Prosecco Pink

by Traci Angrighetti

  First, however, I needed lunch. I hurried to my office to grab my bag, hoping that Veronica would let me bill Delta for Chandra's services. Otherwise, after today, there would be no more po' boys for me.

  The lobby bell sounded.

  "Porca miseria," I cursed in Italian. And I was in "pig misery" because something or someone out there didn't want me to have my pork po' boy.

  When I returned to the lobby, I gave a start. I saw what looked like a werewolf in transition—human flesh and patches of gray fur with two ears and a long tail—holding a cardboard box about the size of the pineapple package. But then I saw the cigarette holder between its teeth and realized that it was just Glenda.

  "That wasn't left outside the door, was it?" I asked, eyeing the box with concern.

  Glenda placed the container on the coffee table and removed the cigarette holder from her mouth. "Nah, these are a little something I made for you girls."

  "How nice," Veronica said as she entered the lobby.

  I relaxed and went back to my spot on the couch.

  "I just finished teaching my stripper boot camp class, so I thought I'd run them by."

  "How's that going?" Veronica asked.

  Glenda sighed and sat down beside me, crossing her fur-leg-warmer-clad calves and adjusting her matching loincloth. "I tell you, those girls are gonna drive me to drinkin'. Today they had to present a three-minute routine in costume. I went first to show them how it's done."

  "What are you supposed to be?" I asked, scrutinizing her fur wrist warmers.

  Glenda batted her inch-long orange eyelashes. "Why, I'm sexy Big Bad Wolf."

  "Gah, Franki," Veronica chided, as though sexy Big Bad Wolf costumes were as common as blue jeans.

  "Sorry," I muttered. "But why not sexy Little Red Riding Hood?"

  Glenda exhaled two lungsful of smoke. "Sugar, do I look like a sexual victim to you? No self-respecting woman would play the part of that red-hooded idiot."

  "Definitely not," Veronica huffed.

  "Wow," I said, reeling from the red-riding-hood revelation. "I just thought it was a children's story about stranger danger."

  Veronica and Glenda stared at me like I was the red-hooded idiot, even though my hoodie was purple.

  "Anyway," Glenda said with a flip of her platinum hair, "this one girl put together a sexy maid routine. Not very original, but hey, she's a beginner so I kept an open mind."

  "Good for you," Veronica said.

  "But then what does the fool go and do? She sashays onto the stage in three-inch heels."

  Veronica gasped and put her hand on her heart.

  I looked from Veronica to Glenda, unsure of "the fool's" faux pas.

  "Once I recovered from the shock," Glenda continued, "I said, 'Sugar, are those tap dancing shoes?' To which she replied, 'They're my strippin' shoes.' So I went, 'Child, anything less than six inches is just plain sad. And that goes for the boudoir too."

  Veronica nodded.

  "And do you know what she proceeded to inform me?" Glenda asked, waving her cigarette dangerously close to my cheek. "That platform heels hurt her feet, so she needed a sensible stripper shoe. Can you imagine such a thing?"

  I shook my head. In all honesty, I really couldn't.

  "So, I told her, 'Well, if you want to sell sensible, sugar, go get yourself a job at the Naturalizer store, because here we sell sex.'"

  Veronica patted Glenda's bare thigh. "Those girls are so lucky to have you as their teacher."

  "Thank you, Miss Ronnie." Glenda stood up and took another drag off her cigarette. "But this younger generation just isn't willing to suffer for their art. And if that doesn't change, I'm afraid they're going to cheapen the whole stripping profession."

  "We can't have that," I said.

  "Speaking of stripper shoes," Glenda began, reaching into the box, "I made this for you, Miss Franki." She handed me a white, ceramic stripper-shoe planter with a prickly pear.

  I stared speechless at the item. Was everyone in New Orleans planting but me?

  "And this is for you, Miss Ronnie." She handed Veronica a cute little pink handbag planter with sweet-smelling white jasmine.

  Veronica squealed. "It's adorable!"

  I looked at her planter with envy. Why did she get the precious purse while I got the slut shoe? With a cactus, to boot.

