Galliano Gold (Franki Amato Mysteries Book 5)

by Traci Andrighetti

  “Where’s my Fun Meter?”

  “I’m a little short, so they’re reserved for the guests.”

  My mental Fun Meter moved from Min to Med. “What are these?” I reached for some brochures next to a stack of bingo cards.

  She gave my hand a slap. “They’re the guests’ schedules. We have a safety drill before we set sail, and I have an activity planned for every hour.” She frowned beneath her sun visor. “It’s going to be a blast.”

  “Yeah. Sticking to a strict schedule on vacation is tons of fun.”

  “I didn’t earn Very Important Fun Person status on Carnival for nothing, party pooper.”

  “You’re right. You paid for it in the price of your ticket.”

  She cocked her jaw open, and then she pulled a sheet of paper from a clipboard with a snap. “You’re to report to the galley at nine. This has your cabin number and instructions for how staff are to behave onboard. You’ll note that it says no fraternizing with the guests.”

  “You know I’m not here to fraternize, Ruth.”

  “In theory, but a lot of wealthy men are coming on the cruise. And after Bradley’s drug bust, you’re single.”

  I tightened my grip on my suitcase handle. “You really like to kick a girl when she’s down, don’t you? Or should I say, whack?”

  She leaned over the Welcome Station, and the chains of her horned rims swung. “I thought you were an intruder. But if that oar knocked some sense into you, so be it. Maybe now you’ll try a little harder to hang on to your next boyfriend.”

  I opened my mouth to reply, but nothing came out. Because the name Ruth was in the word truth, and she spoke it, albeit a lot more directly than I would have liked. But I hadn’t been truthful with Bradley, and when I’d opted not to tell him about the Scalinos and Sullivan, I’d essentially let him go. So there was nothing left to do but move on and allow him to do the same when he made bail.

  With my heart queasy like my belly, I decided to take a few minutes in my cabin to lie down.

  “Ahoy, missies.” Glenda waved from the gangplank in black cat-eye sunglasses and a miniscule ivory halter dress and matching stripper slingbacks.

  I sighed. So much for lying down.

  Glenda sashayed across the deck like she was walking the red carpet.

  Ruth lowered her horned rims. “Miss O’Brien—correction, Miss Lamour, I’m thrilled to have you on the Galliano. And I do like those sunglasses.”

  She would.

  “Thank you, Miss Ruth. They’re part of my Hollywood look. Recognize this dress?”

  “The pleats give it away. It’s a version of the one Marilyn Monroe wore in The Seven Year Itch.”

  In Glenda’s case, it was more like The Sixty-Seven Year Itch. And the dress was so short that she didn’t need the wind from the subway grating to expose her underwear.

  Ruth reached for a key. “Where’s your luggage?”

  Glenda gestured toward land. “I’m having it brought up now.”

  “Then I’ll go get someone to escort you to your stateroom. Be back in a jiffy.” Ruth hurried inside the casino.

  With Ruth gone, I decided to give Glenda my own set of instructions for how staff were to behave onboard. “When you’re not onstage, you need to stay out of trouble.”

  She struck a pose with her cigarette holder. “Now why on earth would I do that, sugar?”

  “Because if you don’t, you could jeopardize the investigation and maybe even get hurt—or worse.”

  “Relax, Miss Franki. I’m going to spend the morning getting situated in my stateroom, and after that I’m going to flirt with the crewmen before the gamblers board. Then I’m going to flirt with them.”

  Relief washed over me like the French Quarter flood. So many men would be on the ship that she’d probably be tied up for the entire cruise—possibly literally, if I knew Glenda.

  But my relief was short-lived.

  There were two passengers crossing the gangplank who made the rise and fall of my stomach turn to heave. My Nonna in her mourning dress and a wide-brimmed sun hat, and my mother in a green Hawaiian muumuu and a flower hair wreath.

  I spun on Glenda like the Tasmanian Devil in a game of Twister. “They’d better be here to carry your bags.”

  “We’ve got Bruno for that, sugar.”

