"No, it was coral pink. Just like her dress."
I bit my lip. "That's odd."
"Indeed," Delta conceded.
"What about the cup of tea?" Veronica asked.
"There was no tea. But since there was no obvious cause of death, the coroner's office is testing for poison among other things."
Veronica flipped through the police report. "I don't see any interrogation records. Have the police questioned your employees?"
"They haven't bothered because they think it was suicide and because the plantation was closed at the time of death. But that's another thing that makes me think this was a murder. We have an alarm system at the plantation, and it was on the night this happened. Yet this woman got inside without setting it off."
I had to agree with Delta. Unless Ivanna had somehow managed to get a key to the plantation and the code to the alarm, then someone had let her in.
"Has anyone from Ivanna's family contacted you?" Veronica asked.
"Not so far. I don't even think the police have talked to them yet. From what I understand, her father is overseas."
"We'll need to talk to your employees," Veronica said. "When would be a good time for us to come to Oleander Place?"
"It'll have to be tomorrow." She glanced at a diamond-encrusted silver watch. "In about an hour we have to start setting up for a dinner. Fortunately, the charity hosting the event didn't cancel on us, but they did demand a discount, the cheap bastards. Anyhow, it's getting late, so I'd best be on my way."
As if on cue, David popped around the doorjamb with her fur coat.
She scowled at him as she rose to her feet and snatched the coat from his hand.
Seeing Delta's fur reminded me of something we'd forgotten to ask. "Wait. I have one more question."
"Make it quick," she snapped as she slipped on her coat.
"Did you find Ivanna's clothes at the scene?"
She blinked. "No, just her purse. Like I told you before."
"Thanks," I said, puzzled. That implied that Ivanna had arrived at Oleander Place already wearing the dress, which raised a lot more questions than it answered.
"Now, you girls can come to the plantation at one o'clock tomorrow," she said. Then she narrowed her eyes and pointed a bony finger at Veronica and me. "But come alone. And don't even think about talking to the press."
I watched in a mixture of awe and fear as she spun on her heels and exited the room, her fur flying behind her. The second I heard the lobby door slam shut I turned to David. "So, those dogs you saw in Delta's car…they weren't Dalmatians, were they?"
* * *
I tugged at the handle of my front door to make sure it was locked and then headed across the street to Thibodeaux's Tavern. As I walked, I averted my gaze to avoid seeing the spooky cemetery that was next to the bar. It might sound childish, but living by tombs, sarcophagi, obelisks, and gothic statues didn't exactly raise your spirits. In fact, some days it damn near drove me to drink. But for reasons I simply couldn't fathom, Veronica had no problem with it, which is why she arranged for me to live next door to her in Glenda's fourplex. If I'd known about the burial ground before I'd signed the lease, I would have told her to go straight to hell.
The sounds of Amy Winehouse's "Rehab" greeted me as I arrived at the bar and pulled open the heavy wooden door. Once inside, I scanned the dimly lit room for Veronica, but there was no sign of her. It was ten after six, and we'd agreed to meet at six o'clock for dinner. Unlike me, Veronica made it a habit to show up at least fifteen minutes early to an appointment. But for the past week or so, she'd been showing up late, and I was starting to wonder why.
"What can I get you, Franki?" the bartender, Phillip, asked in a monotone voice as he ran a wet dishrag over the stainless steel bar.
I slid onto a bar stool and placed my Gucci knockoff bag on the counter. "How about an Italian margarita?"
He nodded and reached across several rows of bottles for the Amaretto.
I studied his face as he poured the amber liqueur into a shaker. Veronica said he resembled a young Kurt Cobain, probably because he was in a grunge rock band, albeit an environmentally conscious one. But I thought he looked and sounded exactly like the stoner Jeff Spicoli in Fast Times at Ridgemont High.
"How's your music coming along?" I asked, tapping my knuckles on the bar to the beat.
Phillip shook his stringy dishwater blond bangs out of his eyes. "Aw, I quit Saving Pumpkins. Making it in the industry these days is such a long shot, man. I decided it was time to focus on something more secure."