  "Anyway, girls," Glenda said, picking up the box, "I don't want to keep you from your work, especially since it involves a pink diamond."

  As Veronica walked Glenda to the door, I thought about Glenda's comment. Could the diamond be the key to this case and not the oleander? That would certainly fit with the spirit's warning not to be fooled by the flowers—that is, if I wasn't being duped by Chandra.

  "Bye Miss Franki," Glenda said, snapping me out of my thoughts.

  I turned as she opened the door and saw Delta standing on the other side in a dramatic floor-length black mink. If there were ever two personalities destined to clash it was the proper southerner and the promiscuous stripper. I held my breath and watched the standoff with a mixture of fascination and fear.

  Glenda made the first move. She narrowed her eyes and took a deep drag off her cigarette.

  In reply, Delta grasped her pearls and raised her chin.

  Given their attire, I felt like I was watching a Louisiana-style territory-marking ritual on Animal Planet.

  Glenda exhaled. "Nice fur."

  "Likewise," Delta said, jerking her head backward to avoid the fumes.

  Seizing upon Delta's submissive posture, Glenda nodded and—with her cigarette holder in one hand and her tail draped over the other—made a triumphant exit.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, I thanked heaven for their mutual fur fetishes.

  "Hello, Delta," Veronica said, closing the door behind her.

  I rose to my feet. "I didn't realize we had a meeting."

  "I didn't realize I had to set up a meeting to talk to you," she said, waltzing into the room and taking a seat on the couch.

  "Oh, you don't," Veronica hurried to add.

  I really wished Veronica hadn't said that. Something told me that being at Delta's beck and call could be brutal. I sunk down onto the couch beside her. "So what brings you away from the plantation again?"

  "Again?" she repeated.

  "Yeah, yesterday I went out there to talk to Scarlett, but it was closed."

  She touched her Baron Samedi brooch. "Why would you need to talk to her? Is something wrong?"

  "That's what we're hoping Scarlett can tell us," Veronica said.

  "We think she has information about the case," I explained. "She was acting strange when we were at the plantation."

  "Strange?" Delta threw her head back and laughed. "That's because the girl's as dumb as a stump. But if you think it's worth your time to question her again, her last tour ends at three o'clock today."

  Sidestepping the stump issue, I asked, "So, the plantation is open?"

  "Yes, I closed early yesterday because we didn't have a single tour booked for the afternoon, and I had to meet with my informant about the coroner's report. Naturally, he can't discuss the investigation over the phone."

  I nodded.

  "Anyway, there's been a development in the case. The test results came back on the lip gloss. It contains a significant amount of oleander."

  Veronica gasped. "So, Ivanna might have been poisoned just like Evangeline?"

  "It looks that way," Delta replied.

  I was almost inclined to agree. But I reflected on the spirit's warning, and a thought occurred to me. Ivanna wasn't wearing the pink lip gloss—she was wearing red. So, unless she ingested the lip gloss as a taste test or something, it couldn't have caused her death. If that was the case, then why was the lip gloss poisoned? And what killed Ivanna?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  "Anyhow," Delta said as she rose and made her way to the door, "I've got to get over to Arnaud's for a luncheon." She flashed her yellowed teeth in something that resembled a smile. "
I just adore their Filet Mignon Charlemond."

  My stomach growled at the mention of meat. "Before you go, has your informant said anything about the results of the mass spectrometry?"

  "The mass what?" she asked, drawling the word what for a good three syllables.

  "It's a type of test done in forensic toxicology for cases of possible drug overdose or poisoning."

  "Those must be the results we're still waiting for," she said, pulling her Cadillac keys from her Louis Vuitton. "I assume they'll show that Miss Jones died of oleander poisoning."

  "Yeah," I said despite my doubts. "I'd like to see them, just the same."

  As Delta reached for the doorknob, the vassal entered with two carryout bags.

  My stomach instantly recognized the Johnny's Po-Boys logo on the bags and let out a mighty roar—more from outrage than hunger.

  "Well, excuse you, young man," Delta huffed.

  The vassal looked at her with his coke-bottle-lens-enlarged eyes and stepped to the side, leaning against the door to hold it open.

