Galliano Gold (Franki Amato Mysteries Book 5)

by Traci Andrighetti

  “Truly, Miss Ronnie. If word gets out that a priest is calling my house, my reputation in New Orleans is ruined.”

  The corners of Veronica’s mouth curled.

  But I couldn’t even begin to smile. I wanted to know why Father John was still calling Nonna. “What does he want? Does he have more information about Luigi’s kidnapping?”

  “No, he’s trying to help the Lilliputians figure out the Scalinos’ favorite hangouts. I think Alfredo’s hiding Luigi right under their noses, like that time the sultan kidnapped me and held me captive in my own boudoir.”

  Veronica gasped. “You were kidnapped by a sultan?”

  “He wanted me in his harem, naturally.” She flipped her platinum hair. “I talk about it in the ‘Seduction Abductions’ chapter.”

  Despite all that was logical, I wanted to read her memoirs. There was some sizzling stuff in there. “So, how’d you get away?”

  “He released me after my clients at Madame Moiselle’s appealed for my safe return on the news. They said it wasn’t right to hide me away when I did so much good for the world.” She jutted out her crop top. “This body has healing powers.”

  That psychology degree she’d gotten had affected her head. Still, I wondered whether she was right about Luigi being held nearby. If so, where?

  “Now, if you girls will excuse me, I need to go plan my parade costume. The Krewe of Muses roll tonight, and I need some inspiration to help me finish these interview questions.”

  I remembered the flier the Dancing Hand Grenade had tried to hide from me. “Do you happen to know if the Roulergirls skate with Muses?”

  “They sure do. My girls the Organ Grinders march with them too.”

  I flashed back to an art auction featuring a painting of Glenda as a stripper organ grinder—complete with monkey—and slugged from my Bloody Mary.

  Following my lead, Veronica reached for her mimosa. “I wonder if the Roulergirls have a throw.”

  “They don’t, Miss Ronnie. They skate for tips, like the flambeaux, so they each carry a skate full of envelopes that they pass out.”

  I wrinkled my lips. “First, who are the flambeaux?”

  Glenda bit her lower lip and shook her Mardi-Gras makers. “The hot, sweaty men who carry flaming torches to guide the parades.”

  I shielded my eyes. “Uh, getting back to the envelopes. What’s in them?”

  “Who knows, sugar. Probably candy or free passes to the skating rink or something.”

  I had an idea about what could be inside Kate’s envelopes, and it wasn’t candy or free skate passes.

  As I drove my Mustang along the parade route looking for a parking spot, Glenda sat behind me in the backseat, holding my huge tawny-colored bouffant wig in place. “Could you let up on the vice grip?”

  Veronica eyed the wig through her purple Venetian mask. “She can’t, Franki. The wind is catching the board, and you don’t want it to blow away.”

  “That’s exactly what I want.” I glared in the rearview mirror at the eight-inch board covered in newspaper that was nestled on top of the crawfish boil-themed wig. Paper towels jutted out like handkerchiefs from either side of the board, and on it were three lacquered crawdads, a red plastic cup, and a lemon—as if to announce to the whole city that I’d failed at the lemon tradition. And to add insult to my bad hair day, the bouffant was so high that there was room above the board for a red bandana bow. “If you’d given me a normal-sized wig, Glenda, I could’ve kept the convertible top up.”

  “And if the Lilliputians hadn’t taken over my costume apartment, I could’ve come up with something else.”

  In a way, I was relieved that hadn’t happened. As costumes went, this wasn’t the worst she’d loaned me, even though it did remind me of Pat the Sea Hag’s crawdad boils and my shrimp de-pooping job. “Let’s just hope these crawfish don’t give me an allergic reaction.”

  Veronica rolled her eyes behind her mask.

  Irritated, I gripped the steering wheel. “Where did you get this monstrosity, anyway?”

  “It’s one of Carnie’s drag wigs, sugar.”

  I should’ve known. Even though Carnie was on tour with RuPaul, she still haunted me like the ghosts on the Galliano. “Well, keep your eyes peeled for Detective Sullivan. I’m sure he’s following us, but when I look in the rearview mirror, all I see is this big ugly wig.”

  “Stop your bellyaching, Miss Franki. You don’t want Kate to recognize you, otherwise she won’t give you an envelope.”

