1 Limoncello Yellow

by Traci Andrighetti

  "I was planning on talking to you about that after we—"

  "So it's true?" I interrupted.

  He paused. "I can explain…"

  That was exactly what Vince had said. I felt a well of tears in my eyes and a sudden surge of anger. "I don't need your explanation, Bradley. It's all quite clear, thank you very much."

  "Franki, it's complicated…"

  I gave a bitter laugh. "Another tried and true cliché."

  He let out a long sigh. "Will you please just hear me out?"

  "No, because there's nothing more to say except that I don't ever want to see you again." I ended the call and then stared at the phone before throwing it into my purse.

  Veronica looked at me. "This guy really got to you, didn't he?"

  I nodded.

  "I'll take you home," she said, grabbing her keys from her purse.

  "No." I placed my hand on her arm to prevent her from starting the ignition. "I came here this morning to do a job, and I'm going to do it."

  "I know, but I can handle this one on my own."

  I shook my head. "I can't keep getting sidelined by unfaithful men, Veronica. The plan was to start over in New Orleans, and that's what I'm going to do. Life is just going to be a little different than I thought."

  She cocked an eyebrow. "How so?"

  "Well," I said, opening my car door, "instead of getting a guy, I'm going to get…cats."

  Veronica smirked. "I think Napoleon will strongly object to you becoming a cat lady."

  "True." I glanced at the Barbie car. "Okay then, I'll start a dismembered doll collection."

  * * *

  "This is taking way too long," I complained for at least the tenth time. After going through a rigorous security screening and a meticulous administrative process complete with a semi-interrogation about the purpose of our visit and a stack of paperwork almost as high as my Jessica Simpson heels, we had finally been taken to a small room to wait for Domenica.

  "Welcome to the life of a criminal attorney," Veronica said. "It shouldn't be too much longer now."

  "I certainly hope not. I can actually feel myself rotting away in this jail."

  "It's not like you're locked up in a cell," Veronica chided. "Besides, just be glad you're not at the police department in New Orleans. This place is a palace in comparison."

  "Well, it's better than I expected." I surveyed the room. Everything about the Slidell jail was surprisingly clean and well kept, from the freshly mowed lawn out front to the sparkling tile floors inside. It looked nothing like the seedy pictures of the New Orleans jailhouse that I'd seen in the tabloids following the much-publicized arrests of Nicholas Cage and Russell Brand.

  Veronica stood up as the door opened. Domenica entered the room followed by a tall brunette female police officer with a Miss America smile. Instead of her customary basic black, the Darling of the Dead was outfitted entirely in tangerine courtesy of the Slidell PD.

  "I'll be back for her in fifteen or so," the officer said, flashing her pearly whites. She retreated quietly, closing the door behind her.

  "To what do I owe the pleasure?" Domenica asked in a bored monotone voice as she took a seat at the table.

  "We're here to ask you some follow-up questions. You know, in light of your recent arrest?" I replied.

  "Is this even legal?" Domenica cast daggers at me with her eyes. "I mean, I'm in jail. So how is it, exactly, that the two of you can just cruise in here and interrogate me?"

  "I'm a criminal defense attorney," Veronica explained.

  Domenica scrutinized Veronica for a moment. "So, are you here to defend me, or something?"

  Veronica looked down at the table. "No, I'm not." Then she looked Domenica in the eyes. "But I've been informed of the charges against you, so I can provide you with free legal advice in exchange for your answers to a few questions."

  Domenica looked from Veronica to me. "You people are incredible." Then a lengthy silence ensued that included several pensive flicks of her tongue piercing. "So, what is it you're so desperate to ask me?"

  "Well, for starters," I began, "we'd like to know if you had anything to do with the murder of the cemetery caretaker."

  "I had nothing to do with that, understand?" She had a menacing look in her eyes. "I've never even seen that guy before."

  "But you admit that you were a frequent visitor to the Slidell cemetery, right?" I asked.

  "Sure," she replied as though hanging out in cemeteries was as natural as hanging out at the mall.

