Cannellino Caramel
Page 4
“Buon Natale,” I wished myself.
Then I looked for the fan. There were two of them in a protective metal case attached to the ceiling—with protective grates that I would need a screwdriver to remove.
“Forget what I just said. This Christmas is just not merry.”
With a sigh, I jumped down to look for something to pry the grates open, and my eye landed on the top crate. A long metal bar attached the lid to the bottom—perfect for prying and jamming. I worked to remove it and noticed that the crate was unmarked, as were the others. A reputable seafood distributor like Bumble Bee or StarKist would have branded them.
And then I knew what was going on at Laurent. Chef Gaston, undoubtedly under pressure from management to keep food costs at a minimum, was buying hot seafood. He’d admitted to poisoning a Michelin inspector in France with a bad mussel, so he apparently had a history of shoddy—and shady—purchases.
The question was whether Yvonne knew about the illegal seafood ring, not to mention Declan, the bartender. I didn’t have to wonder about Maurice and Reuben. They were in on the scheme, coordinating shipments. The dragging crates were proof.
But what had Maurice and Reuben done with them? The crates in the walk-in were too cold to be the ones that had arrived a half-hour before.
Reuben’s voice echoed in my head. Load it in here for now.
But where was ‘here’? They wouldn’t have brought the crates into the restaurant because my family was inside.
“OMG—the Taurus.”
Reuben had the keys.
The stolen seafood was in my parents’ station wagon—unrefrigerated. And if it had traveled the five hours from Houston in the back of a slab, who knows how long it had been that way?
A cramp pinched my side that turned into a dull ache—the oysters Bienville and seafood gumbo. Had they been properly refrigerated? If not, I probably had food poisoning and some sort of sea worm that fed on shellfish. And at that moment it was either swimming in my stomach or boring a hole in it. I had to get out of the walk-in so I could get to a hospital.
I yanked harder on the bar, trying to pry it loose. But my fingers had gone numb, and my toes were ice cubes.
I had to jog in place, get my blood circulating. I lifted my knee, and my dress crunched. It was frozen solid. I put my foot down and rolled my ankle—it was too numb to bear the pressure. For the first time in my life, I wished I’d worn pantyhose.
Desperate to stop the fans, I searched among the products on the walk-in shelves for something thin enough to jam between the blades. Cream, puff pastry, foie gras...
…a ring box?
Stunned, I grabbed it from the shelf and flipped the lid.
Empty.
I knew the box was mine, and Chef Gaston was the most likely ring thief, but I needed proof for the police.
I looked around the floor. Something shiny and red protruded from beneath a bag full of heads of lettuce. I moved the bag and found wrapping paper with a tag addressed to me from my parents.
The ring box was mine, all right. And it was all I was getting for Christmas.
Frustrated, I threw it—or I tried to—but the ring box stuck to my fingers. There was a sticky brownish substance on the sides.
“Please don’t be fish guts or congealed cow blood.” I was having a bad enough holiday as it was without getting E. coli. But…if it was the cow blood, I might be able to make a case against the veal-wielding chef.
I raised the ring box to my nose and sniffed.
And my fingers curled, crushing it.
The scent was unmistakable.
Cinnamon.
Cannellino.
8
“You know I’m right, Mom.” I turned to face her from my seat at the end of the Saint Augustine Church pew, and a whiff of shellfish wafted off my damp dress. “Old sticky fingers Anthony took my ring into the walk-in to show it to that waitress, Shawna. And he did it because he was hoping to score with her.”
“Hush, Francesca.” She glanced around to make sure no one had heard me. “Christmas Day is in five minutes, and mass is about to start. You got the emerald ring, so spare me the dirty details about your brother.”
Thanks to Anthony, I’d been ripped off, kidnapped, and nearly frozen to death, but my mom was mad at me for tattling.
She tugged at the shoulder of her dress. “Besides, Shawna is the one with the sticky fingers. You heard what that manager, Yvonne, told the police officer. She was stealing tips from Rhonda and the bartender and paying off Maurice to keep him quiet.”
I’d been wrong about Yvonne. When she’d told Declan to “get rid of her,” she’d meant fire Shawna, not kill me. But I wasn’t wrong about my brother. “Then how do you explain the ring ending up in the walk-in with Nonna’s caramels smeared on the box when Anthony was the only one eating them?”
“I never said he didn’t take the ring into the walk-in. But it’s obvious what happened. That crooked blonde tricked my sweet son into taking her the ring, and then she distracted him and hid it in that tub of pâté.”
I picked at a fleck of goose liver nestled around the ring band and pressed my lips together. If I’d said what I wanted to in my current setting, I risked eternal damnation.
She patted her updo. “And don’t get me started on that chef and those hooligans, Maurice and Reuben. I don’t know if we’ll ever get the fish smell out of the Taurus.”
My brother strutted up the aisle and leaned over my mom and me to hand the keys to my father. “Yo, Pops. I parked down the street, but I left the windows up.”
“Good thinking, son,” he grumbled. “We are in New Orleans.”
Anthony shooed me. “Move over, sis.”
I didn’t.