  "Greetings, good ladies," David bellowed as he strode big-man-on-campus-style into the room. His strut went straight to slump when he caught sight of Delta.

  She wrinkled her nose in disgust and looked from David to the vassal. "What is that ghastly odor?"

  The vassal blinked but maintained his fraternity-imposed silence.

  David stood at attention, more like a common footman than a feudal lord. "Uh, it's three french fry po' boys with gravy and two hot dog po' boys with chili, ma'am."

  "Well, it smells like road kill," she snarled.

  The vassal pushed up his glasses with his index finger and proceeded to stare at Delta in his mouth-breather manner.

  She gathered her mink around her neck and scowled at him as though he were a vulgar voyeur. Then she turned to Veronica and me, her lips thinning into a straight line. "I don't know how you two can work in these appalling conditions."

  The second she went out the door, Veronica shot me a wry smile.

  David relaxed and resumed his fraternal-feudal air. "Vassal, I'm ready to be served."

  I watched with envy as the vassal pulled the sandwiches from the bag and laid out a po' boy picnic on David's desk.

  "What are you thinking, Franki?" Veronica asked.

  "That I would kill to have the metabolism of a college male."

  "Well, that goes without saying," she said, glancing at David as he licked brown gravy from his fingers. "I meant about the oleander in the lip gloss."

  I sighed. "I don't know what to think. Nothing makes any sense."

  "Let's go talk it out in my office." Veronica turned to David. "When you're finished feasting, could you research the effects of oleander poisoning on the body?"

  David nodded with french fries protruding from his mouth like cigarettes.

  I took one last longing look at the boys' po' boys and then followed Veronica down the hallway. I was starting to worry that I would never get to eat again.

  "All right," she said, taking a seat behind her desk, "what do we know?"

  I flopped into my usual chair. "That Ivanna was holding poisoned lip gloss she wasn't wearing. And unless she had some sort of lip protectors like Gilligan wore in his spy dream when Ginger kissed him on Gilligan's Island, then I seriously doubt that she was planning to wear it to kiss an enemy."

  Veronica smirked and turned on her laptop.

  "So, the way I see it," I said, kicking my legs over the side of the chair, "we have three possible scenarios. First, Ivanna was planning to poison someone with the lip gloss, but it backfired."

  "How?" she asked as she twisted her hair into a knot.

  "Maybe the person figured out what she was up to and killed her instead by making her swallow some of the lip gloss."

  Veronica worked a pencil into her bun to hold it in place. "That's possible, I suppose."

  I crossed my arms and sunk deeper into the chair. "The only problem with that is we don't know how much oleander it would take to kill a woman Ivanna's size. A little bit in some lip gloss may not be enough."

  "Good point. I'll send David an email right now asking him to add that to his to-do list," she said, clicking the keys on her keyboard.

  As she typed, I casually swiped a lone peppermint from the corner of her desk. I felt it was owed to me since she was delaying my lunch. "We also need to figure out where the poison came from."

  Veronica looked up. "You don't think it came from Oleander Place?"

  "It depends," I said, quietly unwrapping the peppermint out of view. "We know Ivanna was at the plantation before she was murdered, so maybe she took some oleander leaves. But—and this is my second theory—Adam could have added the oleander to the lip gloss with or without her knowledge. And if that's the case, it could've come from anywhere."

  "Why would Adam poison the lip gloss?" she asked, cocking her head.

  I discreetly popped the peppermint into my mouth and replied, "Either he was in on Ivanna's poisoning plan, or he wanted to poison Ivanna."

  She folded her hands beneath her chin. "It sounds like it's time to have another face-to-face chat with Dr. Geyer."

  I nodded, savoring the yummy peppermint flavor.

  Veronica resumed typing. "What's your third theory?"

  "That whoever killed Ivanna put the lip gloss in her hand to make a statement."

  "Such as?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

  I shrugged. "Maybe it's like Delta said about the flower Evangeline was holding. You know, that she was toxic or something."

  "Or that her products were."

  "I'm not so sure." I blatantly chewed the peppermint and wished it were a po' boy. "Remember, I looked at the ingredients Adam uses, and they're all harmless. Plus, the lip gloss tube didn't have the Lickalicious Lips label."