  Veronica looked at Domenica long and hard. "You know, I actually don't believe that you had anything to do with Henry Withers' death, but I may be in the minority on that count. So if you know something, even if it's just secondhand gossip, then I'd advise you to tell the police with your attorney present."

  Domenica stared insolently at her without responding.

  "Because if you don't," Veronica continued, "there's a strong chance based on your goth appearance, your defiant attitude, and this grave-defacing charge that you'll go down with your friends for first degree murder, a charge that carries the death penalty in the state of Louisiana."

  Although Domenica was trying to maintain her devil-may-care demeanor, this time I saw her flinch. "That's profiling."

  "Is it?" I interjected. "Or is it just reality? Because I'm an ex-cop, so I can tell you from experience that the police will be a whole lot more inclined to believe that someone like you murdered a cemetery caretaker than someone like my partner here." I gestured toward Veronica.

  Domenica shot me a look of pure hate. Then she studied her hands and began picking the black nail polish off one of her fingernails.

  "Now," Veronica said, crossing her arms and leaning back in her seat, "why don't you tell us about this grave dancing business?"

  "What about it?" Domenica asked through clenched teeth.

  "You do understand that most people find the notion of dancing on a grave to be bizarre?" I asked.

  "That's their problem." She began slowly smoothing her long black bangs over her eyes.

  "Can you tell us why you do it?" Veronica asked.

  "Look, it's not a big deal, all right?" Domenica crossed her arms. "My friends and I think death is cool. It's a part of life, you know? So we dance on graves to celebrate it."

  I gave an involuntary shudder. I could think of plenty of ways to celebrate life, and none of them included cemeteries.

  "It's not like we're doing anything bad," Domenica added.

  "But you did do something illegal," Veronica corrected. "The arresting officer said that you spray-painted a word on a gravestone, but he wasn't sure if it was foreign or just misspelled."

  "What did you write?" I asked.

  Domenica hesitated. "Vendicata."

  I straightened in my chair. "The Italian word?"

  She nodded and looked back at her nails.

  Veronica and I exchanged a look. "Vendicata" meant "avenged," and the "a" ending indicated that the person who was avenged was a woman.

  I instantly thought of Immacolata. "Whose tombstone did you write this on?"

  "Imma's," she replied, deadpan.

  The room was so silent, you could have heard a proverbial pin drop as Veronica and I tried to process this unexpected revelation.

  After a few moments, I cleared my throat. "Can you explain what you meant when you used the word?"

  Domenica shook her head and looked at the ceiling. "I think it's pretty self-explanatory."

  "Actually, it's not," I said. "Here's why: It doesn't indicate who did the avenging."

  Right then the door burst open, and the brunette officer flashed another pageant-winning smile. "It's time to go."

  Domenica stood up, and I saw a smirk form at the corners of her mouth. Then she looked at me and Veronica. "Well, I guess that's what you two hotshot PIs have been hired to find out, now isn't it?"

  As I watched Domenica leave the room, I pondered the ramifications of her use of the word vendicata. And I won
dered whether someone with such a positive perspective of death would find it easy to take a human life.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  "Good news," Veronica announced in the doorway of my office. "You're off the hook."

  I looked up from the jumbo-sized bag of beignets I was in the process of devouring, instantly consumed by Catholic guilt for whatever I'd undoubtedly done wrong. "For what?" I coughed as I accidentally inhaled a mouthful—make that a throat full—of powdered sugar.

  "I just got off the phone with Ed Orlansky, and he reluctantly agreed to let me screen the video this afternoon."

  "What?" I saw a puff of powdered sugar come from my mouth. "And miss a chance to work late with you tonight?"

  "I told him about the stakeout and said that if I couldn't come within the next hour, I was going to have to cancel." She beamed, clearly satisfied with her cleverness.

  "That explains it," I said turning back to my beignets. Like a good Italian-American girl, I'd decided to drown my dating sorrows in products made from dough.

  "I also talked to Ryan."

  I sighed. "And what did the charming Mr. Hunter have to say?"