  I hooked a right onto Napoleon Street and then glanced over my shoulder at Glenda. “If anything, I’m headaching, not bellyaching, because this wig weighs a ton.”

  Veronica lowered her mask and gave me the onceover. “Well, it looks adorable with that bib apron.”

  The apron was one of many that the nonne had tied around Glenda, and there was nothing adorable about it. It had a crawdad on the front and the vaguely pornographic saying, Suck da head, squeeze da tip, now you eatin’ crawfish.

  “There’s a spot, sugar.”

  I parallel-parked and shut off the engine.

  Glenda climbed from the car in a gold headband, a barely-there toga, and strappy Roman stripper sandals. Instead of her writer pipe, she clutched a cigarette holder, a stylus, and a notebook. She looked like the famous Pompeian fresco of Sappho—only a smoking stripper version.

  Veronica slammed the car door and adjusted her green tutu. “What time is it?”

  I looked at my phone. “Six twenty-seven.”

  “We’d better get to Magazine Street. Glenda and I are hoping to catch one of the Muses’ bedazzled shoes.”

  We set off, and I tried to keep a lookout for Sullivan. But the wig was so heavy that I had to turn my entire body to see behind me. It was a situation that I was sure Jim Rockford had never found himself in.

  “Uh-oh.” Veronica wiped her arm. “I just got hit by a couple of raindrops.”

  Glenda pressed her stylus to her lip in a studied move. “There is a storm in the forecast, Miss Ronnie. The parade might get rained out.”

  I shot her a look. “With any luck these crawdads will swim away and take this hideous wig with them.”

  Veronica rolled her eyes behind her mask again.

  “I can see what you’re doing, Veronica.”

  She smirked and kept walking.

  We reached the parade starting point, and the crowd was four people deep on either side of the street. We selected a spot in front of a gated Catholic church that had porta-potties for paradegoers in the yard, as well as a statue of Mary with a light directed on her. The effect was intended to make the shadow cast by her extended arms look as though she were reaching for her flock. But given the parade environment, Mary looked like she was reaching for one of the hurricanes being sold at the drink stand across the street.

  Glenda pulled a wad of bills from the bosom of her teeny toga. “Dollars out, ladies. Here come the flambeaux.”

  As the torch holders approached, she strutted amongst them and deposited the money in their waistbands rather than their hands, as was the custom.

  Someone needed to tell her that we weren’t at a strip club, but I wasn’t that person. Instead, I scanned the crowd for Sullivan. Most of the attendees weren’t in costume, which made us stick out even more. In fact, the closest things to costumes were T-shirts that said Just krewe it and the Sir Mix-a-Lot inspired I like big beads and I cannot lie.

  “Franki!” Veronica tapped my arm. “It’s the Bayou Cuisine float.”

  I spun and stared in horror at the giant gumbo pot making its way up the street. As I’d feared, local plumber Lou Toccato beamed in the okra costume he’d embellished with flames, just like the toilets he sold.

  “Look at that, sugar. Your crawdad boil costume fits right in with that gumbo pot. You should jump in.”

  I gave her the side-eye. I had no plans to call any more attention to myself in case Lou’s psycho psychic wife, Chandra, was in the area. She’d wreaked considerable havoc
on my life, so running into her was more terrifying than any encounter with the ghost of Agnes Frump, or even a killer. I scoured the paradegoers again, for Chandra as well as Sullivan.

  There was no sign of them, but I couldn’t rest easy. I was being watched. I could feel it.

  I turned and saw Glenda spinning in a motorized La-Z-Boy chair on wheels driven by a Laissez Boy, another name inspired by the city’s famous phrase Laissez les bons temps rouler, like that of the Roulergirls. I scanned the parade for Kate and the other rollergirls, but all I saw was more Glenda bait interspersed between Krewe of Muses floats—the caped and jumpsuited Elvi, the plural of Elvis, on motorcycles and the Dead Rockstars marching as Prince from the Purple Rain period.

  No sooner had I thought of the famous album than drops fell from the sky. I looked up. It was about to pour. I scanned the parade line again. Still no Roulergirls.

  Glenda sashayed toward a giant pink high heel float. “Throw me something, sister!”