  An oil tanker couldn’t have given me a bigger jolt. My gaze darted back to the gangplank. Bruno Messina, my nonna’s long-time backup for Bradley, trudged across loaded with baggage. He wore the Italian-American version of seersucker—his white and black Saturday Night Fever suit complete with the gold horn necklace and a gold cross for extra emphasis.

  I speed-walked to my mom and Nonna. “Really? You’re still matchmaking even with Luigi missing?”

  Nonna stared straight ahead as she walked to the Welcome Station. “Like-a Brenda said, we can-a work on-a two crises at-a once.”

  My mother nodded her flowers. “And according to David’s investigation into your zitellahood, one of the biggest mistakes you made was turning down the dates your nonna arranged when you moved to New Orleans.”

  And to think I’d kept that rat off the ship to protect him from getting murdered. “Who’s taking care of Napoleon?”

  My mother parked a hand on her hip. “Veronica. And if you worried about your relationships as much as you worry about that dog, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

  “‘We’ wouldn’t be in this mess if you two would butt out of my private life.”

  Nonna put a hand on her hip. “We will-a, as-a soon as-a Bruno resolve-a the crisis.”

  “Franki, baby.”

  A chill went down my spine at the sound of his voice.

  Bruno dumped the bags on the deck with a thud and opened his arms wide. A bead of sweat dribbled from his Neanderthal brow to his nose hair and dropped into the fur on his chest.

  I took a step back.

  Undaunted, he flashed a smile and pulled a couple of Butterfingers from a suitcase. “A little gift from my concession stand.”

  My mother winked. “He really knows how to butter a girl up, doesn’t he, Francesca?”

  Under duress—and the weight of that bad pun—I snatched the Butterfingers and stuck them in my pocket. Not that I was a materialistic person, but candy bars didn’t have the same sparkle as the ruby necklace Bradley had given me. “Uh, I need to report for duty soon. Bruno, why don’t you carry the bags to the cabin deck on the second floor?”

  “My pleasure.” He gave a smile that resembled a leer. “Let me know when you have a break later. I’ll buy you a drink and a shrimp cocktail.”

  “We’ll see.” Of course I wanted to avoid him, but I also wanted to avoid the shrimp. Given my track record, the odds of me deveining those suckers was slim.

  Bruno collected the baggage and entered the casino, and I turned on my mom and Nonna. “You cannot be here while I’m investigating a homicide. It’s too dangerous, and too much is at stake. So gather up Bruno and your bags and go home. While you’re there, focus on the real crises, which, incidentally, are finding Luigi and getting Bradley out of jail.”

  Glenda cackled. “I can’t wait till you hear this, Miss Franki. You’re going to have to eat your words about not wanting me on the boat, because it turns out that my writing skills haven’t dulled my sleuthing skills in the slightest.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “That thing I said about Luigi being right under their noses.”

  I looked at Nonna.

  She glanced from side to side and lowered the brim of her sun hat. “We got a tip-a from-a Vito Tomasino at-a the gift-a shop across-a the street. The morning of-a Nicky’s memorial, he saw the Scalinos’ limo here at-a the Galliano.”

  “So? Maybe Alfredo was here before the memorial.”

  “No, dear.” My mother removed her wreath. “It was after.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because-a Vito saw two men-a taking a man in a trench-a coat and a hat on-a the steam-a-boat. H
e didn’t think-a nothing at-a the time, but when he heard that-a Luigi had-a been kidnapped, he came-a to have a look-a. And-a he found a blue carnation on-a the ground.”

  The one Luigi wore to Nick’s memorial?

  If so, Luigi hadn’t been right under the nonne’s noses. He’d been under mine the whole time.

  My crew cabin was next to the mid-ship stairwell, which was ideal. Because if that creepy calliope started playing in the middle of the night, I wanted to be near an exit.

  I slipped my key into the lock and glanced at my phone. I’d missed a call from Veronica, but she’d have to wait. It was eight twenty, so I only had forty minutes to look for Luigi before I had to deal with Alfredo, Pat, and those shrimp.

  I shouldered open the door and pulled my suitcase inside.

  “What took you so long?” a familiar voice drawled.

  My phone hit the floor.

  Sullivan lay on the bottom bunk in nothing but a pair of briefs. He held out a yellow rose. “For you.”

