Prosecco Pink

by Traci Angrighetti

  My hands balled into fists. I needed to leave before my free right arm did something I would regret. I spun on my heels and stomped toward the teller area.

  "See ya later, alligator," Pauline intoned.

  I froze in my tracks but didn't turn around. I had no intention of giving her the satisfaction. Instead, I headed straight for Corinne's friendly face.

  "Bonjour, Franki," Corinne said in her thick French accent. "I see you meet Pauline."

  I took a deep, calming breath. "Yeah," I said, casting a hostile glance in her direction, "I had the great pleasure of meeting her a few weeks ago when you were on vacation."

  "Ah." Corinne looked down. With her pixie haircut and big blue eyes, she looked like a sad Tinker Bell.

  I rested my arms on the counter. "What's the matter?"

  She looked up. "I sink she does not like me very much."

  Even though I was convinced that Pauline was evil incarnate, I was surprised that she'd take issue with a sweet person like Corinne. "Honestly, I don't think she likes anyone very much, so I wouldn't take it too hard if I were you."

  "Peut-être," she said, her chin quivering.

  "Did something happen between the two of you?"

  She wiped away a tear. "I suppose I can tell you. But please, do not tell Bradley."

  "Of course not," I said, leaning forward.

  She took a deep breath. "On Friday, zere was money missing from my teller drawer. Pauline say I took ze money. But I did not."

  Now I was shocked. I didn't know Corinne very well, but I knew she wasn't the type to steal money from her place of work. "How much was missing?"

  "Five hundred dollars."

  I gasped. "What happened? Do you think you made some kind of mistake?"

  "I don't know, but I repay ze money."

  "Out of your own pocket?" That was a sizeable chunk of change on a bank teller's salary. And on mine, for that matter.

  She nodded. "But now Mr. Hartmann sinks I steal."

  "I doubt very seriously he sinks—I mean, thinks—that. He knows what an honest, loyal employee you are."

  She shook her head. "No, he does not. Pauline say she saw me take ze money."

  "Oh, Corinne. I'm so sorry." I couldn't imagine why Pauline would go so far as to accuse Corinne of theft. I didn't think it likely that she was after Corinne's job since she struck me as the type who would set her career sights much higher. But what other reason would she have had for saying Corinne took the money? And what had happened to that five hundred dollars, anyway?

  "Franki," Corinne said, shaking me from my thoughts.

  "Yes?"

  "Be careful. Zis Pauline, she is not a nice person."

  I thought of her potential influence on Bradley, and my jaw tightened. "I will. And you do the same. Keep your eyes on your teller drawer at all times, and let me know if anything else happens."

  * * *

  As I headed down Canal Street toward the Mississippi River, I couldn't stop thinking about that missing money. I really hoped that Bradley was looking into the situation. Because even though I had no idea what was going on at Ponchartrain Bank, my gut was telling me that something wasn't right.

  My gut was also telling me, loud and clear, that it was time for breakfast. And for me, breakfast in the French Quarter, and often lunch and dinner, meant only one thing, beignets. But it was already nine, so the world-famous Café du Monde was out of the question. By this time, the line to get in usually stretched all the way down to the Civil War era, model cannon in neighboring Washington Artillery Park. I took a left on Decatur Street and stopped instead at the less renowned but optimistically named New Orleans Famous Beignets and Coffee Café and ordered a dozen of the powdered-sugar pastries. To share with everyone at the office, naturally.

  Ten minutes later, I exited the restaurant cradling a bag of piping hot beignets. When I looked down to grab my sunglasses from my purse, I ran straight into a little woman with the body type of the Pillsbury Doughboy and a Chanel handbag the size of a sixth grader. The impact was so strong that we bounced off one another.

  "Oooh!" the woman exclaimed. She straightened her purple knit poncho and then smoothed her platinum-highlighted, bouffant brown bob. Her stubby fingers were tipped with white, paddle-shaped acrylic fingernails decorated with tiny replicas of the same silver and gold moons and stars that adorned her charm bracelet, necklace, and earrings.

  "I'm so sorry," I gushed. "Are you okay?"

