"What's going on, Scarlett? Please tell me what you know." I waited for her to respond, but I heard dead air on the other end of the line. I looked at my phone and realized she'd ended the call.
I lay back on the chaise lounge, stunned. It had been clear from the start that Scarlett had information about the case. But judging from her warning to me just now, something was going on at Oleander Place—something far more sinister than Ivanna's death. And that was a possibility I hadn't foreseen.
As I stroked Napoleon's belly, I wondered what, exactly, was I "messing with" and whether Miles McCarthy was involved in some way. The bigger question, though, was whether other lives were at stake. Like Scarlett's.
Or mine.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"So what do you want to do about Scarlett?" Veronica asked the next morning as I exited Interstate 10 in the direction of the French Quarter.
"I guess I'm going to have to go to Oleander Place to try to talk to her after her shift. Depending on how long it takes us to question everyone at Lickalicious Lips this morning, I might be able to do it today."
"That reminds me." She pulled a tube of pale pink Chanel lip gloss from her hot pink Dolce & Gabbana Miss Sicily bag and applied a fresh layer.
I turned onto Canal Street. "Where'd you say this place was again?"
She smacked her lips. "On St. Peter."
I nodded and glanced in the direction of Ponchartrain Bank—which we were passing purely by chance, of course. I immediately spotted Corinne's fairy-like figure walking toward the main door with her handbag clutched to her chest and her head lowered. She looked despondent, like a Tinker Bell with drooping wings.
"That's Corinne Mercier," I said, pointing in her direction. "It looks like something's wrong."
"Why don't you pull over?"
"I think I will." I steered my Mustang into a thirty-minute customer service zone in front of a tourist shop.
Veronica rolled down her window, and I leaned across her lap and shouted, "Everything okay, Corinne?"
She turned toward my car and glanced uncertainly at Veronica. "Bonjour."
"Bone-jure," Veronica replied with a polite nod. Like me, she spoke an unofficial Texas dialect of French.
I cleared my throat. "This is my partner, Veronica Maggio."
"I am 'appy to meet you," Corinne said, approaching the window. She was so small that she barely had to bend over to see inside the car. "After yesterday, I am in desperate need of Private Chicks' services."
I killed the engine. "Why? What happened?"
"Zere was more money missing from my teller drawer." Her big blue eyes welled with tears. "Anozer five hundred dollars."
"This has happened before?" Veronica asked.
I nodded. "Did you have to pay back the money again?"
"Non. Mr. Hartmann and I were here until midnight. We did not find ze money, but zis time he tell me not to pay."
So that's the bank business he had to take care of ASAP. I pressed my fingers to my lips. "Could one of your customers be a short change artist?"
"I don't sink so. Ze bank train us to recognize such tricks."
"Does anyone else have access to your drawer?" I asked.
"I don't see how, but I suppose it is possible."
"Well, if someone did steal money without you noticing," I said, "then the security cameras would have captured it."
"Yeah," Veronica agreed. "Has anyone checked the surveillance tape?"
"Oui, we review ze tape last night wis Pauline."
"Pauline?" I repeated, surprised. And incredibly annoyed. "What's she got to do with this?"
"She is in charge of ze computer wis ze security files."
"That's odd," Veronica said. "You'd think that an IT person or at the very least a manager would handle that sort of thing."
"And not an executive secretary," I muttered. For the life of me, I couldn't fathom how an intelligent man like Bradley could trust a conniving piece of work like Pauline so implicitly. Whatever the reason, I sincerely hoped it didn't have anything to do with her violet, almond-shaped eyes.
"You know Pauline," Corinne said. "She has her hand in everysing."
"Yes," I said dryly, thinking of Bradley's pants. Then a thought occurred to me. Did she also have her hand in Corinne's teller drawer? She certainly seemed to be around every time cash came up missing. But it didn't make sense unless she needed money or had some ulterior motive for wanting Corinne fired.
