Phillip approached and placed a fluted glass on the bar napkin in front of me. "Here's your Prosecco."
I smirked at Veronica and slid onto my stool.
Glenda lowered her metallic gold bifocals, which matched her one-legged catsuit to a T. "Miss Ronnie hornswaggled you, sugar."
I took a long sip of my drink. "If the two of you don't mind, I'd like to put my pirating days behind me. Besides, I'm not really in the mood for jokes."
The smile faded from Veronica's lips. "We know you're taking this case really hard, Franki. We were only trying to cheer you up."
"That's nice of you, but I'm past that point." I looked at Glenda. "I suppose you told her about Bradley and Pauline too?"
Glenda tossed back a shot of tequila. "Just the lowlights, sugar."
Veronica put her hand on mine. "I'm so sorry this happened."
I sighed. "Honestly, with all the murders and the death threat, my relationship with Bradley doesn't seem that important right now."
Veronica nodded and tucked her hair behind her ear. "What did you find out at the plantation?"
I crossed my elbows on the bar. "Basically, that I'm a failure as a PI."
Glenda slammed her second shot glass onto the bar. "Now why in heaven's name would you think that?"
"Because my suspects are dropping like flies, and I don't have a clue who's killing them," I replied, waving my arms like an orchestra conductor.
Veronica gave a frustrated flip of her hair. "Franki, you were a cop, so you of all people should know that there are countless homicide cases that even the best detectives can't solve."
"Take me, for example," Glenda said. "Back in the day, I was the hottest strip act in the South, and I do mean hot." She put a finger to her lone, nude butt cheek and made a sizzling sound. "And yet I can't whip a bunch of newbie dancers into shape."
"What do you mean?" I asked, failing to see the connection between me, her behind, and her stripper students.
"After almost two weeks, my boot camp is still nothing but a booty camp. Thanks to rap music, girls these days think the only thing to stripping is butt work, and the ones I'm training can't even do that well. Yesterday one of them was supposed to twerk, but she booty popped instead."
"So?" I was more bewildered than before. "What difference does it make?"
Glenda pointed a gold-gloved finger at me. "I'll tell you what difference it makes. The popper knocked her unsuspecting partner off the damn stage and dislocated the girl's shoulder."
"That's a serious mistake," Veronica said, her eyes wide.
"You're telling me." Glenda shook her head. "Try as I might, I do not understand why we can't attract quality girls to the stripping profession."
Try as I might, I couldn't understand what Glenda's booty-camp misadventures had to do with my misinvestigation. But I appreciated that she was trying to help.
Veronica patted my thigh. "You see? Sometimes even the best in the business have no control over a situation."
"I guess," I replied, grabbing my glass. "But I feel like there's something I'm missing. Like if I had this one piece of information, the puzzle would be complete." I took a sip of my Prosecco and watched as Phillip put whipped cream on a strawberry daiquiri. "And I still want to know what flavor of alcohol is pink."
Glenda looked at my glass. "The nectar of the Gods comes in pink."
"Ambrosia?" I asked, confused.
"Champagne, sugar," she replied in a bite-your-tongue tone. "Your Prosecco comes in pink too."
I felt a jolt go through my body. Ivanna's mother, Rosa, was from the region where Prosecco was made, and her name was Italian for "pink." And now that I thought about it, the Lacour diamond was alleged to be the very same shade as the Prosecco—coral pink. That’s why Ivanna was so obsessed with getting the color of the lip gloss just right! It wasn’t just her perfectionism at play—it was her desire to memorialize her mother.
I hopped off my barstool and grabbed my phone. "Glenda, you might've just solved one of the mysteries of this case. I'll be right back."
"Where are you going?" Veronica asked, her brows knitted in concern.
"Outside to call Ivanna's father. I can't hear over the TV." I rushed out the door and held my breath as I dialed the number.
"Hello?" Liam's tone was pleasant but tinged with sadness.
"This is Franki Amato," I said. "Do you have a moment to talk?"
"Yes," he replied. "How can I help you?"