  My hands stayed at my sides, but I felt as though the rose’s thorns had pricked me. That was the flower Bradley always gave me, and Sullivan had ruined it. And frankly, I would’ve rather eaten Bruno’s Butterfingers than accept anything from the detective. “Get out of my cabin.”

  “This is my cabin, Rockford—I mean, Amato.” He put his arms behind his head to show off his pecs. “But you’re welcome to shack up with me.”

  “Rot in hell.” I bent to retrieve my phone, and he latched onto me like an octopus—or a kraken. I struggled. “Let go of me, you pig.”

  “You know you want this, Amato.” He pulled me to the bottom bunk and held me on top of him. “You’ve wanted it since you stripped for me at Madame Moiselle’s.”

  “For you? Your ego’s bigger than the Galliano. You know I stripped to solve a—”

  His mouth smothered my protest. The last time he kissed me, I’d felt desire tinged with danger, but now it was revulsion mixed with rage. I put my hands on his chest and shoved, but his arms stuck to me like tentacles.

  “Detective?” Ruth entered the open door. “There’s been a—” She looked at me and her jaw went slack, then it drew up and clamped. “—mistake.”

  Sullivan shoved me to the floor and reached for a blanket.

  I grabbed my phone and sprung to my feet. “I’ll say there’s been a mistake—letting a corrupt cop work security.”

  Sullivan tensed as though he were about to lunge, but Ruth stepped between us.

  “You shush, missy.” She snapped her fingers at me. “I’m sorry for the confusion, Detective. I’ll show her to the correct cabin.”

  “That’s fine, Miss Walker. You couldn’t have known that she’d try to take advantage of me during my nap.”

  “If I ever do find you sleeping, be afraid.” I grabbed my suitcase and stormed to the deck. I didn’t know where I was going. I just wanted to be far from that man.

  Ruth chased me down. “Not twenty minutes after I tell you not to fraternize with the guests, I find you swapping spit with the detective.”

  I spun around. “You’re off base here, okay? He pounced on me when I went into what I thought was my cabin.”

  “Well.” She tugged at her safari vest. “I ought to have him thrown off this steamboat.”

  “Don’t. He’s an enemy I need to keep close—just not in my cabin close. But how could you make a mistake like that?”

  “I didn’t. This morning the captain changed the cabin assignments because he wanted the detective near the pilothouse instead of downstairs. But it’s not a big deal because you and I are practically best friends.”

  I ignored the best friends comment because there was something more alarming in her statement. “What do you have to do with this equation?”

  “With Sullivan on the Texas deck, we’re short a crew cabin. So the captain suggested you bunk with me.”

  A night of court TV and Ruth shouting verdicts in her sleep was enough to make me leap overboard. “I assume you’ve heard the expression ‘never the twain shall meet?’”

  “Of course. It means things are too different to coexist.”

  “And lady, that’s you and me.”

  “Nonsense. It’ll be a ball.” She tapped her Fun Meter as evidence and pulled my suitcase to the cabin next to the captain’s quarters, right by the damn calliope.

  Reluctantly, I went inside. Sure enough Ruth had a TV with a DVD player—and a poster of the late Judge Joseph Wapner. If I didn’t need to keep my cover on the boat, I would’ve actually preferred to bunk with my mom and nonna.

  “Knock, knock.” Kate entered with Wendell in tow. They were in uniform, crisp white shirts and black slacks. “You two look cozy.”

  I sunk onto the bottom bunk. “You mean, queasy.”

  “Hypochondriac much?”

  Yeah, but I didn’t see what business that was of hers.

  Ruth snickered. “She probably thinks she caught dysentery from that floodwater.”

  I stared at Kate. “How does she know about that?”

  “I filled her and Wendell in on the events of last night.”

  Ruth shot me an accusatory look. “And I told them about Bradley.”

  “That’s why we’re here,”—Kate sat cross-legged on the floor—“to formulate a plan of attack.”

  I gave them a stare worthy of a drill sergeant. “All right. But now that you’re all in the know, remember that loose lips sink ships—and steamboats. Understood?”

  They nodded.

  “Good, because there’s been a major development in the case. In all probability, Luigi Pescatore is being held captive somewhere onboard.”

