"Veronica. Open up."
I got up and opened the door to find Veronica dressed in a faux shearling coat, jeans, and Frye boots. "Howdy, partner," I drawled in Texan. "Are you on your way to the cowboy convention?"
"Don't be silly." She blew past me into the room. "The whole cowboy incident just reminded that I hadn't worn this outfit yet."
I closed the door and returned yet again to the chaise lounge. I managed an eye roll on the way.
"Anyway," Veronica continued, "I got your message about Concetta." Then she spotted my mini banquet and squealed. "Yummy! Thanks for getting me some too!"
I felt my heart drop. I wasn't going to admit that all six of those lemony treats were for me. "No problem."
Veronica bit hungrily into the very slice of pound cake that I'd been trying to eat for the past ten minutes. "So, you don't think Concetta was following you, do you? I mean, from what you told me, it sounds like she just happened to see you as you were going into CC's."
"That's what I think too," I replied as I snatched a piece of the cake for myself. "I guess I was just a little taken aback by how angry she was."
"Well, I can see how she'd think we were targeting Domenica, so it's really not surprising that she would get upset. Nuns are people too, you know."
"I suppose so," I conceded. Although, based on my Sunday school experiences, I was half convinced that nuns were actually a special race of super humans who had x-ray vision that they used exclusively for the purpose of seeing right through those with guilty consciences.
"I wouldn't worry about it, though," Veronica said with a wave of what was left of her pound cake. "She's such a nice person. She'll probably call you to apologize."
"Maybe." But I wasn't as sure about that as Veronica was. Concetta had seemed pretty darned mad to me.
"So, are you ready for round two of the Harry Upton stakeout tonight?" she asked, finishing off the last of her pound cake. I watched with a growing sense of panic as she moved on to a lemon square.
"As long as we don't have to go back to the rodeo restaurant," I responded, seizing a lemon square for myself before it was too late.
"Definitely wear a dress again in case we have to follow him into someplace nice."
"Ugh!" I exclaimed. "I don't want to be in a dress while we're looking at video at Lenton's. I'd rather be in my comfy jeans."
"We're not going to Lenton's."
"Why not?" I asked, surprised. "Is Ed still in the grip of the devil?"
She shrugged and took a bite of lemon square. "I don't know, but his assistant called me this morning and said that the DVD of the other two purchases hasn't arrived yet."
"That doesn't sound promising." I chewed my lip.
"Don't worry. It should be here in a day or so. She said it was sent via FedEx." Then she looked at her phone. "Oh! I have a mani-pedi in thirty minutes. I've got to go."
I looked at the plate and was relieved to see that I still had one of each of the pastries left. Big mistake. Veronica had followed my gaze and decided to take the last piece of pound cake to go.
"Well, I'll see you later," I said, rushing her out of the apartment before she could do any more damage to my dessert, er, breakfast. Then I locked the door behind her.
Alone with one lousy lemon square, I picked up my laptop and clicked my Internet browser. On a whim, I pulled up The Times-Picayune picture of Stewart Preston waving on the courthouse steps. There was something about the photograph that just wasn't right, but for the life of me I couldn't figure out what it was.
I studied the image for a few more minutes. As my eyes roved the picture, it finally hit me: There was no clasp on Stewart's watchband. I stared at the watch trying to determine whether it was the slip-on kind, and then I had a sudden flash of intuition. But to be sure, I needed a high-resolution version of the photo. I scrolled to the bottom of the page and clicked "Times-Picayune Store." After a quick search, I discovered that the picture wasn't readily available, so I filled out a web-form request for a copy.
I had a hunch about that photo, but even I had to admit that it was a long shot. If I was right, though, it was going to blow the Evans case wide open.
* * *
I turned over to my left side with a giggle. Bradley was licking my face. Wait. The moment I thought that, I knew it didn't sound right. I sat up with a start. Napoleon was standing on his hind legs with his front paws perched on the chaise lounge, his tongue still lolling out of his mouth. I put my hand on my right cheek and felt something wet and sticky. Dog saliva mixed with lemon square. Nice.