He slid next to my nonna, who sat with Luigi in the pew in front of us. “Is that the thanks I get for savin’ your life?”
“You went to the walk-in to look for the ring, not to save me.”
My mother frowned. “That’s not fair, dear. I asked him to look for you.”
“Thanks for sticking up for me, Ma.” Anthony shot me a scowl over his shoulder. “Between that waitress and Franki, my Christmas Eve is ruined.”
Seething, I leaned toward him. “While we’re here, you’d better pray for your soul, because when we leave you’re a dead man.”
“Honestly, Francesca, making threats in church and on Christmas? I raised you better than that.”
I pulled down the kneeler. It was going to take a lot of praying to get through the holiday.
My mom leaned forward and gave Luigi’s shoulder a squeeze. She let her hand linger, probably to prevent him from getting up and running. “How are you doing up there?”
He turned and flashed his dentures. “Still doing good, Brenda. Just like the last time you asked.”
My nonna, who’d been as still as the statue of the Virgin Mary overlooking the altar, turned to glare at my mother. Her black eyes bugged out, and she made the sign of the cross. “Madonna mia.”
“I’m so glad we found you all.”
I recognized Veronica’s voice and looked up from my kneeling position, expecting to see her with Dirk.
But she’d brought Glenda.
To church.
In a sheer black dress with her scanty undergarments showing.
“Um…what are you doing here?”
Veronica tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Dinner with Dirk’s parents ended early, so I told him that I wanted to come by the church and attend mass with your family.”
“Actually,” I said, “the question was for Glenda.”
My landlady pressed a hand to her breast. “Miss Ronnie invited me to come with her, and I figured what the hell? It is Christmas, sugar.”
One of unholiest on record, but yes.
Glenda flipped her platinum mane. “Now scooch your butt over, Miss Franki. I want a good seat for the show.”
I moved and kept mum about the “butt” and “show” references. For my landlady, all of lif
e was a performance involving body parts.
Nonna rose and placed an open hymnal on Glenda’s midsection and pressed a Bible to her bosom. “You’ll need-a these.” She moved to return to her seat but froze. Her brow rose, and her hand went to her mouth. “It’s a Christ-a-mas miracle.”
I turned to see Bradley striding up the aisle in a dark suit, and the events at Laurent faded. I climbed over Glenda and Veronica and wrapped my arms around him. “You’ll never know how happy I am to see you.”
He kissed me church-appropriately. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get here in time for the réveillon dinner. I’ll bet it was amazing.”
“It definitely was…that.”
His nose wrinkled. “What perfume are you wearing?”
“Uh, Eau de Ocean.”
“Huh. I like it.”
Everyone moved down the pew, and Bradley and I sat on the end. He tipped his head at my father and smiled at my mother.
She flushed and smoothed her hair. “This is so lovely, isn’t it? We’re all together.”
“Yes.” Bradley gazed at me. “Lovely.”
I tingled all over—until the priest approached the altar. Then I stopped that.
As we waited for mass to begin, I stole a glimpse at my family. We were in a historic New Orleans church in nice clothes on Christmas Day. It could have been a scene in a Hallmark movie—except for the stink of seafood. But in our defense, the fish was a religious symbol.
Bradley leaned in. “That’s quite a ring you’re wearing.”
I beamed at the emerald. “It was a present from my parents.”
He smiled and looked pointedly at the altar. “Looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me.”
I stared open-mouthed at his profile and then leaned back in the pew, marveling at the wonders of the season.
Not only did I get my Hallmark-Channel holiday, I’d gotten my greeting-card moment too.
Call to Action
Dear reader,
* * *
Thank you SO MUCH for reading Cannellino Caramel! I appreciate your support. Truly. We authors would simply not exist without you.
To that end, there are other things you can do to help:
1. Write a review of Cannellino Caramel on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, iBooks, Goodreads, and any other place your heart desires.
2. Sign up for my newsletter if you haven’t already. I’ll send you “Fragolino Fuchsia” for FREE!
3. Follow me on social media, BookBub, Amazon, and Goodreads (easy-to-use button links are in the About the Author section).
4. And email me at traci@traciandrighetti.com. Your greetings, comments, and suggestions brighten my day!
* * *
A presto,
Traci
About the Author
Traci Andrighetti is the USA TODAY bestselling author of the Franki Amato Mysteries and the Danger Cove Hair Salon Mysteries. In her previous life, she was an award-winning literary translator and a Lecturer of Italian at the University of Texas at Austin, where she earned a PhD in Applied Linguistics. But then she got wise and ditched that academic stuff for a life of crime—writing, that is. Her latest capers are teaching mystery for Savvy Authors and taking authors on writing retreats to Italy with LemonLit.
