"I know. Let's just give him another five minutes to get settled in."
"But we're going to be at the Di Salvo's house in fifteen minutes!" she said, staring at me for way too long.
"All right! I'll call him." I straightened up in the seat and pulled my phone from my purse. "You just watch where you're going. Eyes back on the road, missy!"
She rolled said eyes. "Calm down, Franki. You know I'm a trained racecar driver."
I gave her a look. "A few hours on the Ferrari racetrack in Italy doesn't make you Mario Andretti." I searched my phone contacts for the number for Ed Orlansky that Keisha had given me. "And honestly, when you get on the highway, you drive like you've had one too many skinny margaritas."
"Whatever you say, nonna."
I ignored her, just like my grandmother would do. "Now, what should I say to this guy?"
"Try to get us on his calendar for today or tomorrow, and don't tell him you're a PI if you can help it. Otherwise, he may not agree to meet with us."
"Then how, exactly, are we going to convince him to spend hours and hours scrolling through electronic store receipts for all the people who bought that scarf once he finds out we're not with the police?"
"You leave that to me." She tossed her blonde mane.
"Gladly." I tapped the number and put the phone to my ear. Veronica ran a charm offensive that would rival that of even the savviest Washington political strategist. It was based on what I called the "bat-and-twirl effect," an irresistibly seductive combination of batting her eyelashes while twirling her dazzling golden locks around her fingers. The one and only time I'd tried it on a guy, he politely told me that I shouldn't tug on my hair because it made my eyes twitch.
"Is it ringing?"
I shook my head. "Voicemail."
"Hang up!"
I pressed end. "Why?"
"He's the manager of a huge department store, so if you leave a message saying that you're investigating a local crime, he'll probably contact the police to verify that you work for them."
"And then he won't call me back when he finds out I'm not a police officer?"
"Exactly."
"So, what do we do?"
"Well, we know he's supposed to be at work today. I think we should just drop in unannounced after we meet with the Di Salvos."
We both jumped at the unexpected sound of my Bootylicious ringtone. On the display was the all-too-familiar "Unknown."
"Maybe this is him." I tapped answer. "Hello?"
"Yes, hello!" a male voice exclaimed a little too animatedly. "Is this Francesca?"
I shook my head at Veronica's questioning gaze. The caller was definitely not the Lenton's manager, because the only people who called me Francesca were my relatives or my prospective Sicilian dates. And this was no relative. "This is she."
"Fantastic!" the voice exclaimed. "I'm Bruno Messina, and my mother, Santina, is friends with your nonna."
My heart sank, and I could feel myself turning red. I glanced at Veronica and shrank down in my seat a little. "Yes, my nonna told me you'd be calling," I mumbled, getting straight to the point. I wanted to get this call over with fast, but he sounded so excited that I actually felt kind of bad about intending to turn him down.
"Great! Listen, I'm calling to invite you to my house for dinner tonight."
What is it with these guys asking me out on the day of the date?
"My mamma is making her Sicilian specialty, arancini."
The thought of those deep-fried balls of rice, tomato sauce, meat, and cheese momentarily distracted me from the conversation, but then I shook myself out of my fried food daydream and got back to the unpleasant task at hand.
"Thanks for the invitation, Bruno, but I already have plans for this evening." Halfway hoping he would think I was a loose woman like Pio had and hang up on me, I added, "A date."
"Ah," he replied in a decidedly less enthusiastic tone. But to my surprise, he cheerfully rebounded. "Well, we could meet after your date—for a nightcap!"
Seriously? "That would be disrespectful to the man I'm going out with, don't you think?"
"Well, maybe he wouldn't have to know?" he said in an exploratory tone. "After all, what we don't know doesn't hurt us, right Franki?" He chuckled.
Clearly, it was time to get down to the business of a brushoff. Borrowing Pio's infamous line I replied, "I'm sorry, but I just don't think this is going to work out."
"I see." This time he came back with the Catholic-guilt-inducing, "Mamma will be so disappointed."