  "So, what are you planning to do?"

  "I'm finally going to track down Scarlett," I said, neglecting to mention that I'd be lunching at length first. "Then I'll pay a visit to Adam."

  David cleared his throat in the doorway.

  "Yes?" Veronica asked.

  "The mail just came," he said, depositing several envelopes on her desk. "And I found out that acute oleander poisoning causes cardiac arrest."

  I sat up in my chair. "What about respiratory failure?"

  "Nope." He consulted the printout he was holding. "It affects the heart, the gastrointestinal system, and the nervous system."

  Veronica and I exchanged a look.

  "So," he continued, "it could make you puke, give you the runs—"

  Veronica held up her hand. "Thank you, David."

  "But it wouldn't cause the lungs to fail," I muttered.

  "This is getting more and more interesting," Veronica said.

  "You mean, confusing." I stared at the pink Post-It notes on Veronica's desk and thought of the diamond. "David, have you ever heard of a nineteenth-century pirate called Beau the Black?"

  He scratched his forehead. "I think we studied him in, like, the seventh grade, but I don't remember anything about him."

  "His real name was Beauregard Patterson, and he used to be a confederate army soldier. I need you to try to locate any of his descendants. Do you think you can do that?"

  "Aye aye, captain," he said with a salute and then limped away like he had a peg leg.

  I had to smile at his pirate persona.

  Veronica tore open an envelope. "Why do you want to find Beau's relatives?"

  "It's time to look into the legend of the pink diamond. Something is off about this case, starting with the cause of death."

  "I think you're right." She pulled a card from the envelope and put her hand to her mouth. Then she looked up at me with fear in her eyes.

  I glanced at the envelope lying on her desk. Noting the shiny purple of its interior flap, I froze in my chair. I had only one question, "What did Nonna do?"

  "Now, stay calm," Veronica said, gripping the sides of the card as though hanging on for dear life. "It's a lit
tle thing, really."

  I ripped the card from her hand. It was an invitation to a cocktail party celebrating my engagement to "Bradli Artman," the Italian phonetic spelling of "Bradley Hartmann" minus the h (which is always silent in the Italian language and never begins a word). My first thought was that maybe the name looked just different enough to convince Bradley that it wasn't actually him I was getting engaged to. But then it occurred to me that another man wouldn't make the outcome any better.

  Fueled by a burst of rage that would rival that of Rocky Balboa on steroids, I marched into my office and grabbed my purse and cell phone. Then I pressed my parents' number and headed for the lobby.

  "Franki!" Veronica called, her high heels clicking behind me. "What are you going to do?"

  "What I do best—fight with my nonna and then stress-eat," I shouted as I stormed from the office. I ran down the stairs two at a time while the phone was ringing. When I got to the parking lot, the answering machine switched on. Certain that Nonna was dodging my call, I climbed into my car and pressed my parents' work number. I was about to start the engine when someone picked up.

  "Amato's Deli," my mother responded in a shrill, singsong tone.

  To avoid the delay of our usual name game, I blurted out, "Mom, this is Francesca."

  "Well, of course it is," she said in an offended tone. "Are you suggesting that I don't know my own daughter's voice?"

  So much for saving time. "Mom, I—"

  "Well, what else am I supposed to think when you tell me your name, Francesca?"

  I sighed and leaned my head against the window. I couldn't win where my family was concerned. "You're right. That was silly of me. Now, can I talk to Dad?"

  "He's making Italian sausage, and he's up to his elbows in ground pork."

  And I'm knee-deep in poop, I thought. "I need to talk to him about Nonna. It's urgent."

  "It's not a good time, dear. Your nonna is here."

  My radar went up. There were only three reasons my nonna would ever leave the house: Sunday mass, a papal visit, or a secret mission related to one of her meddling schemes. "What's she doing at the deli?"

  "She said she wanted to help your father make the sausage," my mother whispered. "But between you and me, I think she really wanted to get out of the house. Right now she's holding court with Rosalie Artusi, Crispino DiRuggiero from the ceramics store, Agostino Fossati from that new chocolate shop—"