"It is almost nine o'clock," Corinne said. "I must go in. But I am serious about hiring your firm."
"We can discuss the details another time," Veronica said.
"Yeah, don't worry about that now," I added. "I'll come by the bank this afternoon to see what I can find out. We'll have to keep this arrangement strictly confidential—for your sake and mine. If Bradley finds out I'm poking around in bank matters, he'll ban me from the premises." And possibly from his life.
"But of course," she said. "Au revoir."
As soon as Corinne had entered the bank, Veronica turned to me. "What do you think is going on?"
"I don't know, but I'd be willing to bet my eye teeth that it has something to do with Pauline."
Veronica frowned. "I know you don't trust her, but that's a pretty serious accusation."
I sighed. "I know what you're thinking, and you're wrong. This is business—it's not personal." Okay, so maybe it was. But just a little.
She arched an eyebrow and crossed her arms. "Oh, really?"
"Yes, really," I said, mentally crossing my fingers. "Everything was fine until Pauline showed up on the scene. But ever since then, bad things have been happening. At first I thought she was just after Bradley, but now I'm starting to think she wants more than that."
She smirked. "Like total bank domination?"
"Go ahead and laugh, Veronica. But when I prove that she had something to do with the missing money, I'll be the one to laugh last," I said with a pointed look. Then I started the V-8 engine and revved it—for dramatic effect.
"Okay, but are you sure you want to take this case? You've got a conflict of interest here. And if you're wrong about her, it could ruin your relationship with Bradley."
"I don't really have a choice, do I?" I asked, shifting in my seat to face her. "Corinne is my friend, and I want to help her. And Pauline is already trying to ruin my relationship with Bradley. Any minute now, she's going to lay the news of the pranzo ufficiale on him and blame it squarely on me. So if I have a chance to show him her true colors, which are black and blacker, I have to take it."
"All right," Veronica said. "Just be careful."
"Around the perilous Pauline? Count on it," I said as I sped away from the curb and tried to figure out how in the hell I was going to investigate Pauline without her or Bradley realizing it.
* * *
After an impromptu stop by the office to retrieve Veronica's laptop, we pulled in front of Lickalicious Lips at nine thirty a.m. I made a quick U-turn in the middle of St. Peter to grab an unlikely parking spot in front of the Gumbo Shop two doors down. The minute I stepped out of the car, my nostrils were filled with the tantalizing aroma of roux, a thickener made of bacon fat and flour used as a base in Cajun and Creole cooking. I fervently hoped that the questioning of the Lickalicious staff would last until lunchtime so that I could have a hearty bowl of chicken Andouille gumbo—and a heaping helping of warm bread pudding with whiskey sauce.
"Look, Franki!" Veronica slammed the car door. "Lickalicious Lips is next door to Fleurty Girl, that darling boutique I was telling you about."
I snorted. It figured that she would focus on fashion while I fixated on food. "Maybe we can check it out later," I said as I headed for the cosmetics company. "After lunch."
Veronica stopped to admire a tutu on a mannequin outside the shop entryway while I tried the handle of the worn white door to Lickalicious Lips.
"It's locked." I glanced at the windows for signs of life. "I hope they haven't shut down."
"Try the doorbell," Veronica said, arriving at my side.
I pressed the buzzer and took a step back. As I waited, I scrutinized the exterior of the building. I had expected to see brightly painted brick with a cute lip-themed sign. Instead, it was an unmarked stuccoed structure with faded beige paint and the white-trimmed windows and green shutters typical of the French Quarter. I was about to ring the bell again, when the door opened to reveal a tall male in his mid-thirties wearing a wrinkled, white lab coat and khaki pants.
He blinked as though unaccustomed to sunlight. "Can I help you?"
"Yes." I handed him my card. "I'm Franki Amato, and this is Veronica Maggio. We're investigating the death of Ivanna Jones."
He blinked again, this time from surprise. After reading my card front to back, he narrowed his small steel-blue eyes. "Who hired you?"