  "He said he's pleased with our progress," she replied, raising an eyebrow at me.

  "Pleased?" This time the shock was for real.

  "Apparently, the police hadn't figured out the vendicata clue." Now Veronica was smiling like a Cheshire cat.

  "I told you Italian was a useful language!" Now I felt vindicated. During our sophomore year, I'd persuaded her not to switch from Italian to Swedish when she was in the throes of a misguided burst of Nordic pride. "But how did Ryan know what the police had or hadn't found?"

  "Simple. His attorney went to the police station after Domenica was arrested and demanded to know what was going on."

  "Smart move." I nodded and then noticed I had powdered sugar on my chest. I was going to have to switch to something less messy, like croissants or raw cookie dough.

  "Apparently, he also learned that the police have questioned Stewart Preston." She crossed her arms. "Two days ago."

  "So he's probably in town, and he hasn't returned my call." I brushed the pesky powdered sugar off my shirt. "Looks like I'm going to have to get insistent."

  "Definitely," she said.

  "And while you're at Lenton's today, I'll go through The Times-Picayune society pages and make a list of the restaurants and bars where he's been spotted in the past. That way, if he doesn't return my call, we can try to track him down at one of his favorite hangouts."

  "Great idea."

  I opened my Internet browser to start the search and heard the familiar crash of David entering the office. I grinned and glanced at Veronica, who was silently shaking her head.

  "Ladies," David said with a nod as he entered the doorway moments later. "May I?"

  "You may," I replied uncertainly, unsure whether I should be concerned about his uncharacteristic formality.

  David bounded into my office and plopped down into a chair. "Prepare to be amazed," he said, pulling his laptop from his backpack with a flourish. "I had some time to kill between classes this morning, so I did some research on corporate affiliations." He paused for dramatic effect. "The Vautier Group is the parent company of Preston Textiles, Inc.!"

  "So the Prestons were paying Jessica!" I said, pounding my fist on my desk in excitement. Then I looked expectantly at Veronica, anticipating one of her voice-of-reason-style responses.

  "Now hold on, Franki," she began, not disappointing me. "I know it looks suspicious, but Jessica was in the fashion business, as is Preston Textiles. There's always the possibility that they were paying her for a legitimate service."

  "But Preston Textiles wasn't paying her," I objected. "The Vautier Group was."

  Veronica turned to David. "What does The Vautier Group do?"

  "Uh, basically, they just buy and control other companies through majority stock ownership," he explained. "And by the way, Stewart Preston, III, is on the current board."

  I looked back at Veronica and waited.

  "Well," she said, meeting my gaze, "it's certainly beginning to look like those deposits could have been payoffs."

  "Which would explain the weird conversation Concetta witnessed between Stewart and Jessica and the extravagant purchases Jessica started making right after Immacolata's death," I said.

  She nodded. "We've got to find Stewart ASAP."

  "Don't worry," I said. "As soon as you leave, I'll start calling him. Every hour if I have to."

  David cleared his throat. "Um, before you go, I've got some more information for you."

  "Okay, shoot," Veronica said.

  "So, I've been going through the Google hits for 'Bill' and 'William Evangelista,' and I found one that says a guy named Bill Evangelista died in a car accident in Gulfport, Mississippi in 1989."

  "That's close to here, right?" I asked.

  "Yeah, it's a little over an hour away," he replied. "My buddies and I went there for spring break last year because it's got some freakin' awesome beaches. Even though it is an oil town."

  "Oil?" I was instantly reminded of the life insurance payments Jessica was receiving from the oil company.

  "Sounds like our Bill Evangelista," Veronica commented. "The age of the daughter would also be about right, since Bill referred to her as a baby in his letter."

  "Oh, it's totally him," David said.

  "What makes you so sure?" I asked.

  "Because the obituary I found said his daughter was named 'Jessica,'" he said. "And she and her mother, Wanda, died in the accident too."

  * * *

  Veronica slowed her speed to ensure that we were following Harry Upton's navy blue Mercedes at a safe distance.