I sat on the curb, resting my elbows on my knees. "I've been thinking about the lip gloss Ivanna was holding, and I was wondering if you knew whether Rosa liked pink Prosecco."
"It was her favorite drink," he replied with a note of surprise in his voice. "It's made in the town of Monteforte d'Alpone where she grew up."
I was so excited I did a fist pump. "Did Ivanna know that?"
"Oh, yes. From the time she was eight or nine years old, Rosa would let her have a small glass—mixed with water, of course. You know how Europeans are about alcohol." He chuckled. "Ivanna would complain every time Rosa added the water."
"Because it diluted the alcohol?" I mean, I would have been disappointed too.
"Because it changed the color," he replied. "Ivanna was always particular about her colors."
Indeed she was, I thought. So much so that she was willing to use poisonous oleander flowers to get the right shade for her lip gloss. "Liam, I think that lip gloss was for Rosa. I can't prove it, but I'd be willing to bet that Ivanna was planning to call it 'Prosecco Pink.'"
"That sounds like a product she would've had in her line," he said. "And I know she wanted to honor her mother."
"I'm sure she would have, too, if she'd had the chance."
Liam was silent for a moment. "Do you have any news about the death of the groundskeeper?"
I sighed. "Not yet. But you'll be the first person I call when I do."
"I would appreciate that. And thank you for telling me about the lip gloss. It's good to have at least one answer in this case."
"I couldn't agree more. Bye now."
I closed the call and immediately thought of Chandra. The day I met her, she said that the ghost who'd gotten me in this mess had done something bad, and it involved a relative. If Chandra was for real, then that spirit was Ivanna, not Evangeline. Did that mean Ivanna was the spirit pulling the handle of the French door? If so, why? Was she in danger and trying to get out? Or was there some other reason?
"Pff!" I exclaimed as I stood up. The ghost angle was too absurd to even think about. I brushed off the seat of my jeans and went back inside Thibodeaux's.
Glenda and Veronica were again fixated on the TV. But so was everyone else in the bar.
I slid onto my barstool and gazed at the screen. "What's going on?"
Veronica's mouth was set in a grim line. "Adam was arrested for the murders a little while ago."
I felt like I'd turned to stone. But on the inside, emotions were coursing through my body like liquid fire. Sadness, guilt, and relief flooded through me at the same time. Yet for some reason, I was anxious too. I could tell that Veronica was waiting for me to react, so I blurted out, "Then the case is solved."
"It looks that way." She put her hand on my back. "Franki, an entire police team was working the case, but there was only one of you. So, don't beat yourself up about this. Okay?"
"Yeah, just look at the positive side," Glenda said, jumping off her barstool. "You don't need pirate protection anymore."
"Right!" Veronica nodded with way too much enthusiasm.
"But now that I think about it, sugar," Glenda added, pulling her catsuit out of her crotch, "that's the negative side." She cackled and slapped her bare leg.
I said nothing and turned my attention to the news coverage. As I watched a ragged-looking Adam being lead into the police station in handcuffs, I felt a growing sense of apprehension. I'd suspected him of the killings as recently as this morning, and yet his arrest didn't sit right with me.
My phon
e began to vibrate in my hand, startling me from my stupor. Ruth Walker's name was on the display.
I stood up and headed for the door. "This is Franki."
"I thought you'd have called me by now," she barked.
"I just saw the news a few seconds ago," I protested as I exited the bar. I don't know why Ruth persisted in thinking that I should report to her.
"Well, I, for one, am not buying this arrest nonsense."
I stopped short. "What? You were so sure that Adam was involved in Ivanna's murder."
"Yes, but the police are saying that he had belladonna at the lab. And that's utter hogwash."
"How can you be sure? Adam is a chemist."
"Because I drove by Lickalicious Lips this morning and found Ivanna's father there. He was kind enough to let me help myself to anything in the office since he's shutting down the business. So, I went through the place with a fine-tooth comb, and there was no poison there."
