Galliano Gold (Franki Amato Mysteries Book 5)

by Traci Andrighetti

  His head pulled back, and his chest swelled from a fearful breath. “It means we all in trouble ’cause that man done crossed Erzulie D’en Tort.”

  I didn’t have to ask who Erzulie D’en Tort was. Her name was French for Erzulie of the Wrongs, and she was a vindictive voodoo goddess who’d been invoked in a couple of my cases.

  But her aggressive aspect wasn’t the problem—or at least not all of it. The issue was that she sought vengeance for wronged women and children, which meant that Nick’s murder might not have had to do with gambling or the Mafia, but something that could have been equally dark, like jealousy, betrayal, or abuse.

  My legs felt like anchors as I headed for the grand staircase. Erzulie’s presence had just darkened the already cloudy waters surrounding Nick Pescatore and the Galliano.

  Ruth must’ve been hitting that bottle in her fanny pack because this steamboat isn’t ‘fine.’ I surveyed the cabin deck from the top of the grand staircase. If anything, it’s foul. It wasn’t just the shabby décor that elicited my disdain. It was the closed, musty smell that hinted of overflowed toilets.

  I looked behind me at the library, which was at the front of the boat. It was an open layout with tall wooden bookshelves, rickety wooden armchairs upholstered in faded fabric, and a huge round photograph of Mark Twain that could have been taken of the captain.

  “The lookalikes on this boat are more frightening than the ghosts,” I muttered and headed down the wide corridor to the back of the boat.

  As I passed the rows of cabins, I was more than creeped out. The entire corridor had been made into a lounge area with old loveseats, a Victorian fainting couch, and the odd backgammon or chess table. The old-timey ambience evoked a long-gone era and long-dead passengers, and the groans from the floor beneath my feet didn’t help the creepy atmosphere. I was so tense that I could almost hear the cries of the crewman and the woman who’d been killed in the 1922 fire.

  I walked by cabin thirteen and heard a long, slow creak. I spun around.

  The door had opened.

  “Oh, hell no.” I broke into a run. If there were ghosts on the Galliano, they were haunting that room.

  I made it to the back of the boat faster than the steamboat could travel. The Purser’s Office and the gift shop were located across from one other. They had glass fronts so I could see inside, and the door to the gift shop was open.

  Marian stood beside a register, placing price tags on various items. There was a wall of books behind her, and the other two walls were lined with the nautical items Ruth had complained about—anchors, compasses, ship wheels, and various ropes.

  She eyed me from behind the counter as I entered. “If you’re here to shop, I’ve got some cute things to show you.”

  I glanced at the hideous brass skull with tentacles in her hand. It was either an evil octopus or the mythical kraken monster. “Uh, thanks, but I’m touring the Galliano, on the orders of the cruise director.”

  She dropped her head and glared over her horned rims. “Who does that old biddy think she is giving orders on the Galliano?”

  Apparently, Marian was as blind as Ruth when it came to their resemblance. “She thought I should know the layout since I’ll be working here.”

  “You work in the galley, so you take your orders from Fredo.”

  I was startled to learn that Alfredo Scalino, the brother of a mobster, went by the same nickname as the doomed brother in The Godfather. I mean, why not Al or Fred, or just Chef? “He’s not related to Gigi Scalino, is he?”

  “He is. But Fredo’s not like his brother.” The lines on her face softened. “He’s a good, kind man.”

  The knife he’d stabbed into the chopping block said au contraire. I approached a display case with poker chips, dice, and playing cards. “I didn’t realize you’d be selling gambling stuff.”

  The age lines returned. “That order came from the captain, the old Twainophile.”

  I stared at her, surprised she’d criticized her captain. But then again, as Ruth’s twin she wouldn’t have a filter—or even a colander.

  “Just look at those cards. His fascination with Mark Twain is bordering on obsessive compulsive.”

  I picked up a deck. The picture was the same as the one in the library except for the tiny steamboat beneath the author’s image, and it was the perfect segue into finding out whether the card in Nick’s hand had come from her shop. “Do you happen to have an open deck?”