  She stared at me with green eyes as big as saucers and raised her pudgy hand to her small mouth. "I'm fine," she said in a honeyed voice. "But you're obviously not."

  I felt my face and did a quick check of my limbs. Everything seemed in order, that is, except for that twenty extra pounds in my mid-section and backside. "Um, I'm not sure I understand."

  Her round face grew serious. "I wasn't referring to your earthly body. I meant your aura. It's black."

  That explains the moons and stars, I thought. "Yeah, I've had kind of a rough morning."

  She shook her head, causing her jewelry to jingle like Santa's sleigh bells. "It's not about your morning. And I know, because I talk to spirits."

  My first inclination was to tell her that the only spirits I wanted to know about were those of the alcohol variety. But in the short time I'd been in New Orleans, I'd learned to treat the drunks and the crazies in the Quarter courteously—and then flee. "How interesting," I said with a polite nod. "But, I'm late for work, so I'd better be on my way."

  "Wait!" she shouted. "This could be a matter of life and death."

  At that precise moment thunder rumbled overhead.

  I glanced up and saw that dark clouds were quickly obscuring the sunny sky of moments before. I looked back at the woman, and an uneasy feeling came over me. I didn't like the turn the weather was taking, not to mention the turn of this conversation.

  "Stay still." She grabbed my left arm, and then her eyes rolled back into her head.

  My jaw dropped. I couldn't tell whether she was about to commune with spirits or have a seizure.

  As I was pondering what to do, the woman's left arm shot into the air, and her charm bracelet began to vibrate.

  Definitely a seizure. I pulled out my phone to call 9-1-1.

  "It's worse than I thought," the woman wailed. "Much worse."

  "What is?" I asked, alarmed. "Are you going to faint?"

  She opened her eyes and dropped my arm. "No," she said in a surprisingly wail-less tone. "I told you, I'm fine. But the spirit I'm talking to isn't. She's in complete hysterics."

  The spirit's not the only one, I thought as I slipped my phone back into my purse.

  The woman began wringing her hands and pacing back and forth in her denim mini miniskirt and four-inch-heeled, leopard-print boots. "The spirit wants you to know that she did something bad for a family member, and it got her killed." She stopped and grabbed hold of my arms. "She was murdered."

  "O-kaaay." I contemplated shaking free of her grip and making a break for it, but then I opted for a more rational approach. "Well, tell her that I just happen to investigate murders for a living, but only for clients who are alive."

  She let go of me. "The spirit knows thaaat. Why do you think she's trying to warn you?"

  "Warn me? Why on earth—I mean, why in heaven—would she need to do that?"

  "What she did has put you and possibly even your friend Valerie or Vicki—no, Veronica—in grave danger."

  Veronica? I got goose bumps on my arms. This wasn't crazy anymore; it was downright creepy.

  "And the worst part of it is," she continued, "that there's nothing she can do to help you now. You're on your own."

  I stared at the ground, trying to process what I'd just heard. I didn't believe in psychics, but where the supernatural was concerned, I made it my policy to be safe rather than sorry. And since I didn't know how this woman knew about Veronica, I decided to err on the side of caution and consider her warning. Now, even though the "you're on your own" part
of her message was troubling, it hardly came as a surprise. My solitary state had been the theme of the day, starting with the reminder of my zitella-hood from my nonna and ending with Pauline's refusal to let me anywhere near Bradley. But was I really in some kind of danger?

  As though in reply from the spirit herself, a bolt of lightening flashed as thunder cracked in the blackened sky. Then a hard rain began to fall.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Seizing upon the downpour as my opportunity to escape the whole psycho situation with the psychic, I shrugged and said, "Gotta run!"

  As I dashed beneath the green-and-white striped awning of the café's covered patio, the strap of my hobo bag caught on the back of a wrought iron chair. I lurched forward, narrowly missing a table of Japanese tourists who started screaming as though they were witnessing a real-life version of The Return of Godzilla. When I regained my balance, I turned to free my purse strap. And then I let out a scream. The odd little woman was standing right in front of me, rooting around in her colossal Chanel bag.