Although I was quite sure that Ruth had impeccable strip-the-office-clean skills, I had my doubts about the absence of the poison. "Maybe he hid it in the ceiling or something."
She snorted. "Trust me, I know all the places the man stashed his liquor, and they were empty."
This from a woman who claimed not to drink.
"Now I know I said he was capable of killing Ivanna," she continued, "but something is rotten in the state of Denmark."
"Are you suggesting that the police planted the belladonna?"
There was a pause, and I heard what sounded like the tinkling of ice in a rocks glass followed by a loud slurping sound.
"Not necessarily," she replied a bit out of breath.
"Then who do you think did?"
Ruth harrumphed. "That's your problem."
"Thanks," I said under my breath.
"You're welcome," she was quick to reply. "I'll thank you the day you find the killer," she added, crunching an ice cube. "I'm on pins and needles here wondering if I'm his next victim."
"I know the feeling," I muttered. "But now that there's been an arrest in the case, my client's going to terminate my contract."
"Then you'll have to go it alone," she said. "I'll talk to you soon."
As I shoved my phone into my back pocket, Ruth's words weighed on my mind. I already felt like I was going it alone, but at least I was getting paid. I wondered whether I could afford to continue investigating the case for free, even though I already knew I had no choice. If Adam wasn't guilty, I had to keep looking for the killer—for my own safety and everyone else's.
The real question was whether there was a chance that Adam was guilty. I flashed back to the day Veronica and I had seen him packing the trunk of his Corvette. He was upset, and I was positive he'd been drinking. And while it was certainly possible that he'd left evidence behind, I didn't think it likely. Careless, forgetful types didn't earn PhDs in chemistry.
But if he didn't leave the belladonna in the lab, then who put it there? Delta?
Or was it Dr. Jones?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
After what seemed like an eternity, the toaster finally popped. I grabbed the hot waffles with the tips of my fingers and tossed them into a bowl. Yes, a bowl. My plan was to drown my sorrows in waffles drowning in syrup because nothing had turned out like I'd hoped—not the Jones case, not the Pauline case, not my job with Veronica, and certainly not my relationship with Bradley.
"Breakfast is ready!" I called.
Napoleon jumped off the chaise lounge and sped into the kitchen.
I broke off a piece of waffle for him and added a dash of syrup. He was the one constant in my life right now, so he deserved a special treat. I ruffled the fur on his head and handed him the bite. "There you go, boy."
Next, I squeezed a cup or two of syrup onto my waffles and grabbed a spoon. Yes, a spoon. It's the only way to eat waffles swimming in syrup. Then I flopped down at the kitchen table.
As I spooned the waffle-syrup soup into my mouth, I expected the warm gooey sweetness to soothe the ache in my soul. But it didn't. And I knew it had nothing to do with feeling sorry for myself—it was because there was something important I still had to do.
I grabbed my phone and pressed Bradley's number, taking deep breaths between rings. My stomach lurched when I heard him pick up.
"Franki." His voice was soft but practically screamed surprise.
Drawing courage from his docile demeanor, I announced, "This is a business call, so I'd appreciate it if you kept our personal affairs out of this." Oh, and I made sure to stress the word affairs, the lousy cheat.
"Listen," he began in a remorseful tone, "if this about me banning you from the bank—"
"It's not," I interrupted. I wished I could tell him that I was working for Corinne. But Bradley wasn't the man I'd thought he was, so I couldn't take the chance that he'd fire her for hiring me.
"Okay." He paused. "What's this about?"
"I can't go into the details of why I have this information, but Pauline omitted her real last name from the résumé she submitted to you, not to mention a bank she worked for in New York."
"How'd you get her resume?" he asked, bewildered.
"That's beside the point," I snapped. "What matters is that Ms. Pauline Violette Malaspina got off scot-free after embezzling from a charity managed by Brehman Bank, and you've put her in charge of a charity for children."
A stony silence ensued.
"Now, I expect you to put your, uh, feelings for Pauline aside and look into the probability that she's stealing from your bank. Because if you don't, I'll have to take the evidence I've acquired to the police," I bluffed.
