Galliano Gold (Franki Amato Mysteries Book 5)

by Traci Andrighetti

  “Your bedroom?”

  “Nope. My place is the mess hall.” I began circling the room. “They marched upstairs and seized control of Glenda’s spare apartment—after tying her up with some aprons.”

  Veronica’s hand moved to her mouth. “They didn’t really tie her up, did they?”

  “No, of course not. They just put the aprons on her as usual. But you know Glenda—she’s a stripper superhero, and clothes are her kryptonite.”

  “What about her costumes and props? That apartment was full of them.”

  “The nonne were moving those into her living room when I left.”

  She inhaled and shook her head. “You’ll have to sleep at my place, I guess.”

  I sunk into a chair. “How can I do that with Luigi missing and Bradley in jail?” A funeral veil of tears covered my eyes. “Has he even gone before a judge?”

  “That can take up to 72 hours.”

  “Three days? In a New Orleans jail?” My pitch climbed toward hysteria. “He’ll never recover, and I know from experience. I still have PTSD from the skin slougher who used me as a pillow in jail last year.”

  Veronica stood. “Why don’t I give you a massage?”

  “Just don’t touch my mid back. I haven’t looked at it yet, but I’m sure it’s as black as my mood.” I laid my forehead on the table and remained tense as she worked my muscles.

  “You’re going to make yourself sick if you don’t calm down.”

  “Calm isn’t going to happen until Luigi and Bradley are home and Sullivan is strung up like that poor cook, Rose, after she set Agnes Frump and the crewman on fire.”

  “That’s pretty extreme, don’t you think?”

  “That’s the point.” I lifted my head and shrugged off her hands. “And it’s the least violent thing I’d do to the guy. It took everything I had not to crucify him in the sacristy.”

  She sighed and sat down. “It is hard to believe that Wesley would take things this far.”

  “I know. For a man who’s so tied to his career, it doesn’t make sense that he’d risk it over an old case.”

  “Oh, I think it’s jealousy.” She leaned back in her chair. “I saw how he felt about you when you two collaborated on the vampire case.”

  I flashed back to our kiss on the balcony of the Bourbon Orleans Hotel. For a brief moment, I’d felt a flicker of something too. But fortunately, I’d glimpsed his dark side before he’d sucked the blood from me.

  The door flew open, and David entered followed by The Vassal.

  “Yo.” David slipped off his Ghostbusters proton pack backpack. “Sorry we’re late.”

  I eyed the takeout bags in their hands, annoyed that they’d stopped for breakfast. “What took you so long?”

  “Parade traffic in the Quarter. The Krewe of Cork is doing their street stroll in giant champagne bottle costumes and wine barrels.”

  My mother should’ve been a member. “Well, take a seat. Veronica and I have assignments for you.”

  They sat next to each other at the conference table. David pulled three jelly doughnuts from his takeout bag and lined them up on napkins.

  The Vassal opened his Game of Thrones shield backpack and pulled out a plastic knife, a spoon, and a calculator. He reached into his takeout bag and removed a Haydel’s hand pie. He carefully unsealed the package rather than tear it open. Then he cut the pie in half and used the spoon to scoop out the filling—one bite at a time.

  I caught a whiff of lemon, my nasal equivalent of a red cape to a bull. I tossed the pie in the trash. “Son,” I said, going all Texan on him, “do you want to die?”

  His slack jaw slackened, and his eyes darted to the jelly doughnut in David’s hand.

  “It’s filled with Nutella,” David shouted. “I swear.”

  I eyed the other two on the table in front of him. “Are they all Nutella?”

  “Yes.”

  I snatched them up. “Good, because they’re mine now.”

  David’s jaw hung lower than The Vassal’s.

  I bit into the doughnut to rub it in. “You guys should’ve eaten before you came. This is work, and your focus is on finding Luigi and linking those gold bars to the Scalinos, so we can free Bradley. Now get ready to take notes.”

  They pulled tablet computers from their backpacks.

  As soldiers went, they were as ragtag as it got. And their drawers were definitely cotton, not Civil War-era flannel or osnaburg.