"I'm sorry about that. Goodbye, Bruno."
"Goodbye?"
The second I heard that uncertain "goodbye" I pressed end before he could bounce back with an exuberant "What about tomorrow morning?" Then I turned off my phone to be on the safe side.
Veronica raised an eyebrow. "One of nonna's boys?"
"Yes, but hopefully the last." I sighed. "He just asked me out on a date for tonight at his house with his mother. I mean, how could my nonna think I would want to go out with a guy like that?"
"Well, you know the mentality of our grandmothers, Franki." She made a right-hand turn into a neighborhood with small shotgun-style houses and covered porches. "Back in their day in Sicily, unmarried women our age had no expectations whatsoever of getting married. A warm body was more than zitelle like us could hope for."
"I know, I know. But what is it with men? I told this guy about my date tonight, and he actually suggested that I go out with him afterward on the sly."
"That's his problem." She slowed down to scan the street addresses.
"You think? If you ask me, cheating is fairly standard male behavior."
Veronica rolled the car to a stop in front of a modest-looking white house, pulled the keys from the ignition, and then turned to face me. "Look, you've had some bad luck with men, I agree. But you can't make a blanket generalization like that. Really, Franki, you need to start rethinking your attitude about men, or you could blow it with Bradley before you even get started."
"I'll see what I can do," I snapped, wondering what had gotten into Veronica. Normally when she was right, she was a lot more gentle about it.
"Good." She opened the car door. "Now that that's settled, we're here."
I got out of the car and walked behind Veronica up the sidewalk, noting the particulars of the Di Salvo home. It was a small house, no more than fifteen hundred square feet, with cracked and peeling white paint. The yard was overgrown with weeds, and a few of the windows were broken. I briefly wondered whether the general state of neglect of the house had anything to do with the tragic events this family had endured.
Veronica turned to me as she reached the front door. "Ready?"
"I suppose so." But I wasn't at all sure I was emotionally prepared for this meeting.
She turned and knocked on the door and then took a step back to wait.
After a few seconds, a chubby young woman in heavy goth makeup opened the door. Her dyed black hair was cut boyishly short, and her bangs were long and brushed to one side, covering her right eye entirely. She stood there staring vacantly at us with her exposed left eye and said nothing.
"Hello," Veronica began, "We have an appointment at ten with Maria Di Salvo?"
"I know," she said flatly, briefly revealing a silver stud in her tongue.
"Can we come in?" I looked pointedly at the girl, unsure of whether I should be irritated with her or empathetic in light of everything she'd been through.
In reply, she shrugged and turned to walk down the hallway, leaving the door wide open.
Veronica entered first, and I followed, closing the door behind me. The entryway consisted of a hallway lined with family photos, a large white ceramic cross, and a painting of the Virgin Mary. Just before I exited the hallway, I noticed a cluster of photographs of family members in their caskets. Many of my elderly Italian relatives had similar pictures in their homes, so I was familiar with this old-fashioned custom of displaying images of loved ones in death. But ther
e was one photograph in particular that caught my attention: it was of a raven-haired young woman with fair skin and full red lips, who looked more like a sleeping Disney princess than a dead person. It had been taken fairly recently, and in an unusual twist, there was another individual in the picture—a young, rather homely woman standing stiffly beside the coffin. I was certain that the deceased was Immacolata, but who was the woman standing next to her?
As I turned away from the photograph, I was surprised to find the goth girl looking at me with hostility while slowly twisting her tongue stud with her right hand. As soon as she saw me looking at her, she let go of the stud and led me into a small living room where Veronica was already seated on a brightly colored floral-patterned couch encased in plastic. As I took a seat beside her, I noticed another cross on the wall behind the couch.
"Hang on," the girl said in a monotone voice before disappearing down another hallway that led to the bedrooms.
"I can't say I'm sorry she's gone," I whispered to Veronica. "She kind of gives me the creeps."
"It's just the all-black effect of her hair, makeup, and clothes."
"No, it's the all-black effect of her personality."