* * *
To learn more about Traci, check out her websites: www.traciandrighetti.com
www.lemonlit.com
Also by Traci Andrighetti
FRANKI AMATO MYSTERIES
* * *
Books
Limoncello Yellow
Prosecco Pink
Amaretto Amber
Campari Crimson
* * *
Short Stories
Rosolio Red (holiday themed)
Fragolino Fuchsia (FREE via my newsletter)
Prugnolino Purple (spring themed)
Cannellino Caramel (holiday themed)
* * *
DANGER COVE HAIR SALON MYSTERIES
Deadly Dye and a Soy Chai
A Poison Manicure and Peach Liqueur
Killer Eyeshadow and a Cold Espresso
Sneak Peak
If you liked this Franki Amato mystery, read the first chapter of:
* * *
DEADLY DYE AND A SOY CHAI
Danger Cove Hair Salon Mysteries Book 1
**2016 Daphne du Maurier Award Finalist**
**2016 Mystery & Mayhem Award Finalist**
**2016 Silver Falchion Award Finalist**
by
Traci Andrighetti
&
Elizabeth Ashby
CHAPTER 1
"That statue's not wearing any panties!"
My body tensed at the outrage in Donna Bocca's voice. As the preeminent gossip of Danger Cove, not to mention a women's undergarment salesperson, she'd spread the news of this latest Conti family calamity all over town.
"And a child is watching," PTA member Mallory Winchester added through clenched teeth.
I stole a glance over my shoulder at the crowd gathering in the street. Besides Donna and Mallory, there was an elderly couple, an attractive thirty-something male with a camera, and Reverend Vickers's wife, Charlotte, with the members of her Bible study group. Even worse, a ten-year-old boy was speaking into a walkie-talkie with the intensity of a CIA agent on an intelligence-gathering mission.
I looked at my watch. It was a quarter after one on a Thursday in September. Why wasn't that kid in school?
I took a deep, calming breath of the crisp ocean air and then tried to convince myself that the situation wasn't really that bad. I mean, sure, there was a wooden statue of a gold rush era prostitute hovering, like a ghost of times past, from a rope in front of my home slash hair salon. And yes, she was skirtless and spread-eagle on a chair, displaying her intricately carved wares for all to see. But at least she had a shirt on.
"Beaver shot!" a young boy shouted.
I turned and saw packs of prepubescent males speeding up the sidewalk on bikes, alerted to the sex show, no doubt, by the CIA wannabe.
Okay, if little boys were ditching elementary school, then the situation was that bad.
I looked up on the roof. "Tucker," I began, trying to control the rising anxiety in my voice. "You need to get down and bring that statue with you. Now."
"Mellow out, Cassidi," he replied, giving me a half-lidded look. "I told you, the pulley's stuck."
Tucker Sloan was the owner of One Man's Trash, a junk shop on the outskirts of Danger Cove that dealt in antiques, used furniture, and eclectic decorative items, like my late Uncle Vincent Conti's—ahem—art collection. As Tucker's hippie-speak indicated, he was all about peace, love, and understanding. But right then, I wasn't about any of those things. When he'd bought the statue from me, he'd said that because of its "splayed style," it would be easier to move it out of a second-floor window than to try to take it down the spiral staircase. So much for that idea.
I cupped my hands around my mouth and whisper-shouted, "People are getting upset. Can't you unstick it?"
He shook his thick dreads. "Looks like old Sadie's not going to leave without a fight."
"Sadie?"
"Sexy Sadie's what your Uncle Vinnie used to call her. He nicknamed all of his women, real or otherwise." He grinned. "That cat was far out."
That was one way to describe him. "Could you please just try yanking the rope again?"
"Okay, but I don't think it'll do any good." Tucker braced himself with his legs and pulled until veins bulged in his neck and the fringe on his moccasins shook.
The pulley didn't budge, but Sadie did. She began to move back and forth like a swing. Each time she swung toward the street, the onlookers let out a collective gasp—and it wasn't because they were afraid that she was going to hit them.
"Seriously, Tucker?" I cried.
"I told you so, man," he replied.
I put my head in my hands—that is, until I heard one of the boys yell "Boobies!" followed by cheers from the rest of the under-twelve crowd.
"That's a sight for sore eyes," a deep female voice said.
I turned and saw Amy Spannagel, the assistant librarian, dismounting her bike.
"You mean, an eyesore."
She pushed up her glasses. "I'm talking about Zac's ripped biceps. What are you talking about?"
I gave her a blank stare. For a PhD student, Amy could be kind of dense. But, as much as I hated to admit it, Zac's muscles were kind of distracting. Repairing boats at the Pirate's Hook Marine Services had done his body good. "I'm talking about my Uncle Vinnie's antique porn."
"It's not porn." She tucked a strand of mousy brown hair behind her ear. "It's art."
"Psh," I said with a flick of my hand. "You're from Seattle."
She arched her quasi unibrow. "So?"
"So, it's a lot more open minded than where I'm from. Trust me. In Fredericksburg, Texas, this stuff is straight-up smut. And apparently," I began, glancing back at the scowling faces in the crowd as Zac pulled the bare-breasted wench down the steps of the porch and into the yard, "it's smut in Danger Cove too."
Amy inclined her head to one side and nodded, conceding my porn point.
"Zac," Tucker shouted, "Sadie's putting up a fight. Come and give her a tug from below."
"Sure thing," he replied. "Just let me put Pearl on the truck."
"Who's Pearl?" Amy asked.