  David tapped the touch screen, and The Vassal fiddled with the blinking red light on a stylus he’d tricked out to resemble R2-D2.

  The tapping and blinking frayed my last nerve.

  “That’s enough!” I confiscated their devices.

  The Vassal started so hard his glasses went crooked. “But how will we take notes?”

  I put my hands on the table and leaned in close. “You’ll use pen and paper and like it.”

  Their heads snapped back. My voice had dropped to Darth Vader level.

  “We’re at war with Detective Sullivan and the Scalino clan, so we’ve got to strategize.” I returned to my seat. “This is Operation All Hands on Deck.”

  Veronica passed out paper and pens to the boys. “I’ll be working on getting Bradley released, so that leaves the two of you to…carry out Franki’s orders.”

  I flipped open my laptop and consulted the screen. “Vassal, you’re going to help Veronica by researching gold bars in the U.K. I want to know where they’re made and anything you can find about drug smuggling from England.”

  He picked up his pencil—first like a chopstick, then an eyedropper. After a few unsuccessful attempts, he jotted a note.

  I shook my head. Ruth put the r in ragtag, and Wendell the bartender was a coward, but compared to David and The Vassal, they were the Army Delta Force.

  David raised his hand. “What’s my, uh, mission?”

  “Focus on the Scalino clan and their bases of operation. I want to know their headquarters and every warehouse and storefront they’ve been associated with in the press in case they’re holding Luigi somewhere.”

  “Sir, yes sir.”

  I half-raised from my seat.

  He lowered in his. “Ma’am, yes ma’am?”

  That wasn’t much better, but I let it slide. “I’ll be at work on the Galliano, so make sure you email me anything you find out—no texts or calls. I can’t risk Alfredo Scalino seeing or overhearing our conversation. I know he and his brother are watching me because they planted a camera in a trunk in my closet.”

  David’s eyes went wide, and The Vassal’s slack jaw was already so low that he had no choice but to snap it shut.

  Veronica opened her laptop. “That reminds me. Did you cover the camera?”

  “No, I looked right at the thing, so covering it would’ve tipped them off that I’d spotted it. The weird thing is, Alfredo didn’t act like he knew me when I met him, and yet he and his brother are spying on me in my bedroom, the pervs.”

  David and The Vassal exchanged a look, and The Vassal raised his stylus. “What about the skater girl, Goldie? Do you need us to keep checking the skating rinks?”

  David gave him an elbow, and The Vassal turned as red as R2-D2’s blinking light.

  I didn’t know what the elbowing was about, but I wrote it off as something geeky between them. “Goldie is most likely a PI, so she’s the least of our concerns right now. With any luck, she’ll find something that helps Luigi and Bradley.”

  My text tone sounded, and I pulled my phone from my purse on the table. “It’s Ruth. Galliano staff have been cleared to report to work in the morning.”

  The screen on my laptop began to flash.

  “Dang it. My computer’s acting up again.” I shoved my phone into my bag, and my purple Ruger slid out. “David, what did you install on this thing?”

  The Vassal shot to his feet, as rigid as his R2-D2 stylus. “Please don’t kill us. We knew about Goldie and the skating rinks because we hacked your computer to spy for your no
—”

  David clamped a hand over The Vassal’s mouth, but the dirty secret was out. They took cover behind The Vassal’s shield backpack as though that would stop my bullets.

  I swooped over them like one of the Game of Thrones dragons. “My Nonna’s investigation is over”—I fire-breathed my words—“like my relationship with Bradley.”

  “That’s cool,” David said.

  The Vassal straightened his glasses. “Absolutely so.”

  “Good because anyone who investigates me again gets this.” I grabbed the Haydel’s pie from the trashcan and squeezed it until yellow goo ran between my fingers.

  “Seriously, Franki?” Veronica grabbed some tissues and took the crust from my hand.

  She looked at the boys, who remained hunkered behind the shield. “You two get to work on your assignments. I need to speak with Franki alone.”

  They rose and glanced at the devices I’d confiscated.

  I mock-lunged for my gun.

  The Vassal flung the shield into the air and ran into the door. David pushed him aside, yanked open the handle, and they both tried to exit. After a couple of joint thrusts, they made it through to the hallway at the same time.