"Smart move," I said, impressed. "What are you working on now?"
"My skateboarding career," he replied, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "I think it's finally gonna be an Olympic sport."
I stopped tapping. "Yeah, the Olympics are always a good fallback plan," I replied. But the irony was lost on him.
Philip handed me the margarita just as Veronica rushed into the bar.
"Sorry I'm late," she said, slipping her powder blue Prada bag off her shoulder. "How'd the research go today?"
"Well, I spent some time online going over the media accounts and some articles on the history of the plantation. I didn't find anything we don't already know, but I'm starting to think this case has something to do with obsession."
Veronica took a seat and grabbed the drink menu. "Why do you say that?"
"When I was at the police academy, we studied something called Obsessive Love Disorder. People who have it usually start out by idealizing someone. But then they feel jealousy and resentment when the object of their affection can't live up to their unrealistic expectations. That's when their so-called love can turn violent."
"Okay, but I don't see the connection between this disorder and Ivanna's death."
"Think about the way her body was neatly laid out on that bed. If she swallowed a bunch of sleeping pills, I think her arm or her head or something would have shifted. But instead it's like someone carefully arranged her hair, her dress, even her hands to make her look as beautiful as possible. Someone who put her on a pedestal."
"Or someone who wanted to make her look like Evangeline."
"Could be," I said, stirring my drink. "But why?"
"I don't know. That's what you're going to have to find out."
I froze in mid-stir. "Wait. Me?"
She smiled. "Yeah, I've decided to make you the lead on the case."
I stared at her, stunned. Veronica was so type A that even her blood type was A, so it was shocking to say the least that she was assigning me the case when I was still new to the company.
"I'm going to help you, of course," she continued. "But, I think you're ready. Plus, we've gotten busier, so I'm going to have to handle some of our smaller cases."
Phillip slid a bar napkin in front of Veronica. "What'll it be, Ronnie?"
She looked at the drink list. "Hm. One of the Italian sparkling wines…"
While Veronica pondered the Proseccos, I pondered my promotion. It just didn't make sense that she was turning down the lead on a case that involved a legendary diamond, and a pink one at that. If there was such a thing as Obsessive Love Disorder for diamonds, then Veronica had it. Her favorite song was "Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend," and one of the last vacations she took was to Crater of Diamonds State Park in Arkansas to dig for the dazzling gems.
"I'll have a glass of the Riondo, please."
Phillip nodded and turned to get her drink.
I took a long sip of my margarita. "Hey, so, is there anything you want to tell me?"
She twisted a lock of hair around her finger. "Why would you ask?"
"Because you've been really distracted lately. And because you've decided to let me handle a case that potentially involves a pink diamond."
"What's this about a pink diamond?" Glenda asked from behind me.
I turned to reply but stopped short. I wasn't prepared to find her wearing an ensemble that vaguely resembled exercise attire. Nor was I ready to discover tha
t her red shorts were so short they were practically panties. Ignoring her question, I asked, "Have you started exercising?"
"Hell no, child," she said with a red cigarette holder between her teeth as she unzipped a sporty red hoodie—cropped directly beneath the breasts—to reveal a matching jog bra that was more like a sweatband. "I'm teaching a boot camp for strippers."
"How fun!" Veronica said, clapping her hands together. "I want to Strippercise."
Glenda placed the cigarette holder on the bar beside Veronica. "This is no strip aerobics class, Miss Ronnie. My old manager down at Madame Moiselle's on Bourbon Street asked me to whip some of his girls into shape. And it's a good thing he did, because I never saw a sadder bunch of strippers. Today one of the sorry fools went and slathered herself with lotion right before pole practice. So, when she cartwheeled into an upside down leg hold, she slid right down the pole and popped a damn breast implant on the stage."
I crossed my arms over my chest even though my boobs were real and, I sincerely hoped, unpoppable.
Phillip placed the Prosecco in front of Veronica and turned to Glenda, keeping his eyes downcast. "What would you like, Miss Glenda?"