I looked at my phone to check the time. Three o'clock? I must have crashed and burned from my caffeine-sugar high, which meant that it had been a successful lazy Saturday, after all. I also noticed that there was a voice mail from my parents' number. It had to be my nonna wanting to find out the results of her serenade scheme. I gave silent thanks to the universe for allowing me to miss that call. I tapped on the message and steeled myself for what was to come.
"Franki, I talk-a to Guido!" the voice of my nonna reported. "He tell-a me that-a you two had a date last-a night! And he say that-a you're gonna have another one again-a tonight! I told-a him that-a song would do the trick-a! Now, he did-a say that you were a lot older than-a he thought-a you was gonna be, but that-a was because-a I tell-a him that-a you were twenty-one and not-a twenty-nine!" Then she added a resounding "Ha!" as she slapped what was probably the kitchen table in a fit of self-induced hilarity.
I paused the message. What is she talking about? I wondered. Guido and I did not have a date last night. And just where did he get off saying that I looked "a lot older" than he'd anticipated? I could pass for twenty-one or so! I thought, livid. Then a disturbing realization began to dawn on me: He was talking about Glenda. Guido thought I was Glenda!
I lay back on the chaise lounge feeling slightly nauseated, and it wasn't because of the pastries and coffee. I toyed with notion of deleting the rest of the message—I wasn't sure I wanted to hear anymore. Who knows what Guido had told my nonna about what he and Glenda had done on their date? But then I remembered something I was always hearing on TV or wherever: Knowledge is power. And power was something I needed to take on my nonna.
I pressed play.
"So make-a sure you don't-a tell-a him your real age," nonna advised. "Remember, a zitella like-a you—"
I pressed delete.
For a moment, I wondered whether I should I tell my nonna the truth about what had happened last night. But then I realized that I must be delusional from low blood sugar. I mean, if Guido was dating Glenda and thought she was me, then I was finally off the hook! No more nonna in my love life! I just had to hope—or, rather, pray—that Guido wasn't the type to kiss and tell. I cringed at the mere thought of the stories he would potentially divulge.
My phone took that moment to start ringing. I looked at the display, and this time I sat up with a jolt. It was Stewart Preston. My hands were shaking as I tapped answer.
"H-hello?" Not exactly an auspicious beginning.
A low, grating voice shot back, "Who the hell are you, and why have you been calling me and my family?"
Stewart was clearly ready to play hardball, so I needed to pull myself together quick. "Like I said in my messages," I began coolly, "I'm an old high school friend of Angelica Evangelista's."
"What's that got to do with me?" His voice was thick with suspicion.
I gathered up my courage. "I need to talk to you about her murder."
"You must not have heard my last question," he said in a slow, threatening tone. "I repeat, what's that got to do with me?"
"Well, I know you and Angelica go way back—"
Stewart cut me off with a loud, raucous laugh. "Darlin', Angelica goes way back with a lot of men!"
This conversation was turning out to be harder than I thought, so I spoke to him in the only language he seemed to know. "First of all, don't call me 'darling,'" I snapped. "And second, I know your father's company was bribin
g Angelica to keep her quiet, and I can prove it." More or less.
There was a stony silence on the other end of the line.
Fuelled by a sudden surge of confidence, I continued in my best TV-detective speak, "So if you know what's good for you, you'll meet me tomorrow night."
"Where?" he asked surprisingly calmly.
"The Carousel Bar and Lounge at five o'clock," I said, sounding stronger than I felt. "Don't be late."
After I closed the call, my palms were sweating, and I was breathing heavily. I'd finally tracked down the elusive Stewart Preston. But there was a little voice inside my head reminding me of the obvious: All indications were that he was a cruel, callous killer—and I'd just put myself squarely into his murderous hands.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
"Wait a second." I turned to look at Veronica in the passenger seat. "You're bringing a gun to the Carousel Bar when I meet Stewart Preston?" I didn't even know she had a gun. While I was confident in my own ability to handle a firearm, thanks to my police training, I had less faith in Veronica.