  Veronica closed the door. “I’ve tried talking to you as a friend, but apparently I have to talk like your employer. I don’t want you carrying a gun in your current frame of mind. You could be a liability to the company.”

  My chin retracted, but my mouth went on the offensive. “That’s not fair. My life could be on the line. And friend or boss, you know I have a right to protect myself.”

  She tipped her head and held up a hand. “Carrying a gun for protection is understandable, but from things you’ve been saying, this sounds like revenge—against a police detective, no less.”

  “I’m days away from setting sail with a homicidal steamboat captain and a member of a Mafia clan.” I threw up my arms for emphasis. “I think that falls under the freakin’ protection category.”

  Her eyes bore into mine. “As long as the captain and Alfredo are the reason for the gun, then fine.”

  “They are. Trust me.”

  She nodded in agreement.

  But she shouldn’t have. Because if anyone, I was gunning for Wesley Sullivan.

  13

  Captain Vandergrift looked like the ghost of Mark Twain beneath the harsh lighting of the Huck Finn Dining Hall stage. His white suit and bowtie only accentuated his ethereal glow as he stood at the microphone studying a sheet of paper that presumably held his morning speech.

  A coquettish laugh rang out, and my gaze lowered to the table in front of the stage.

  Kate.

  Moments before, she’d entered the dining hall, passed the center table I shared with Wendell and Ruth, and parked herself next to Tim. She fiddled with her short, dark hair and touched the sleeve of his sailor suit, flirting with him as she had the captain.

  Ruth bit into a beignet and swung what remained of the pastry in the direction of their table. “Would you look at that hussy cocktail waitress?” She chewed as though the powdered sugar topping were salt. “It’s disgraceful the way she’s carrying on, and in front of the captain.”

  Wendell leaned forward and rubbed his knees. “Young love. What’re ya gonna do?”

  Ruth’s head jerked toward him with such force that her Fun Meter pointer moved from Max to Med. “It’s lust, not love. And I’d best not catch them in a stateroom or a crew cabin together. As the cruise director, I’d boot them off the boat.”

  If the Galliano had a plank, I was sure Ruth would make them walk it on their way out. What I wasn’t sure about was how she’d attained Very Important Fun Person status on the Carnival cruise line.

  I scanned the room. Not surprisingly, Alfredo Scalino was absent, as was Pat. He was probably keeping a low profile, and she was just a galley dweller—the kitchen equivalent of the Hunchback of Notre Dame in the bell tower. What did surprise me was Marian’s absence. She was a stickler for the rules, like Ruth.

  Another throaty laugh echoed through the hall.

  I turned my attention back to Kate, trying to figure out her angle. Unless she’d fixated on Cracker Jack the sailor as a kid, her end goal wasn’t a date with Tim Trahan. Was she looking for the missing Civil War gold? Or was she after something else?

  Captain Vandergrift tapped the microphone. “Good day, riverboaters. As you know, the Galliano has been the victim of hooliganism—multiple villainies involving murder and drugs.” His bushy white brow creased. “It was a sore blight to learn that the culprit was none other than the banker who loaned me the money to buy this fine steamboat.”

  I seethed in my chair. Apparently, the captain had bought Sullivan’s story that Bradley was a drug dealer who’d murdered Nick to silence him.

  “But now,” he bellowed, “that scoundrel banker is behind bars thanks to the persistence of a local detective.”

  Tim and Kate stood for an ovation, but I stayed seated and wrenched the edge of the white tablecloth.

  “Don’t worry,” Ruth growled in my ear, “I’ll set the captain straight on Bradley.” She gave my thigh a pat. “The only crime that poor man ever committed was hooking up with you.”

  I shot her a shut-it stare, and not just because she risked blowing my cover to Wendell.

  “Much obliged.” The captain nodded at Kate and Tim as they took their seats. “As my name is Rex Vandergrift, we shall have no more delays. This Sunday, we’ll embark on our maiden voyage for the Galliano gambling tournament. Just like Twain, we’ll sail up the mighty Mississippi on a floating palace.”