  A masked silver-haired woman on the krewe dangled a New Orleans Saints-themed boot, and a crowd of women gathered to catch it. Glenda towered above them in her six-inch stripper heels, and she snatched the sparkly shoe from the woman’s hands.

  She walked back to Veronica and me, scowling at the bedazzled throw. “The heel on this thing is only two damn inches. Now why in the hell would I want that?”

  I opted to leave the shoe drama to Veronica and looked behind me. And my stomach felt as though it had been kicked by the Muses boot.

  The Dancing Hand Grenade was in the church yard peering around the side of a porta-potty. His dopey, dead blue eyes were fixed on me, and he had a cell-phone pressed to his earless green head.

  I knew that grenade could talk, and he was probably calling Kate and warning her not to skate with the drugs.

  I whirled around. “Veronica, the Dancing Ha—”

  Someone clubbed the back of my head.

  The last thing I saw was a thundercloud, and then everything went black.

  The windshield wipers of my Mustang whipped back and forth, upping the throb in my head. I tried to turn in the passenger seat to glower at Glenda in the backseat, but my neck only made it to Veronica, who was hunched over the steering wheel trying to see the road through heavy rain. Then I remembered that I could use the rearview mirror since the wet wig was at my feet.

  I grabbed the mirror and frowned into it. “I still can’t believe you launched that boot at my head.”

  “Like I said, I wasn’t aiming for you, sugar, I was trying to hit the woman who had the gall to use that godawful Naturalizer as a Krewe of Muses throw.”

  Under normal circumstances I would’ve agreed with her, but because of the knot on my skull I couldn’t let on to as much. “Given what happened, I think you should cancel your appearance on the Galliano.”

  Glenda pressed her hand to her chest like I’d stabbed her in the heart with her Sappho stylus.

  Veronica glanced at me for a split second. “Franki, that’s pretty harsh.”

  “Is it? Stripper Sappho here cost me a chance to find out whether Kate was dealing the gold bars at the parade.”

  “No, she didn’t. I told you that when the Bearded Oysters came out, the parade was called off due to this storm. The Roulergirls never even got to skate.”

  “Well, I can’t risk another mistake. Nick’s dead, but Luigi’s life is still on the line.”

  Glenda stuck her head into the front seat. “I’m a professional, Miss Franki. In all my years, I’ve never canceled a performance, and I don’t plan to now. Besides, the Evening with Lorraine Lamour is an opportunity to practice for my book tour.”

  The wheels in my probably concussed brain began to spin. A book tour would mean Glenda would be on the road for weeks, even months, and that was my opportunity to practice for a more normal life. “Fine, but you’d better steer clear of me on the steamboat.”

  “Don’t worry, child.” She raised her cigarette holder to her lips. “The talent doesn’t mix with the galley hands.”

  “This mudbug nest says otherwise.” I reached for the wig to toss it into the backseat, and the Mustang made a hard U-turn, slamming my head into the window. “Hello! I’ve got a head injury here.”

  Veronica shot me a grim look. “I’m sorry, but the streets are starting to flood. We’re going to the office to wait out the storm.”

  “Is that a good idea, Miss Ronnie? You know how often the French Quarter floods, and I read the other day that only two of the thirty pumps in the quarter are working.”

  I rubbed the new knot forming near my temple. “She’s right. I’ve seen the quarter get a foot of water in minutes.”

  “So have I, but I don’t think we can make it home.” She turned onto Bourbon Street, which was eerily empty. The Weed World van wasn’t even seeing any action, which was telling considering that they sold marijuana lollipops for five bucks.

  “The water is rising, Miss Ronnie.”

  Veronica slowed the Mustang to a crawl.

  I leaned my head against the seat rest, and under the awning of the Tropical Isle bar I saw a giant green blob and gold sparkles. I bolted upright and looked again.

  The Dancing Hand Grenade was with Kate. She wore a gold tinsel wig and a purple mask to go with her Mardi Gras-colored roller derby costume. And in her hand was a roller skate full of envelopes.

  I threw open the door and stepped into musty-smelling water up to my shins.

  “Franki,” Veronica shouted eyeing the unlikely duo. “This isn’t the time.”

  “This is exactly the time. Go on to the office.” I grabbed the wig from the floorboard and slammed the door.