  "I wish I would have known it was going to rain," she whined, pulling out an entire box of tissues.

  "Yeah," I muttered. Apparently, her metaphysical abilities didn't extend to meteorological phenomena.

  "I just had my hair done this morning," she added as she began dabbing at her Texas-sized tease.

  "That's a bummer," I said, staring fascinated at her huge hairstyle. It had a peculiar sheen to it, like it was gleaming. Not in a rain-spattered or even an otherworldly way, but in a freshly applied varnish one.

  She sighed and reached into her bra. "Anyway, take this," she said, pulling out a business card. "You're going to need it."

  I took the moon-embossed card—using only my fingernails—and read aloud, "Chandra Toccato, Crescent City Medium."

  "'Chandra' is Hindi for 'shining moon.'"

  And your last name is Italian for "touched," I thought.

  "Well," she prodded. "Do you get it?"

  I glanced up at her. "What?"

  "Chandra? Crescent City Medium? They both refer to the moon!" she said, beaming. "So, becoming a psychic was literally in the stars for me. Or in the cards—as in, tarot cards?" She put her chubby fingers to her lips and giggled, exactly like the Pillsbury Doughboy does. "And you're not going to believe this, but I'm also a Cancer. You know, a moon child?"

  I nodded and then scrutinized her moon-pie face, yet another aspect of her lunar life theme, looking for signs of insanity.

  "I need to be honest with you, though," she continued, touching my arm. "I'm originally from Boston. But after Katrina, I felt called to the Crescent City, which is only natural given my celestial essence and all. So I convinced my husband Lou—we were high school sweethearts—that we had to move to New Orleans because the people here were in desperate need of our services."

  "He's a psychic too?" I wasn't really interested—just coerced into conversational compliance by her incessant chatter.

  "No," she said, furrowing her brow. "A plumber."

  "Oh."

  Chandra reached into her purse and pulled out a compact. "I was talking about the living and the dead," she explained as she examined her hair in the mirror. "Hurricanes are murder on plumbing, and they're terribly stressful for spirits, what with the atmospheric changes and high winds."

  The high winds? I had a mental image of a gaggle of Caspar the Friendly Ghosts clutching their heads and screaming in fear of their non-lives while getting tossed around by a hurricane. Clearly, it was time to shake myself out of my Chandra-induced stupor. "So…about that warning. Can you give me some specifics?"

  She snapped the compact shut. "Not right now."

  "Why not?"

  "The spirit's just too upset to speak," she said, depositing the compact into her bag.

  "Oh, she is, is she?" I asked, annoyed. This spirit, provided she was real, of course, was something else.

  "Try to understand her point of view," Chandra said, putting her hand on her hip and gesturing with her free hand. "She just had to fess up to some pretty rough stuff, so naturally she's embarrassed."

  I frowned. I should have been biting into a beignet by now, but instead I was bickering with a selfish spirit via her mad medium. "Tell her that I'm kind of upset myself now that I know she's put me in danger."

  She pursed her lips. "That wouldn't help. Spirits are really temperamental beings, so I don't want to push her. And, between you and me," she whispered, shielding her mouth with the back of her hand, "spirits kind of freak me out."

  Now I was really taken aback. "You're a psychic, and spirits make you uncomfortable?"

  Chandra glared at me. "It's not like I chose this profession. It was preordained. Besides, how would you react if a spirit was yelling at you?"

  I wanted to tell her that I'd probably see a psychologist, but to be polite I went with, "I'd run like hell."

  "You see?" she said, raising her brow. "So, we'll just have to wait until she feels like talking again."

  "Whenever that is, please let me know." I handed her my card.

  "I most certainly will." She took the card and looked at the front and back. "Franki Amato, Private Investigator. Private Chicks, Inc.," she read. "I don't get it."

  Now it was my turn to get defensive. "You know, there's the two references to 'private,' and 'chicks' rhymes with 'dicks'—as in, 'detectives?'"

  "Hm." She sniffed and dropped the card into her purse. "Well, it's stopped raining, so I really should be going."