"Franki, what goes on at Ponchartrain Bank is none of your concern," he said through clenched teeth. "Stay out of this."
I was taken aback by his command. "You lost the right to have a say in my life when you hooked up with the embezzler."
He let out a long sigh. "Look, I can't get into the specifics right now, but things aren't what they seem. You've got to trust me on this."
I gave a laugh that was somewhere between incredulous and outraged. "You've got some nerve, Bradley Hartmann."
I hung up and angrily wiped a tear from my cheek. I refused to cry over a bum like that.
My phone rang, and I was positive it was Bradley calling me back. I responded with a resounding, "Go to hell!"
"I'd really rather not," a surprised-sounding male replied.
I gasped. "I'm so sorry! I thought you were someone else."
"Well, that's a relief." He chuckled. "The clergy are often unpopular, but that was a little harsh."
Oh God, did I just tell a priest to go to hell? I gulped. "Um, you're with the Church?"
"Yes, my name is Father Roman," he boomed. "I'm a neophyte at Holy Rosary Church."
Did he just say nymphet? I wondered as I nervously scratched my neck and ran down a mental list of the sins I'd committed since the last time I'd set foot in a church. "The name of your church sounds familiar, but I can't place it."
"We're located in downtown Houston."
Now I knew where I'd heard the name before—my mother. "Does this have anything to do with marriage classes, Father?"
"Actually, I've been asked to speak to you about another matter—your plans to cohabitate with your boyfriend?"
"Nonna!" I exclaimed Seinfeld-style.
"Your grandmother's not the only one who's worried about you," he clarified.
"Oh, I'm quite sure my parents are in on this too," I said, squirming with embarrassment.
"And some of the regulars here at the deli," he added. "You have a whole community of people here who love you, Francesca."
I rested my forehead on the kitchen table. From the sound of things, my nonna had told everyone at Amato's Deli that I was planning to shack up in sin. "I appreciate your concern, Father. But I only told my nonna that I was going to live with a man to get her to stop pre-planning my wedding. And the fact is, my boyfriend has started seeing another woman."
"M
adonna santa!" my nonna exclaimed from out of nowhere.
I bolted from my chair. "Father, is my nonna on this call too?"
"I'm afraid she leaned in to the receiver just now," he replied. "Excuse me for a moment."
He covered the phone with his hand, and then I heard the muffled sounds of his speech and my nonna's shrieks. I was sure he was trying to calm her down from a conniption fit she was having over the news that I was single again.
Father Roman uncovered the receiver. "I'm afraid we have a little misunderstanding here about your living situation."
"What is it?" I asked. But I didn't have to wait for an answer.
"Franki's-a living with-a Bradley and another woman!" my nonna shouted a squarciagola, an Italian phrase which is often translated as "at the top of one's lungs" but actually means that someone is screaming so loudly that it's ripping their throat.
"Are you saying Franki's a polygamist, Carmela?" a scandalized-sounding customer asked.
"Well it sure sounds like an episode of Sister Wives to me!" another exclaimed.
"But don't you worry, Francesca," Father Roman continued in a harried tone, "I'll set everyone straight."
"Thank you, Father," I whispered. Then I hung up and took a much-needed swig of syrup.
* * *
When I let the door to Private Chicks slam shut behind me, David's head shot up from his desk.
"Whoa!" He wiped drool from the corner of his mouth with his sleeve. "I can't believe I fell asleep."
I smirked. "I guess you're finally coming down from all that game fuel you drank at the vassal's."
Veronica entered the lobby in a smart-looking navy blazer and white skirt. "I was hoping that was you, Franki. Delta is on her way here to settle up what she owes us. Can you give me the total number of hours you've worked?"
"Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that," I said, shoving my sunglasses into my purse. "What time's she coming?"
"Ten o'clock." She looked at her watch. "And it's five till, so you'd better make it quick."
"Okay," I said with a nod. "Will you come with me while I grab a cup of coffee?"
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