration on the chaise lounge. Was he trying to back out of the date?

  "But if you're free on Tuesday night, I'd like to take you to a restaurant in the Quarter."

  "Of course I'm free!" Smooth, Franki, real smooth.

  "Great. They serve classic New Orleans cuisine, things like gumbo, jambalaya, and red beans and rice. They even have my absolute favorite, the muffuletta."

  The muffuletta? I stopped in my tracks. "You're not Sicilian are you?"

  "No, why?"

  "Just checking," I said, relieved, as I bent down to ruffle the fur on Napoleon's head. "That sounds wonderful, Bradley. I've been dying to eat some good Cajun food."

  "Well, if you like Cajun food, they also have crawdads and even alligator for the more adventurous eaters."

  I shot straight up like an arrow. Alligator? What was it Odette had said about the bayou? "This place isn't on the bayou is it?" I asked, trying to hide the uneasiness in my voice.

  "No, it's on Bourbon Street, but i
t's called Le Bayou," he responded. "Why? Have you been there before?"

  It was all coming back to me now. Odette told me in no uncertain terms not to let a man take me to the bayou. I was supposed to stay away from the bayou and everything in it. Should I suggest another restaurant?

  "Franki, is everything okay?" Bradley asked, apparently concerned.

  "Yes, absolutely!" I gushed, dismissing my fears about Odette's voodoo predictions as silly superstition. "I guess my phone is acting up again. So, what time on Tuesday?"

  "How about seven o'clock? I'll pick you up your place."

  "Perfect. I'll text you my address."

  "Sounds great. I'm looking forward to it," he replied in a devastatingly sexy voice.

  "Me too," I said, trying to hide my anxiety. "Bye, Bradley."

  After I hung up the phone, I went straight to my bedroom. As I crawled into bed I realized that I had a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach, and it wasn't from the Bloody Mary. I tried to tell myself that I was overreacting about my encounter with Mambo Odette, but I did think it was odd that right after she had warned me about a man taking me to the bayou it seemed to be happening. On the other hand, it wasn't like Bradley was taking me to an actual bayou. It was just a restaurant in the French Quarter. And, of course, nothing and no one was going to stop me from going. All I had to do was avoid the crawdads and especially the alligator, and everything would be fine. Wouldn't it?

  CHAPTER TEN

  As I drove to work the next morning, I couldn't help but be in a good mood despite the disturbing developments around Odette Malveaux's predictions. My hangover was gone, the sun was shining, and I had a date with Bradley Hartmann tomorrow night. To celebrate, I'd put the top down on my Mustang and popped my "Beauty and the Beat" CD by The Go-Go's into the stereo. Nothing like '80s girl power pop to make you leave your voodoo cares behind.

  When I pulled up to the office, I couldn't believe my luck: as if by magic, there was a parking space right in front. This day is just getting better and better, I thought as I carefully parallel-parked. As soon as I opened the car door and started to get out, I was momentarily knocked back into my seat by the appetizing aroma of marinara sauce from Nizza restaurant wafting through the air. Yeah, no doubt about it, this was going to be a great day.