  As I watched Chandra walk serenely down Decatur Street, I pulled the bag of now lukewarm beignets closer to my chest. Even though I had my doubts about her psychic abilities, I couldn't help but feel concerned about my personal safety—and my conspicuous lack of business card symmetry.

  * * *

  I slunk into Veronica's office a good hour late and silently deposited the bag of beignets on her desk. I saw it as a kind of peace offering, albeit a cold and soggy one.

  Veronica eyed the bag and then looked up at me. "What's the matter with you?"

  "Huh?" I asked, startled by her unusually harsh tone. I felt like I was dreaming about zombie-stripper Veronica again. But one look at her healthy glow and crisp pink Donna Karan suit confirmed that she wasn't undead.

  "You look like you've seen a ghost," she replied, leaning back in her chair.

  "Oh, it's probably powdered sugar," I explained, wiping my mouth. "I ate a couple of beignets on my way in to the office." Okay, so I really had five or six. But who could blame me after my anxiety-inducing encounter with that psychic?

  "No, you're pasty," Veronica said. "Are you feeling okay?"

  "I think so," I whispered as I felt the lymph glands in my neck.

  "Now don't go all hypochondriac on me," she warned. "It was just an observation."

  "I'm not," I fibbed, casually moving my hand to my earring. It was a well-established fact that where contracting illnesses was concerned, I was open to suggestions. And now that she'd mentioned it, I was feeling kind of sick to my stomach. Not that it had anything to do with those half-dozen beignets.

  "Wait. This is about Bradley, isn't it? Have you talked to him yet?"

  I flopped down into a chair in front of her desk and let out a deep sigh. "No, I went by the bank, but he was in a meeting. Or, at least, that's what his protector, Pauline, claimed."

  "Ah," Veronica said, crossing her arms. "That explains it."

  "What?" I asked.

  She smirked. "You're still feeling threatened by her."

  "I am not," I snapped. "Pauline is hardly threatening. Controlling and deceitful, yes, but nothing I can't handle."

  "Well, I've known you long enough to be able to tell when something's wrong. So, what is it?"

  I debated whether to tell her about Chandra and the spirit. In keeping with her incredibly disciplined, workaholic nature, Veronica had a strictly practical, non-mystical approach to life. But on the positive side, you could always count on her for down-to-earth advice. Plus, I was terri
ble at keeping secrets. So I blurted out, "Something really freaky happened at New Orleans Famous Beignets and Coffee this morning."

  "What? The cashier predicted you'd order a dozen beignets without you even telling her?" She snickered.

  I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. How did Veronica know I'd ordered twelve beignets? "No," I replied, refusing to confirm or deny the specifics of my order. "I met a psychic who said a spirit told her I was in danger."

  She rolled her eyes. "Well I hope you did the scongiuri because if a psychic said it, you know it's true."

  Scongiuri was an Italian hand gesture used to ward off the evil eye. It looks like The University of Texas' hook 'em horns sign, but with the index and pinky fingers pointed toward the ground. My nonna taught it to me when I was little, and Veronica never missed an opportunity to make fun of me for doing it. The thing was, I didn't think I'd made the gesture after Chandra told me I was in danger, so I immediately dropped my hands to my side, out of view of Veronica's judgmental eyes, and did so. Then I gave her a pointed look and said, "I wouldn't be so blasé about this if I were you, because that spirit knew your name."

  "Come on, Franki. Psychics make it their business to know people's personal information. That's how they reel them in."

  I resented the implication that I was a sucker, so I retaliated with a sure-fire comeback. "Okay then, explain to me how she would've known that I had a friend named Veronica."

  "Hm, let me see." She pressed her index finger to her temple in mock concentration. "Our Private Chicks television commercial?"

  "Oh. Right." I'd completely forgotten that our first-ever commercial was airing this week. In all likelihood, Chandra had seen us on TV, which meant that the Crescent City Medium was nothing but a Crescent City Con Artist.

  No sooner had I reached that conclusion than thunder boomed in the sky so violently it shook our building. I jumped in my seat and told myself that those eerily timed thunderbolts couldn't possibly be messages from the spirit. Could they?

  Veronica stood up and looked out the window just as the lobby door slammed hard.