Veronica stepped forward. "We're representing Oleander Place."
"We'd like to come in and ask you a few questions, if you have a moment," I added.
"I don't know." His brow furrowed. "I've already talked to the police."
"I understand," I said in a gentle tone. "But our client is dissatisfied with the progress of the police's investigation, so we're retracing their steps to make sure all evidence has been uncovered. For Ivanna."
He hesitated and then gestured for us to come inside. "I'm Dr. Adam Geyer. Call me Adam."
"What do you do for Lickalicious Lips?" I asked as Veronica and I entered.
"I'm their cosmetic chemist or, at least, I was. I have no idea what's going to happen with the company now." He exhaled and ran a hand through his short blond hair. "Please, have a seat."
Following Veronica's lead, I sat in one of two black leather armchairs facing the wooden table that served as a desk. The place looked more like an IKEA showroom than a cosmetics firm. "Is this your office?"
"No," he replied, taking a seat behind the desk. "I work in the next room, in the lab. This was where Ruth Walker sat. She was our administrative assistant, but she resigned on Monday."
I wondered whether Ruth had merely jumped from the proverbial sinking ship or whether there was something more to her resignation. "Would it be possible to speak to her?"
Adam paused and then scribbled something on a piece of paper. "Here's her cell, but I can't guarantee she'll talk to you. She wants nothing to do with this company now."
"Thanks." I took the number and shoved it in my bag.
"Had Ruth been working here long?" Veronica asked, opening her laptop on her knees.
"About three years."
Veronica began typing notes. "What about the other employees?"
"There aren't any. I make the prototypes in house, and then we send them to an outside firm for production and distribution."
That explains the lack of testers here in the lobby, I thought—not without a pang of regret. "How long have you been with Lickalicious Lips?"
"Ivanna recruited me to help her open the company ten years ago. She was working on her Masters in Cosmetic Science at Farleigh Dickinson while I was finishing up my PhD there. She was a student in a class I was teaching, and one day she came to my office hours and said she was going to start Lickalicious when she graduated. I didn't think anything of it at the time, but then a year later she called and offered me a salary I couldn't refuse."
Veronica stopped typing. "She must have had some impressive financial backing."
"She did. From her father, Liam Jones. He's a doctor, and she was his only child. So he could afford to back her."
"Rumor has it that he's been hard to locate," I said. "Have you spoken to him since her death?"
Adam leaned back and crossed his leg over his knee. "No, but I've been trying to reach him. He's works for Doctors Without Borders, so he's often out of contact. Last I heard he was in Syria."
"What about her mother?" I asked.
"She died when Ivanna was a teenager."
"I see." I paused for a moment. "I'm sure the police told you the details of Ivanna's death."
He clenched his jaw and nodded.
I looked him straight in the eyes. "Do you know of anyone who might have done this to her?"
"She didn't have any enemies that I know of." He rubbed his days-old beard. "She was a nice person, and she kept to herself."
"Forgive me for prying," I began, "but was everything okay between the two of you?"
His eyes flashed with anger. "Of course it was," he snapped. "We argued about business from time to time, but that's hardly unusual."
Intrigued by his defensive reaction, I pressed on. "Where were you last Friday night?"
Adam gripped the arms of his chair. "Wait a second," he said rising to his feet. "Do you think I killed Ivanna?"
"We don't think anything," Veronica soothed. "We're just being thorough."
His face relaxed. "Sorry about that," he said, sitting down. "As you can imagine, I've been under a lot of stress."
"Of course," I said. But I was now convinced there had been tension between him and Ivanna. The question was, had it been enough to lead to murder?
"I was here at the lab until midnight on Friday," he explained, "working on the formula for a green lip gloss called Midori Melon."
I licked my lips and told myself that this was not the time to ask for a trial run. "Which shade was Ivanna found holding?"
"That was a pink lip gloss we'd been working on." He began bouncing his right leg. "I can't imagine why she had it with her."