  “What for? Everyone knows what cards look like, and we’d have to write off the cost of the deck as a loss. And I plan on this shop making a considerable profit.”

  Not with those krakens, you won’t. I moved to the books on the wall behind her so I could change the course of my questioning. “Do you have any books on the history of the Galliano? I’m interested in the ghosts.”

  “Goldang it.” She threw up her arms, causing her bat wings and turkey neck to wobble. “There are no ghosts on this steamboat, and before you ask about the missing Civil War gold, there’s none of that either.” She shook her head and her chains. “You’re just like that cocktail waitress.”

  Kate. What did she know about her? “How so?”

  “This morning she was flirting with the captain like we were at a mixer instead of an employee meeting.” She lowered her glasses. “And I heard her ask him about Galliano’s gold.”

  Nick’s final text echoed in my head.

  Marian harrumphed. “As a historian, I don’t stock books that peddle false legends. And I certainly don’t encourage treasure hunters”—she paused and shot me a horned-rim look—“or gold diggers.”

  I resented the implication. If anyone was a gold digger, it was my mother. “Maybe you should encourage them to generate business, unless…you think that man who died on the boat was looking for treasure.”

  Tim Trahan stepped into the shop in a white sailor suit, scowling. “That guy was a homeless drug addict looking for a place to crash.”

  I struggled to take his sailor-on-the-Cracker-Jack-box face seriously. “What makes you so sure?”

  He stormed up to me with a Gestapo gait. “Why aren’t you in the galley?”

  “The S—” I caught myself before I said Sea Hag. “Pat said I could leave for the day.”

  “Then follow your orders. That’s what we do on this boat.” He marched from the gift shop.

  Marian stared after him, her eyes wide and narrow like those of a wily octopus. “You don’t take orders from him.”

  “I don’t know. He seems really tight with the captain.”

  “He does, doesn’t he?” She rubbed her chin. “Odd since he’s new.”

  “Maybe they know each other from somewhere, like the from the cruise ship or their neighborhood or something.”

  “Not likely.” She peeled a price sticker off a sheet. “The captain doesn’t sail cruise ships, and he lives in Amelia an hour away.”

  “I thought he lived onboard.”

  She fixed the sticker on a severed gator head. “He’s moving onto the Galliano in a few days, but if I were him, I’d postpone my move. We don’t know whether the Galliano can stay afloat after this murder business.”

  “Because of the lost revenue?”

  “That and the hefty loan the captain took on this boat.” Her mouth folded into her face. “And you didn’t hear this from me, but that’s not all the money he owes.”

  I moved from the bookshelves to a display of nutria jerky and repressed a gag. “For the boat?”

  “Gambling debts. There’s a riverboat casino where he lives called the Amelia Belle, and I heard he borrowed to cover some debts he accrued there.”

  I couldn’t imagine who would have told her about the captain’s gambling debts—unless he’d borrowed from Gigi Scalino. Marian was on a first nickname basis with his brother, Fredo.

  She pressed another price sticker onto a dried frog. “I’ve seen him playing poker, and the man’s got a problem.”

  “You mean, a gambling addiction?�
�

  “That too. But the captain can stay up for days gambling, and he’s over seventy.”

  “Wow. That’s impressive.”

  “Not if you have help from a homeless drug addict.”

  I turned to face her. “What are you saying?”

  She stiffened. “You’d best do as Tim says and scoot.” She pointed the dried frog at the door. “Before he comes back to check.”

  I’d pushed the questioning too far. “Right. Thanks for letting me look around. You’ve got some, uh, interesting stuff in here.”

  She nodded, and I exited the gift shop to the corridor, wondering whether Nick Pescatore had come onboard to gamble with the captain—or to deal him drugs.

  My phone rang as I crossed the gangplank, and I was so wound up from thoughts of drugs, voodoo, and ghosts that I nearly bounced into the river. I glanced at the display. Bradley.

  “Hey, babe,” I answered.

  “Hey, yourself.” His tone was playful. “You never called me back last night.”