"Just as a security measure," she replied, keeping her binoculars trained on Harry Upton's office building on the Garden District's swanky St. Charles Avenue.
"But I'm meeting him in a public place in broad daylight," I protested, more to reassure myself than to discourage Veronica.
"Franki, you and I both know that Stewart Preston may be dangerous."
I swallowed hard and then glanced across the street right as Harry emerged, pants drooping well below his massive belly, from the rotating glass doors of his office building.
"Heeere's Harry!" Veronica crowed, sounding eerily like Jack Nicholson's character in The Shining. "Precisely at 6 p.m., just like last night."
"Well, he's nothing if not punctual."
Harry stopped abruptly and pulled up his pants, and a gust of wind fleetingly blew his toupee into an upright position on his head. Seemingly unfazed, he pressed the unruly rug firmly back in place and climbed into his Mercedes.
"Jeez, you'd think a guy with all that dough would have a better hair piece," I said as I started the engine of my Mustang.
"I know. It's amazing what men are able to get away with in terms of their appearance."
I pulled onto southbound St. Charles, staying a few cars back from Harry's Mercedes. I followed him for about a mile and a half, trying to focus on his car and not on the spectacular multi-million dollar mansions that lined the avenue.
"So, what kind of gun do you have?" I asked, more out of concern than curiosity. Guns aren't one size fits all, particularly when you have tiny hands like Veronica.
"A Smith & Wesson."
"A LadySmith?"
"No, it's the nine millimeter Pink Breast Cancer Awareness model."
"Wow," I said, momentarily at a loss for words. "Interesting marketing choice."
Veronica leaned forward. "Harry just turned on his left turn signal. It looks like he's turning onto Seventh Street."
"On it!" I slowed down and took a left onto Seventh behind Harry just in time to see him taking another left onto Prytania Street. I followed suit, being careful to hang back.
Harry drove a few hundred yards down and pulled to a stop in front of a stunning pink two-story Greek Revival mansion with a columned porch and wrought iron balcony. It was shrouded in privacy hedges and majestic oaks and magnolias. I pulled over to the curb immediately, and Veronica and I slouched down in our seats.
We watched as Harry carried out his now familiar car-exiting routine: battling his belly to get out of his seat, tamping down his toupee, buttoning his sport coat, and smoothing his Hitleresque mustache.
As Harry began walking up the steps to the entryway, Veronica said, "Okay, now drive slowly by the house." She pulled her camera from its bag. "I'll get shots of him with whoever comes to the door."
I straightened up in my seat, pulled away from the curb, and drove at a crawl. When I reached the mansion, I saw an elegant brunette open the front door. It only took me a second to recognize her.
I gasped. "That's the woman from last night!"
"It sure is." Veronica was slouched in her seat, snapping pictures furiously.
As we slowed past, the brunette glanced at my car. She ushered Harry into the house and closed the door.
I hit the gas. "I think she saw us, but I'm not sure."
"Let's hope she didn't." Veronica straightened in her seat.
"It doesn't matter because we've got what we need. Let's go back to the office so we can download the pictures and send them to Twyla Upton."
"What?" Veronica looked at me. "We can't leave now. We still need more pictures."
"Why?" I braked at a stop sign. "Twyla hired us to take pictures of Harry with Patsy so that she could use them to confront him. Now we just need to show her proof that he's spent the last two evenings with another woman. It's up to her to decide whether she still wants to confront him or whether she wants us to find out the brunette's identity first."
"But the pictures we have don't prove that Harry is actually cheating on Twyla," Veronica explained. "We need to try to get some photos of Harry and the brunette in a compromising position."
I turned to look at her. "How do you propose we do that?"
"Easy. We could snap some photos through one of the windows."
"But what if they're on the second floor?"
"Well, in that case, we might be out of luck."
I snapped my fingers. "I know! We could climb ones of those trees!"
Veronica crossed her arms. "I don't know, Franki. We're in dresses and high heels."