I glanced at his bobbing knee and wondered what had brought on the apparent case of nerves. "What was that shade called?"
"No idea. I just know that it was going to be part of our drink line. But we were having trouble producing the right shade."
Veronica scratched her temple. "How could you mix a specific shade without knowing the drink you wanted to model it after?"
He leaned forward in his chair. "Ivanna was an artist. And like most creative types, she didn't always do things in a way that made sense. Sometimes she would come to me with a color in mind, and then she would wait until I had created just the right shade to announce the flavor."
As he spoke, I tried to think of a brand of liquor that was pink. All I could come up with was a cheap wine I'd found (and may or may not have sampled) in my parents' liquor cabinet when I was thirteen called Boone's Farm Tickle Pink, and I seriously hoped that Ivanna hadn't planned on making a lip gloss version of that. "Could we take a quick look around the lab?"
His eyes widened. "Sure. But there's not much of interest in there."
"That's fine," Veronica said. "We just want to see how the business works."
Adam rose to his feet and opened a door to the right of the desk. "After you."
I entered the lab followed by Veronica. Like the lobby, it was something of a letdown. I thought there would be test tubes, beakers, and maybe even a Bunsen Burner, but instead it was just a kitchen, and a very small one at that. On the left side of the room, there was a sink with cabinets and a small counter on one side and a stove on the other. Next to the stove was a small table with two chairs. And there was still no sign of any testers. "Where do you keep your supplies?"
"In here," he said, opening the wooden cabinet above the counter.
I scanned the contents. Although I was certainly no scientist, I recognized the ingredients from my years of experience as a grocery store makeup buyer (for myself, that is): lanolin, beeswax, hydrogenated soy glycerides, and assorted bottles of coloring and natural flavors. "There's not much here."
"It doesn't take much to make lip gloss," he said, closing the cabinet door. "You can do it with as little as Vaseline and some powdered or cream blush."
"Or eye shadow or lipstick," Veronica added with a nod.
"Neat," I said, feigning interest. I couldn't be bothered to make myself a sandwich, much less a tube of freaking lip gloss. "What do you keep in the cabinet below?"
He opened the door. "Just kitchen utensils."
"What does that door lead to?"
Veronica asked, pointing to the back wall.
Adam walked to the door and opened it. "Ivanna's office and the bathroom. You can look around, if you like."
I followed Veronica into the room, which was decorated with an adorable pink couch and a glass desk with a red leather chair. Now this is more like it, I thought.
"The police took Ivanna's computer and her filing cabinets," he said. "So the furniture is all that's left."
"That's too bad," I said, although I'd anticipated as much. I began walking around her office, surveying the scene.
"They also cleaned out her place upstairs."
Veronica turned to Adam. "She lived upstairs?"
He nodded. "She owned this whole building."
"That explains why her business address was listed as her personal address on the police report," Veronica said.
I walked over to the shelving behind Ivanna's desk. There was nothing but a few books and some knickknacks. "Did the police have a key, or did they have the fire department 'spread the door?'"
"Pardon?"
"Sorry." I smiled. "That's police jargon for removing a door without damaging the frame."
"Oh," he slipped his hands into the pockets of his lab coat. "They used her key. Apparently, she'd left it in her car."
"You don't have access to a spare, do you?" I asked.
"I don't know of anyone who does."
I looked around Ivanna's office once more. "One last question, did Ivanna ever talk to you about a pink diamond?"
He rubbed the back of his neck. "Never. Why?"
"Just curious," I said. "Would it be all right if we contacted you with any follow-up questions?"
"Sure," he replied.
I wasn't positive, but I thought I'd seen a look of disappointment in his eyes.
Adam pulled his billfold from his back pocket and extracted a business card. "Call my cell. I'm not sure how much longer Lickalicious will be open."
"Thanks." I took the card. "We'll be in touch."
Veronica and I walked outside into the spring sunshine.
"That was disappointing," I said.
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