  I looked out the window at the gorgeous nineteenth-century architecture of the historic New Orleans neighborhood of Uptown and let out a sigh.

  "What is it?"

  "I spent all day calling Stewart Preston, and I haven't heard a peep out of him. Not even a text message telling me to go to hell. I guess I just feel like the chances of questioning him are getting slimmer by the minute."

  "Give it a little more time. I really think that he'll call, either out of concern or just plain curiosity."

  "Maybe," I said. "Anyway, you haven't told me what happened at Lenton's today."

  "It must have slipped my mind."

  I turned to look at her. "I take it you didn't find anything?"

  Veronica shook her head. "The person who was buying the scarf was an African-American male."

  "How was Ed?" I flashed a mischievous smile.

  "He wasn't there," she replied. "He's got the devil's grip."

  "Do I even want to know what that is?"

  She smirked. "It's a disease that causes bouts of severe chest pain that last for up to a week."

  I couldn't resist the temptation of asking, "Are you sure he wasn't just overexcited about spending the day with you?"

  Veronica shot me a look. "Looks like we've arrived," she said after Harry pulled into the parking lot of a restaurant called Pascal's Manale.

  "Hey, I read about this place today!"

  Veronica slowed her Audi to a stop outside the parking lot. "Yeah, it's kind of a New Orleans tradition. Everyone eats here sooner or later."

  "Including Stewart Preston. According to The Times-Picayune, he comes here fairly often."

  "Really?" Veronica asked. "That would be amazing if we saw him here too."

  "Yeah, well, don't get your hopes up," I said as I observed Harry parking in a space at the rear of the lot. "Coincidences like that only happen in books."

  Veronica pulled into the lot and parked in the row in front of Harry's car, and we slouched down into our seats.

  Peering over the dashboard, I watched as Harry pushed open his car door and struggled briefly beneath the weight of his Hitchcockian belly before exiting. After buttoning his over-sized sport coat, he carefully patted his toupee and smoothed his mustache with his index finger and thumb. Then
, he gave a little skip and a hop and set off in the direction of the restaurant entrance.

  I gasped, outraged. "Did you see that? He's so jazzed about his affair that he actually did a little dance!"

  "Oh! That reminds me." Veronica began rummaging in her pink Prada handbag. "Twyla emailed me a picture of Patsy. Here," she said, handing me her phone.

  I flinched when I saw the photo of the alleged cotillion coquette. Patsy had the white beehive hairdo and sharp features of the late Texas Governor Ann Richards, but she had the teeth of Alvin the Chipmunk.

  "She won't be hard to spot in a crowd." I handed the phone back to Veronica. "So, what do we do now?"

  "We need to go inside. If we wait out here, we run the risk of Harry and his date leaving the restaurant separately. Then we'd miss the photo op."

  "We're not going to let that happen," I vowed. I leapt from the car, slung my ten-dollar Target-special hobo bag over my shoulder, and growled in a vigilante voice, "Let's do this."

  I entered the restaurant followed by Veronica and promptly did a double take. The place was teeming with men in full-on cowboy gear, from cowboy hats and neckerchiefs to chaps and boots.

  I leaned over to Veronica. "The newspaper said this was an Italian restaurant, but based on the clientele, it looks more like a Wild West saloon. Minus the showgirls."

  Veronica nodded and, apparently as a precautionary measure, tightened the belt of her Burberry trench coat.

  We made our way through the crowded lobby, carefully avoiding any spurs, to the empty hostess stand.

  While we were waiting for someone to arrive, a lonesome-looking cowpoke with a toothpick between his teeth tried to take a gander down the front of my dress. I narrowed my eyes like Clint Eastwood in a spaghetti western and drawled menacingly, "Giddy on, little doggie."

  The toothpick fell from his lips as he recoiled in surprise. Then he adjusted his hat and moseyed away.

  A few minutes later, a harried looking hostess rushed up to us. "I hope you're not waiting for a table!" She had a partially untucked shirt and a run in her stocking, causing me to wonder if an overzealous broncobuster had just tried to lasso and hogtie her.