  My hand went to my forehead. “I’m sorry. Between the case and the mourning going on at my apartment, I got overwhelmed. And then this morning my mom showed up.”

  “That was nice of her to come and help.”

  “Mmm,” was all I could muster. I didn’t want to tell him the real reason she’d come. Obviously, it was better to let my boyfriend think that I’d come from a non-gold-digger mother.

  “Are you at the house right now?”

  I resumed my gangplank walk. “Actually, I’m leaving the Galliano.”

  “What? How’d you get onboard?”

  I hesitated because in the past Bradley had gotten upset about me putting myself in dangerous situations. Then I took a deep breath. “As an employee. I’m working undercover in the galley.”

  He laughed. “Sounds like you’re about to embark on a Mississippi riverboat adventure. You’ll have to tell me all about it tonight.”

  I hadn’t expected him to be so jovial about the news, but it was a welcome surprise. “Did we have plans this evening?”

  “No, but I’d like to stop by and offer my condolences to Luigi and visit with your mom and nonna. I can be your stand-in while you take some time for yourself, maybe a relaxing hot bath.”

  That sounded heavenly, especially after the cold bath I’d gotten from my mother. “I’ll take you up on that offer.”

  “Then I’ll be there at six. What can I bring?”

  “Just yourself. The nonne have cooked enough food to feed the Confederate Army.”

  “That’s a random reference.”

  I smiled. “I’ll explain tonight. Love you.”

  “I love you,” he said with passion. “You have no idea how much.”

  The call ended.

  Even though I was back on dry land, I wobbled like I was still on the steamboat. Without warning, tears flowed like the Mississippi. Ever since Bradley had quit his job, he’d put me first, unlike certain members of my family. And it struck me that I finally had the relationship I’d wanted—apart from him forgetting my birthday. But there was still time for him to remember, and after the supportive conversation we’d just had, I was confident he would. So I couldn’t allow my birthday doubt—or anything, for that matter—to come between us. Not ever again.

  I dropped my phone into my bag and pulled out a tissue. I lifted my head and froze.

  The ice blue eyes of the man who stood before me were a colder splash of water than the bath I’d had that morning. In fact, they reminded me of Marian’s kraken.

  “The minute I heard that the anonymous tip came from a woman who knew police code for Homicide,” he said with a snarl, “I begged the commissioner to assign me this case.” He leaned low to get in my face. “And I got on my knees, Amato.”

  The steamboat wobble I’d felt turned river-raft lurch. Because the “saphead detective” that the captain had complained about was none other than Wesley Sullivan. And judging from the way he spoke, this time he was out to destroy more than my relationship.

  8

  Once I’d recovered from the shock of seeing the detective, my face grew so hot that my tears dried up. “I’m not surprised you got on your knees, Sullivan. Judging from all the women you’ve proposed to, you do that pretty often.”

  His broad chest expanded behind his black suit jacket. “Jealous, Amato? Because I see ol’ Bradley still hasn’t put a ring on your finger.”

  The remark hit me like a backhand. He had a knack for IDing my insecurities, but I couldn’t let him see that. I started stalking toward the French Quarter where I’d parked since my cherry red Mustang was just as recognizable as Jim Rockford’s gold Firebird. But I wasn’t going to leave without striking out at him as he’d done to me.

  “The next time you get on your knees,” I shouted over my shoulder, “make sure it’s in a church. That way you can ask forgiveness for all the problems you’ve caused.”

  “Problems?” He jogged to my side. “I recommended you for the vampire case, remember?”

  “Yeah, and while I was working it, you tried to ruin my relationship.”

  “Are you talking about that kiss?”

  “Quick on your feet and on the uptake.” I kept my gaze straight ahead. “I’m impressed.”

  “If I recall, you kissed me back—like a vampire sucking lifeblood.”

  I stopped, irritated that his analogy matched the nature of the investigation. But then I stormed across the railroad tracks toward Washington Artillery Park. “You took advantage of me when I was vulnerable, and I’m not the only woman you’ve done that to. What about your wife? Does she know you go around making passes on the job?”