  Ruth and Kate shared a look of shock, and Wendell’s eyes popped like he’d seen a ghost.

  “So now we each have two objectives. The first is to keep an eye on our assigned people. Since I’m in the galley, I’ll take Alfredo. Kate, you watch Sullivan because he’ll be hanging around the casino and the dining hall. And Ruth, you work with the captain, so you’ve got him.”

  She flushed and lowered her visor.

  Kate frowned. “That leaves Wendell covering Tim. How’s he going to do that if he’s stuck at the bar?”

  “He’s not. We’re all going to have to keep an eye on the shifty sailor. Wendell, I need you to watch the gamblers and find out which men interact with Alfredo, because they’re probably members of the Scalino Mafia clan.”

  “As long as they ain’t ghosts, I’m cool. But what about Marian? Shouldn’t we bring her in on this?”

  Kate leaned back on her hands. “I vote no. She can’t surveil anyone from the gift shop.”

  “Not only that,” Ruth barked, “I find her rather off-putting.”

  I put the tip of my tongue between my teeth and bit it. “Okay then, let’s enter our numbers into each other’s phones.” I handed my cell to Wendell. “We’ll communicate via group text, and be sure to delete the message after you’ve read it in case it ends up in the wrong hands.”

  Kate handed me her phone, and I typed in my number. “The second objective is to look for Luigi whenever possible. But be careful because mobsters will be watching, and they’re all killers.”

  Wendell pulled a handkerchief from his shirt pocket and wiped his brow.

  Ruth eyed us over her horned rims. “If you get caught looking for Luigi, say you’re hunting for Captain Galliano’s Civil War gold.”

  I leapt from the bunk. “That’s it—the map we saw on the desk in the captain’s bedroom.”

  Ruth put her hands on her hips. “What about it?”

  “It had red x’s on the library and the stage.”

  “Yeah, x marks the spot where the treasure might be hidden.” She snorted. “You’re a PI, and you don’t know that?”

  I sighed. This ragtag army thing might not work out. “What I mean is, those x’s could also mark potential hiding places for Luigi.”

  “Oh, foo.” Ruth waved off the notion. “He hadn’t even been kidnapped when we found that
map. And I told you, the captain isn’t a killer.”

  “Maybe not. But I’d be willing to bet one of those missing gold bars that you and I weren’t the only ones who saw that map. And whoever else happened upon it could’ve gotten the idea to hide a kidnapped man in one of those spots.”

  Wendell looked at Ruth. “They’d be good hidey holes since hardly no one knows about ’em.”

  Kate’s gaze bore into mine. “It had to be that scumbag Alfredo.”

  “Possibly. It depends on how long the captain left the map on his desk.”

  Ruth crossed her arms, and her chains started swinging. “But the only person you and I saw on the boat that night was Detective Sullivan.”

  “Precisely. And right after that, he volunteered to work security for the gambling cruise.”

  My feet flew down the mid-ship stairs. The impromptu strategy meeting had eaten twenty minutes, so I didn’t have long to look for Luigi before I had to be in the galley.

  I opened the door to the cabin deck and scanned the hallway. No one was around, so I ran to my main objective—the old Mark Twain photo in the library.

  I stepped onto the chair beneath the photo, balanced my foot on one of the arms, and felt above the round frame.

  “What are you doing, Francesca?”

  I started, and the chair cracked. My mother’s jarring voice was enough to break me and wood too. “What do you think I’m doing?” I hopped to the ground and eyed her bathing suit, tote bag, and flip-flops. “And never mind me, what are you doing?”

  “I’m going to get some sun.”

  “Mom, this is not a vacation.”

  “Well I know thaaat. But nothing’s going to happen until the other passengers arrive, and if you want me to be of any help, then I need to take care of myself. I raised you three kids, so believe me, I know how to handle three crises at once.”

  I did a mental eye roll. Then I reviewed the crises I knew of—Luigi’s abduction and my zitellahood. “What’s the third crisis?”

  “My stress level, that’s what.”

  The woman had no idea.

  She slipped on a pair of Jackie O sunglasses. “I’ll be on starboard deck, if you need me.”