  “Palace?” Wendell gave a low laugh. “Dat’s a good one.”

  I had to agree.

  The captain raised his arm. “We’ll pass Civil War battlegrounds, plantation homes, and sugar cane fields.”

  “And chemical plants and oil docks,” Wendell muttered.

  “You’ll see wildlife as you’ve never known it,” the captain said. “Beavers, alligators, and catfish, fat from the spoils of this great river. And the waterfowl get so thick you can see them on the radar like oil spills on the water.”

  Wendell and I exchanged a look. We both sensed that a whopper was coming.

  “By the by, they’re ornery cusses, especially the geese. I once rumbled with three ganders, must’ve weighed 150 pounds between them. They swooped on deck and came at me like a pack of gangsters, walking in time and clicking their beaks.”

  My mouth twisted. The tall tale sounded like the finger-snapping fight scene in West Side Story.

  “One of the rascals even—”

  “Excuse me, Captain.” Marian stepped onto the stage to the relief of everyone present. She whispered something, and he turned to the microphone. “Take a five-minute break, riverboaters. I shall return.”

  Marian followed him from the stage, glaring at Tim and Kate as she descended the steps.

  Wendell turned to his chicory coffee. “Old Cap’n Rex lives in a world of fiction.”

  Ruth eyed him through her horned rims. “Because he reads Mark Twain?”

  I reached for my beignet. “He’s talking about the captain’s stories, not to mention his take on the crimes. I mean, how could he suspect a banker of murder and drug dealing when a mobster’s brother runs the galley?”

  Wendell’s eyes popped. “Say what?”

  I took a bite of the pastry and scanned the room for Alfredo. “The chef is related to Gigi Scalino.”

  “The Italian dude who wears the sweet spats?”

  I nodded, but not about the sweet part. “Yesterday he kidnapped a relative of Nick Pescatore, the guy who was found dead on the boat.”

  Wendell fell against the chair back like he’d taken a bullet to the chest. “I got to get me another damn job.”

  “Until you do, we’ve got to band together, keep an eye on things.” I looked from him to Ruth. “Whatever happened on this boat isn’t over as long as Alfredo Scalino is the chef.”

  “Don’t forget the ghosts,”
Wendell said.

  “I won’t.” I stared at Ruth.

  She wrinkled her mouth, and her Agnes Frump lines deepened. “By the way, I asked the captain about those screams we heard.”

  Wendell’s bottom lip dropped. “Those say what?”

  “The sailor ghost. Franki and I heard him on the Texas deck.”

  Wendell’s face blanched like he’d just heard the screams himself.

  I swallowed a beignet bite. “What did he say?”

  “That Marv at Where Dat Tours had mentioned the screams, but he thought it was the tomfoolery of some scalawags.”

  “It’s got to be the tomfoolery of some Scalinos.” I glanced at the table by the stage. Kate was still there, but Tim was about to pass us en route to the casino.

  “Hey, brah.” Wendell stood and shared a soul shake with Tim. “How’s ya mom’n’em?”

  The local greeting reminded me that they’d worked together on a cruise ship.

  “Good, man.” Tim tugged at the waistband of his white sailor pants. “You ready to set sail?”

  “I’m a landlubber, remember?”

  Tim’s mouth smiled, but the rest of his face didn’t. Without a word, he strode to the exit.

  I stared after him. “That guy’s weird. He didn’t even say goodbye.”

  “Aw, he’s jus’ stressed out.” Wendell dropped into his seat. “I think he’s trying to get back into the cruise industry, and I wouldn’t blame him after this experience.”

  Ruth lowered her horned rims. “Why do you think that?”

  “I saw him down the dock at the Southampton Spitfire a week or so ago. He met up with another sailor and went onboard.” He tapped the table. “That reminds me, I remembered how I know Kate. My band played a couple of gigs at a joint she worked at, the Gold Mine Saloon.”

  The word gold kept coming up. “Did you mention that to her?”

  “I did. But she said she never worked there.”

  Ruth’s turkey neck tightened. “A woman would remember where she worked.” She cast me a side-eye. “And where she lost her jobs.”