  “She’s my ex.”

  “I meant your second wife. Or have you forgotten about her?”

  “As of three months ago, she’s ex number two.”

  I stumbled, caught off guard by his admission. He grabbed my arm to steady me, and I yanked free and resumed my marching. “You’re nothing but a player. Stay away from me.”

  “I try, but you keep sticking your nose in my cases.”

  “If I’m not mistaken,” I said as I stomped up the steps to the park plaza with the detective on my heels, “you just said you begged your commissioner to let you stick your nose in my case.”

  “Murder cases are police jurisdiction, Amato.”

  “Well, if I recall, I solved that case. So you should thank me, like the mayor did.”

  He swore under his breath. “I oughta—”

  “What?” I spun to confront him at the Civil War cannon. “Blow my cover?”

  “That’s right.” His hand went to his rock-hard abs, and he doubled over and laughed so hard I thought he would drop to his knees—again.

  “What’s so damn funny?”

  “You…comparing yourself…to Jim.” He struggled to speak through gasps and guffaws. “I’m dying.”

  I squeezed my handbag and wished the cannon wasn’t a replica so I could blast him with it. “I’m serious, Sullivan.”

  “I know.” He straightened and wiped away laugh-tears. “That’s what makes it so hysterical.”

  I sighed. “Okay, you’ve had a good howl at my expense. Now are you going to out me, or what?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, suddenly serious. “I need you on the case.”

  My eyes narrowed, and I shifted my weight to one hip. He was too macho to admit he needed my help with an investigation. “Why would you need me? So you can hit on me again?”

  The smile slid from his lips, and his eyes went snake-like. “So I can get even.”

  “I mean, seriously, Veronica. Can you believe that guy?” I pressed the phone to my ear and ran across Decatur Street to Jackson Square Park. “Not only did he threaten me, he thinks I’m a joke.”

  “Do you care what Wesley Sullivan thinks?” Her pitch rose with each word, sounding the relationship alarm.

  I gave a frustrated sigh-hiss as I entered the park. “Not in the I-want-him-to-like-me sense,
but in the I-demand-he-take-me-seriously sense. I solved that case, and he couldn’t. So I deserve some respect.”

  “You do, but he’s a proud Irishman. I doubt he’ll ever acknowledge that you bested him.”

  My feet crunched the gravel pathway, and I imagined myself stepping on Sullivan’s ribs. “Well, I’m tired of men not giving women credit for their work, especially arrogant detectives.”

  “You know I experienced plenty of that as a female attorney, so I share your pain. But if he’s acting aggressive toward you, maybe you should step aside from Nick’s case. We can hire an outside consultant to take over.”

  I stopped short at the equestrian statue of Andrew Jackson in the middle of the park. And I thought of Jefferson Davis. “Do you remember the Battle of New Orleans, Veronica?”

  “The Civil War battle?”

  “No, the first one, when Andrew Jackson led a ragtag army to stop a British invasion.”

  “What’s that got to do with this?”

  “That’s what I’m going to do.”

  “Fight the British?”

  “No, the Irishman. And I’m going to assemble my own ragtag army to do it.”

  “Huh?”

  “Yeah, Ruth Walker. And maybe a trombone player named Wendell.”

  “Franki, have you been drinking Strega? You know it makes you weird.”

  “I’m sober, and I need to let you go so I can find a fortune teller.” I hung up, fully aware of how insane I sounded.

  I exited the park into the small, tourist-packed square in front of Saint Louis Cathedral. I scanned the row of tarot card readers behind their tiny tables. Most of them looked like carnies, hipsters, and retirees, but there was a fiftyish woman with a brown knotted headscarf, shell earrings, and a gold ring in her septum who could’ve been Creole or Haitian. If she were the latter, she might be able to verify Wendell’s vodou interpretation of the queen of spades card.

  I sat on the tiny stool at her table and jumped back up.

  Instead of cards, she had bones, and I didn’t mean trombones. They looked human, like fingers, and they were tied in a bundle with black string.