"So? Charlie's Angels wore dresses and heels all the time," I said with a pang. The reference instantly reminded me of Bradley.
"No," she said, with a firm shake of the head. "One of us could fall out of a tree and get hurt."
"C'mon, Veronica! Where's your sense of investigative duty?" I asked, appealing to her scrupulous, workaholic side. "This guy is cheating on his wife of forty-eight years. We've got to prove it and nail him."
Veronica scrutinized my face. "Do you think you might be taking this case a little personally, Franki?"
I feigned a look of disbelief, both for her benefit and my own. "What are you talking about?"
"I can't help but think that your zeal to nail Harry, as you put it, might have something to do with Bradley."
"Don't be ridiculous!" I exclaimed, my voice a telltale octave too high. "This case is purely business."
She shrugged. "If you say so. Anyway, for now let's just plan on doing a quick round of the house to see if they're in one of the rooms on the main floor."
"Sure." I hung a quick right onto Sixth Street and gave a shiver when I discovered that it bordered Lafayette Cemetery No. 1, the oldest and creepiest city-owned cemetery in New Orleans. I parked the car in front of the cemetery and stuffed the car keys into my bra for safekeeping.
Veronica grabbed her camera from the floor. "So, how do you suggest we do this?"
"Because the backyard is fenced, we're going to have to approach the house from the side," I explained. "And we need to do this fast just in case the brunette did see us. If she called the police, we could get arrested for trespassing."
She nodded. "Right."
Veronica and I got out of the car and set off down the street. When we reached the house, we dashed into the yard and began peeping into the windows of the rooms one by one: the living room, family room, den, parlor, and study.
"What in the world does a single family do with all these living spaces?" I asked.
"Shh!" Veronica looked into the kitchen and adjoining dining room. "Empty," she whispered. "They must be upstairs. Let's get going."
"No!" I whisper-shouted. "We've come this far. We've got to get some pictures!"
Veronica looked at me reproachfully. "Franki, we can't climb these trees. I can't take the chance of one of us getting injured."
Unwilling to accept defeat, I quickly scanned the side of the house and saw a metal
trellis I hadn't noticed before. "But I can!" I whispered as I rushed over to the ladder-like structure, kicked off my beige Bandolino pumps, and began to climb the twenty-or-so feet up to the second floor.
"Franki, don't!" Veronica whisper-shouted. "That thing can't possibly hold your weight!"
"Just what are you trying to say, Veronica?" I asked in a low voice, turning to scowl down at her.
She scowled back. "Get down."
Ignoring her warning, I continued to climb until I reached a window. I peered over the windowsill into a spacious office and immediately spotted Harry and the brunette sitting close together on a sofa. She was curled up with her arm stretched out behind him on the back of the couch, and they were looking at what appeared to be a photo album.
"I see them!" I whispered. Then I realized that I had no way to photograph them. "Wait, I need the camera."
"I'm not climbing up that thing," Veronica whisper-protested. "It'll break."
"Fine," I whisper-huffed. "I'll come down."
I lowered myself a little more than halfway. Then, gripping the trellis with my left hand, I leaned down and extended my right hand.
Veronica rose up on her tiptoes. "I can't reach you."
"One sec." I took another step down and leaned forward a little farther. That's when I felt the top half of the trellis pulling away from the wall. Then I heard Veronica gasp and fabric tear as I began to fall. Luckily, I landed rear-end first on an immaculately groomed shrub as the trellis smacked loudly against the side of the house, like a rubber band that had been stretched too far and then released.
"Are you okay?" Veronica asked.
"I think so." I checked my limbs to make sure they were all intact.
Veronica gasped again. "The brunette just looked out the window! We've got to get out of here!"
I tried to move, but my butt was stuck in the shrub. "Help! Pull me out!"
Veronica grabbed my left hand and tugged with all her petite might. While she pulled, I leveraged myself on a branch with my right hand and was finally able to break free of the stubborn shrub. I rolled over onto my stomach, hopped down, and grabbed my pumps just as I heard the sound of the front door opening.
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