"A tall drink of water," she replied with a sultry wink.
A shade of red that matched Glenda's jog bra spread from his cheeks down to his neck.
Glenda leaned over the counter and looked at me. "Now tell me about this diamond."
"We've been contracted to investigate a suspicious death at Oleander Place," I replied.
"So you girls are talking about the Lacour diamond," Glenda said.
"How'd you know that?" I asked, surprised. Although I shouldn't have been. Where local legends were concerned, Glenda was a walking encyclopedia, probably because she was one herself. In the fifties and sixties, under the stage name Lorraine Lamour, she'd stripped for the biggest names in politics, show business, and organized crime.
"I make it my business to know about jewelry, sugar. And I'm sure the same was true for that woman they found at that plantation."
Veronica took a sip of her Prosecco. "What do you mean?"
"I mean I'll guaran-damn-tee you that pink diamond is why she was there. Diamonds are to women what hookers are to men."
I took a swig of my margarita. Glenda's analogies, while impressive, always left me speechless.
"What woman can resist a pink diamond?" she continued. Then she licked her lips with gusto. "And especially one from a lusty pirate."
I wrinkled my nose. Whenever I thought of pirates, lusty was not a word that came to mind. Crusty, yes.
"Like that pirate on TV," Glenda said.
"You mean, Captain Feathersword from The Wiggles?" I asked.
Glenda batted her red eyelashes. "What in heaven would I do with a pirate whose sword is made of a feather, sugar?"
"I think she means Captain Jack Sparrow," Veronica explained.
Glenda looked at Veronica. "Is he the one who wears the sexy black guyliner?"
She nodded.
"Well, he can shiver me timbers any day of the week," she said with a flip of her long platinum Cher hair. "Ooh, now I have a hankering for a pirate something awful." Balancing the six-inch heels of her stripper-style tennis shoes on the rungs of her bar stool, she rose up and waved her arm at Phillip. "Bring me a Salty Dog, sugar."
Phillip went from red around the collar to green in the gills.
"Speaking of manly marauders," Glenda said, "isn't that your banker beau, Miss Franki?"
I followed her gaze out the window and saw Bradley walking toward Thibodeaux's. My stomach did a little flip, not because I was happy to see him, but because I could see the frown on his face from inside the bar. "I'd better go talk to him."
"Need any help, Miss Franki?" Glenda asked with a tinge of hopefulness in her voice.
I shot her a look. Then I downed the rest of my drink and pulled my wallet from my purse.
Veronica put her hand on mine. "I've got this. You go."
"Thanks," I said as I rushed outside.
"Hi," Bradley said coolly as the tavern door closed behind me.
I flashed him a smile. "I wasn't expecting you."
He put his hands into his pockets. "I thought I'd swing by on my way to the airport."
I blinked. "You're going out of town?"
"Yes."
I gathered from his curt one-word reply that it was time to apologize. "Listen, I can understand why you're mad and—"
"Can you?" he interrupted. "First you follow me, then you almost get yourself and me killed. And all because I was going to a meeting with my assistant."
"Well, in my defense, the location of that meeting was a little suspect."
"The place isn't the point, Franki."
"Actually, I think it is," I huffed. "What was I supposed to think when you took Pauline to a bed and breakfast?"
"You were supposed to think exactly what I told you—that it was a business meeting," he said, throwing his hands into the air. "Franki, Pauline is my assistant, and she's a damn good one. She worked on Wall Street. Now, there's a lot riding on these meetings, including my job. So I can't have the two of you at each other's throats. I need you to find some way to tolerate her."
I looked at the ground and desperately tried to think of something nice to say about Pauline—for Bradley's sake, not hers. I managed to choke out, "Well, she did do me one favor."
His face softened. "What's that?"
"She told you I dropped by the bank this morning."
Bradley stared at me blankly.
I felt tension rising in my chest. "Pauline did tell you I came by, right?"
He looked away. "She must have forgotten."