  Glenda rolled down the window. “If you don’t make it to Private Chicks, sugar, I’ll see you on the steamboat.”

  Veronica drove off before I could react, and Kate glided away like a swan, apparently still wearing her roller skates. But the Dancing Hand Grenade danced his ground, doing The Superbowl Shuffle to the beat of “Stayin’ Alive.”

  Adrenaline shot through my limbs like rocket fuel. I’d had enough of the grenade and his goofy dance moves—and with people interfering in my investigation. I pulled the wig on, gripped either side of the board, and charged. My head made contact with his mid-section, and he tipped over like the Little Teapot—and floated on his back down Bourbon Street.

  I gaped at him in shock. I hadn’t expected the wig to do the trick, but it had, and the extra bouffant had padded my head.

  “Hey!” He raised a puffy, gloved hand. “Help a guy out.”

  My shock gave way to guilt. The guy could drown in that costume. I lifted my foot to run, but the water had risen to my knees, and there was an undertow. I tossed the wig at him. “Grab onto that board.”

  “I can’t,” he shouted. “It’s too far away.”

  “Put those puffy hands to use and paddle over to it, or to a streetlamp. You can hang on until I can make it to you.”

  “They’re like big cotton balls. They’re soaked.”

  I plodded through the water, looking for anything I could use to rescue him. But the only things around were floating booze bottles and the odd flip flop.

  Kate emerged like a superhero skater from a side street one block up. “Don’t freak, Danny! I’m coming for you!”

  Danny the Dancing Hand Grenade?

  She tossed the roller skate and pumped her arms to travel through the water faster, and the white envelopes spread across the water.

  There was no way I could reach Kate and the grenade, so I jog-splashed toward the closest envelope, still wearing the wig. My head throbbed, my thighs burned, and the spot where Ruth had whacked me ached. But after a few minutes, my fingers curled around an envelope. It was fat, and full of drug promise.

  I tore the wet paper.

  A keychain with a roller skate that said, NOLA Roulergirls.

  “No, it’s a foil,” I said in crazy bag lady mode. I tossed it into the water and spent twenty minutes collecting envelopes, tearing them op
en, and finding the same prize. I was in such a frenzy to find gold bars that I didn’t hear the motor until it was right in front of me.

  I looked up and saw a flat boat with a red crawfish emblem and the words Cajun Navy, Louisiana Strong.

  A man in a camouflage jacket and matching pith helmet extended his hand. “Nice bib apron, chère. Climb aboard.”

  I saw a flash of gold as a wave hit my face. I spat at least ten times in case I’d gotten staphylococcus or the flesh-eating bacteria in my mouth, and then I opened my eyes.

  Kate stood before me in the water without her mask.

  I looked from her to the man in the boat. Another man in fishing waders who was clearly the camouflaged man’s identical twin was in the back—and so was the Dancing Hand Grenade, looking green around the gills.

  “Franki Amato,” Kate’s tone dripped contempt, “we haven’t officially met.”

  I didn’t flinch at my last name. “I know who you are. Kate Wilson, a.k.a. Goldie Brawn.”

  She grabbed my hand, collapsing my bones as she shook it. “A.k.a. Nicky Pescatore’s ex-fiancé.”

  17

  “This is your stop, chères.” The camouflaged Cajun Navy man pulled the flat boat in front of Veronica’s building on Decatur Street. We’d already been to the Tropical Isle bar to drop off Danny the Dancing Hand Grenade, who’d turned out to be a short, pudgy guy shaped like his costume.

  The boat rocked ominously as I rose to my feet. With the help of his twin in the fishing waders, I jumped into the knee-deep water. Then I turned and laid a don’t-try-anything look on Kate.

  She glared and stood in her roller skates, and then she climbed from the boat as gracefully as a ballerina in Swan Lake.

  The camouflaged man handed us both a business card. “You need any help, you give us a shout.”

  The names on the card were a mouthful. Jean-Thibault and Jean-Toussaint Froiquingont. “Merci beaucoup for the rescue, uh,” I glanced at the card, “Jeans.”

  They tipped their pith hats and motored away.

  I tucked the business card into my semi-dry shirt pocket and gestured to the open door of the stairwell. “You first, Goldie. A.k.a. Kate.”