I scanned the room for any insights into the family, but aside from the cross, there wasn't much to see. The floor was covered in beige carpeting, and there were two dingy avocado-green armchairs facing the couch. One of the armchairs had a worn footstool in front with some knitting needles and yarn on it. Between the two armchairs was a small table with a lamp and what appeared to be an old photo of the Di Salvo family.
As I walked over to the photo to get a closer look, I heard the sound of footsteps approaching. I turned and saw a woman in her mid-fifties entering the living room in a worn housecoat and slippers. She had gray hair and a very unhealthy-looking grayish tone to her skin, but it was clear from her high cheekbones and sensual lips that she had been quite beautiful in her youth.
"May I help you?" she asked, looking at no one in particular.
"Yes." Veronica rose to her feet. "I'm Veronica Maggio, and this is my partner, Franki Amato," she said, gesturing toward me.
When Maria Di Salvo gave no sign that she recognized us, Veronica added, "We're the private investigators who called you about the Angelica Evangelista case?"
"Oh, yes," she said distractedly.
"Nice to meet you, Mrs. Di Salvo," I extended my hand.
Maria Di Salvo grasped it limply. "Call me Maria."
Veronica and I took our seats on the couch. The noise was so loud when we sat on the plastic that I almost didn't hear Veronica ask, "Was that your daughter who greeted us at the door?"
"Yes, that's Domenica." She let out a sigh as she took a seat in the armchair with the footstool.
"And you have another daughter, right?" Veronica continued.
"I have two. The twins, Concetta and Immacolata."
"Immacolata had a twin sister?" I asked, realizing that she must be the woman in the photo who was standing next to Immacolata's casket.
"Yes, they're fraternal twins. Concetta wanted to be here today, but she couldn't leave the convent."
"She's a nun?" I don't know why, but I was somewhat surprised.
"After Imma's death, Concetta felt she had a calling to become a nun. She wanted to help others to honor Imma's memory."
"What a selfless, loving gesture," Veronica said.
"Yes, I'm very proud of all my daughters. But I'm especially proud of what Concetta has become, especially after the agony of losing her twin."
"Which high school does Domenica attend?" I resisted the urge to ask why she wasn't at school today.
"Slidell High. She's working toward her diploma and studying cosmetology at the same time."
Veronica smiled. "Can you tell us about Imma? We'd like to know more about her life in London."
"You mean, you want to know who murdered her," Domenica interjected from the hallway where she'd apparently been listening to our conversation.
"Domenica," Maria objected tiredly.
"It was that sick son-of-a-bitch Stewart Preston," Domenica continued, insensitive to the embarrassment, not to mention the pain she was causing her mother.
"Domenica, please."
Undaunted, Domenica added, "And the bastard killed Angelica too, because she knew he strangled Imma."
Veronica and I exchanged a look.
"That's enough now, Domenica," Maria said with a firmness that was surprising given her obvious state of depression. "I'd like to speak to these ladies alone."
I looked at Veronica, who was watching Domenica closely.
After Domenica stormed from the room, Maria turned to us. "I'm sorry about that." She looked down at her lap for a moment. "She's really been through a lot."
"We understand," I said.
"First her sister, then her father…"
"Her father?" Veronica asked.
"Rosario passed away a few days after Stewart Preston was acquitted of Imma's murder." Maria quickly wiped a tear from her eye with her index finger. "It was his heart."
"Oh, I'm so sorry." I was stunned to hear of the loss of her husband.
"He never really recovered from Imma's death." She suppressed a small sob. "None of us did, but Rosario took it especially hard because he felt like he should have been there to protect her."
"Fathers are especially protective of their daughters," I said knowingly.
"Yes, and he was so upset when Imma started hanging out with Stewart." She pulled a handkerchief from the right pocket of her housecoat. "He told her to stay away from him, but she didn't listen."
"Why did he tell her to stay away from him?" Veronica asked, sitting forward in her seat. "Did he know him?"