My hands balled into fists, one finger at a time. "Oh, I'm sure that's what happened," I said in a convincing tone. But I thought it in a sarcastic one.
"Anyway," Bradley said, glancing at his watch. "I'd better get going. I'll be out of reach off and on. But if you need me, call Pauline. You know her number."
He bent down and gave me a quick and completely unsatisfying peck on the cheek before crossing the street and climbing into his car.
Oh, I've got her number all right, I thought as I watched him drive away. And before long, she'll have mine. I was going to prove to Bradley that Pauline was a snake if it was the last thing I did.
CHAPTER FIVE
At ten a.m. the next morning, I strode through the French Quarter filled with a new resolve to get a handle on the out-of-control events of the past few days, starting with the out-of-this-world experiences. My first order of business was to question Chandra about the suspicious spiritual goings-on before Veronica and I went to Oleander Place to begin our investigation of Ivanna Jones' death. My second and most immediate objective was to navigate Bourbon Street, where Chandra's office was located, without incident.
As I turned onto the famous party street, I buried my nose in my scarf to escape the unpleasant odors produced by the bacchanalia of the previous night. I also made it a point to walk down the middle of Bourbon despite the crunch of Mardi Gras beads and broken plastic drink cups beneath my feet. That way I was able to dodge the restaurant, bar, strip club, and souvenir shop employees who were spraying the sidewalks and surrounding street with much-needed disinfectant as well as the lingerie- and bikini-clad strippers and waitresses who were already stationed outside their respective establishments selling sex and neon-colored test-tube drinks.
After I'd walked a couple of blocks, I began scanning the addresses of the balcony-lined, two-story structures until I spotted the one listed on Chandra's business card—626 Bourbon Street. It was a cute little building painted terra cotta with a large, white-trimmed twelve-pane window. There were bright red steps with black wrought-iron railings leading to a small covered porch, and fronds of potted ferns hung charmingly from the balcony above.
I bounded up the steps and pushed open the glass door to my left. As I entered, I was greeted by a wall of T-shirts, boas, shot glasses, voodoo dolls, and cou
ntless other New Orleans souvenirs. I thought I had the wrong address.
"Can I help you?" a male voice asked.
I turned and saw a forty-something-year-old with a tremendous Afro and a goatee hanging a hand-painted Mardi Gras mask on the wall behind the cash register. Based on the sheer height of his hair, I had a feeling he was Chandra's colleague. "I'm looking for the Crescent City Medium."
"In the back," he said, gesturing with his head.
I nodded and set off for the rear of the shotgun-style shop, wondering whether the "Just Deux It" T-shirt he was wearing was available in the store.
I arrived at two doors, one of which said Restroom and the other Cartomancy and Crystallomancy. Although I had no idea what the latter terms meant, I didn't have to be a private investigator to know they had something to do with the paranormal.
"Come in, Franki," Chandra's sugary voice called from inside—before I knocked.
She probably heard me talking to the cashier, I rationalized as I entered the closet-sized room.
Apart from a crystal ball, nothing in Chandra's office was what I'd expected. The walls were bare and painted a dull ivory color, and the furniture consisted of an ordinary gray card table and three folding chairs. Instead of patchouli, the aura of Chanel weighed heavily in the air, thanks to Chandra's Chanel No. 5 perfume and her suitcase-sized handbag.
"I haven't had time to decorate," Chandra announced from her seat behind the table. She was wearing the occult version of the ugly Christmas sweater. It had all the planets of the solar system in brightly colored sequins. In place of the stereotypical psychic turban, she had her huge hairdo.
"That's cool," I said, really wishing she'd stop reading my mind and anticipating my presence.
"How can I be of service?"
Wish granted, I thought with relief. "It's about that spirit you were talking to yesterday. Can you tell me her name?"
"I have no earthly idea."
I cast her a blank stare. "Do you have a heavenly idea?"
She shook her head, causing her moon and star earrings to swing like pendulums. "People who've crossed over don't always identify themselves. Besides, I'm not good with names, and it's hard work keeping up with all these spirits."
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