"No, but he knew of him." She twisted the handkerchief with her hands. "Stewart is the son of a very wealthy New Orleans family. He was always in The Times-Picayune society pages with a new woman on his arm. He'd also been in the news after being arrested for several DWI's and possession of the drug Ecstasy."
"So, did Imma meet him in New Orleans or London?" I asked, confused.
"They met during London Fashion Week in 2007, the year before Imma died. There are fabric tradeshows that take place in London at the same time as fashion week, and Stewart was there representing the family textile business. Imma never missed the fabric shows because she was majoring in fashion textiles. One thing led to another and then…" her voice trailed off.
I looked at Veronica.
"We've read about Immacolata's case in the papers, and we've also seen reports of the trial. Do you believe that Stewart is responsible for her death?" Veronica asked.
"Yes," she said harshly, continuing to wring the handkerchief. "They went to a party, and then he took her back to her dorm. There were witnesses who testified that they saw him go upstairs with her to her room."
"So there was no chance that she met someone else later that night after he left?" I asked.
"In our opinion, no. But the jury didn't see it that way," she said with a note of anger. "They acquitted him due to a lack of evidence."
"What about Angelica?" I asked. "She testified at the trial, right?"
Maria stiffened. "She did, but she insisted that she didn't know anything."
Veronica and I exchanged a look.
"Did you believe her?" Veronica asked softly.
"At the time, yes." Maria wiped her eyes with the handkerchief. "But later, she changed, and then Rosario wasn't so sure anymore. He thought she knew something, but I just thought that she felt guilty for not being able to help at the trial."
"How did she change?" I asked.
"Well, we'd known her since she was a child," she explained, shifting in her seat as she put the handkerchief back into her right pocket. "She practically grew up in our house because her mother, Barbara, worked long hours as a seamstress to make ends meet. Angelica's father ran off when she was small. So, we were like her family. But after the trial, she was different. She avoided us, and we eventual
ly lost contact with her."
"Did you know she'd changed her name to Jessica Evans?" I asked.
"No, not until the police came and questioned us. We didn't even know she was back in New Orleans. We just assumed she'd gone to work in the fashion industry in some big city somewhere."
"What about her mother, did you keep in touch with her?" Veronica asked.
"She died a week before Imma's death. Breast cancer. In fact, Angelica was returning to London from Barbara's funeral here in Slidell the night Imma was murdered."
"An article we read indicated that Angelica returned from a trip abroad at 3 a.m. the morning of the murder," I said. "What was the official time of Imma's death?"
"Around 1 a.m." she replied tonelessly.
"Do you think it's possible that she returned earlier than she reported?" I asked, wondering whether Angelica may have actually witnessed the murder.
Maria looked surprised. "Rosario asked that same question, but the police were able to verify the time she arrived with flight records and the taxi service that took her back to the dorm."
"Do you have any pictures of Angelica?" Veronica asked.
Maria hesitated before answering, like she was reluctant to tell us something. "Well, we have the twins' high school yearbooks."
"Those would be great," Veronica said. "Could we see one, the most recent?"
"Give me a minute." She raised herself slowly from the chair, as though in pain, and shuffled down the hall.
"Did you get the feeling she was hiding something?" I whispered.
"Yeah," Veronica said.
"I wonder what it could be? I mean, we just asked to see some pictures."
Veronica opened her mouth to reply but stopped. The sounds of what was clearly an argument between Domenica and Maria were coming from a back room.
I strained my ears to listen but couldn't make out a word of what they were saying.
A few minutes later, Maria returned to the living room looking flushed. She handed a yearbook to Veronica. "Here you are. Angelica would have been a senior this year, the same as the twins."
Veronica immediately began flipping through the pages toward the back of the book as I looked on. First she went to the Ds. On the left-hand side of the page were the class pictures of Concetta and Immacolata. The difference in appearance between the twins was striking: Imma was an exotic beauty with almond-shaped eyes, full lips and high cheekbones, but Concetta was quite plain with a round face, close-set eyes, and a pencil-thin mouth.
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