Galliano Gold (Franki Amato Mysteries Book 5)

by Traci Andrighetti

  But my advice had no effect. As I pulled my blow-dried hair into a ponytail, my fingers looked like the shrimp I’d peeled and shook like the crawdads Pat had boiled. Dinner had been served and dessert had been delayed, which meant the drug deal was about to go down. And with Gigi Scalino onboard, more crime would follow.

  As in cold-blooded murder.

  I swallowed and adjusted my black turtleneck. It was seven p.m., so I had an hour and a half to look for a secret room behind the library before returning to the galley to serve the bananas foster. I also needed to be on the main deck when the steamboat stopped to pick up the Galliano, i.e., deliver the gold bars.

  I grabbed my key and phone and exited the cabin. Darkness had descended, as had the cold front. And the night air reeked of the same swamp smell that I’d just showered off after my shift and smoke from the smokestack. As I walked the length of the Texas deck, I checked for the usual suspects, Sullivan, the thug, Gigi Scalino—and Bruno, who was a born-and-bred lurker.

  The pilothouse glowed like a beacon at the bow of the boat. Tim was at the helm in place of the captain, who’d gone to dine and mingle with the guests until dessert and Glenda’s performance at nine o’clock.

  I took a stairwell to the cabin deck. A man was reading in the library, so I couldn’t search for Luigi. I made a detour down the grand staircase, keeping an eye out for Cruisin’ Ruth. She’d give me another oar whacking if she caught me on the fancy steps.

  Kate was alone at the bar adding ice to a row of Harvey Wallbangers, so I went to check in. “Hey.” I climbed onto a barstool. “Where’s Wendell?”

  She angled her eyelids. “Doing a dress rehearsal with Ms. Lamour in her stateroom.”

  “Yikes.” I felt kind of bad for the guy. It took courage for a man to be alone with Glenda, and he didn’t have much of that. “What’s his role in the show? The interviewer?”

  “They’re doing an adaptation of the Sophia Loren thing. Instead of answering audience questions, Wendell’s going to play his trombone while Glenda recites lines from her memoir.”

  “Sounds like a bad beatnik trip.”

  “Yeah. Not sorry I have to stay at the bar.” She stabbed a cherry with a drink sword. “What’s our chef up to?”

  I shrugged. “He sat in his office the entire day while Pat and I did all the work. I literally never saw him.”

  “Gigi hasn’t shown his face, either. But his thug, Scarface, went into the dining hall forty-five minutes ago.”

  Around the time I went to shower. “I’m sure he went to meet with Alfredo about the drug deal. What about Sullivan?”

  “He slipped out at least an hour ago, but I haven’t been able to leave the casino to look for him. These gamblers are really guzzling the booze.”

  “I’m on it.” I slid off the barstool.

  “Stop right there, missy.” Ruth rushed me in a dress that looked like Judge Judy’s court robe—black with a white lace collar—and a pair of heels so modest that a nun wouldn’t have worn them. “Kate, pour me a shot of Galliano. I need a good herbal tonic to calm my nerves.”

  My chin dipped. “Herbal tonic?”

  “Sure. It’s all saffron and anise and stuff.” She swigged from the glass. “I tell you, between that godawful gift shop harpy and your mom and nonna, I’m tempted to drop anchor and call it a cruise.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Kate gave me a wry look. “She’s just worked up because Marian do-si-doed with Captain Vandergrift in a red square-dancing dress with pettipants.”

  I was shocked. I didn’t know Marian had a flashy side—or that pettipants were a thing.

  “It was shameful,” Ruth hissed. “And apparently, you came by your man-eating ways honestly. Just look at your women.”

  My gaze followed her finger to a roulette wheel by the casino entrance.

  And I grabbed a Harvey Wallbanger and tossed it back.

  My women, as Ruth called them, were flirting with the captain in what had to be accessories from Glenda’s costume closet—a black feather headpiece on my nonna, and on my mom, a money boa.

  I didn’t dare approach them while they were with the captain because I had to remain undercover—and because I didn’t want to be seen with them in those outfits. “Ruth, I need you to hang in there a little longer while I look for Sullivan. Keep an eye on them, all right?”

  “I’ve been hanging in there so long that I haven’t had time to look for the damn gold.” She hiccupped. “I mean, Luigi.”

  That was the herbs talking, and they didn’t lie.

  I entered the empty dining hall, thankful the square dancing was over, and ditto for the karaoke. The list of people who’d sung about the Mississippi had turned out to be as long as the river and just as twisted—from Conway Twitty to Kid Rock.

  Glenda poked her head through the stage curtains. “There you are, Miss Franki. I was looking for you earlier to help me get into my dress.”

  “Oh.” I really wanted to avoid the next question, but I was trapped. “Do you still need help?”

  “Hit it, Mr. Wendell.”

  The curtains opened.

  And I choked on some spit.

  Wendell, who looked a bit peaked, averted his eyes to his trombone.

  “Well?” Glenda prompted. “How do I look?”

  Her dress, if one could call it that, consisted of a clear crystal mermaid skirt, a see-through plastic bowl that encapsulated the torso, and pasties shaped like bubbles. Instead of the diplomatic approach, I opted for a descriptive tack. “Like a champagne glass with half a woman inside.”

  She beamed, positively effervescent. “Marvelous, sugar. Now, I’ve been practicing my grand entrance, but for some reason, I can’t seem to get my sea legs.”

  I blamed the six-inch stripper heels under her skirt/stem. “In that glass, no one will notice,” I said. “But did you happen to see Sullivan pass through?”

  “No, but your mom and nonna were backstage a little while ago. They couldn’t find any sign of Luigi.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “If I were you, I’d try the galley, though. I heard noises in there when I was looking for you. I opened the door, but the lights were off. I got so spooked, I about jumped out of my clothes.”

  I didn’t comment. It was too easy.

  Wendell rubbed his head and looked at me. “You think it was dat detective? Or Mr. Pescatore?”

  It didn’t seem likely that Alfredo would hide Luigi in such a high-traffic area. “It was probably Sullivan, but I could use some backup while I check it out.”

  He exhaled a long stream of air, as though blowing his trombone, and came down the stage steps like he was going to meet Baron Samedi.

  Given his reluctance, I led the way into the galley, switched on the light, and scanned the room. It was exactly as Pat and I had left it an hour before, pristine and reeking of ammonia. I looked over my shoulder at Wendell, who held his trombone like a bat. “Let’s try the back.”

  He wiped sweat from his forehead. “I’ll go first.”

  I was touched that he would offer to protect me. “Thanks, but”—I patted my hip—“I’ve got a gun.”

  “Then by all means,”—he gestured to the hall—“ladies first.”

  I nodded, and we crept down the narrow hallway to the pantry. I reached for the door handle.

  His eyes popped. “Do we have to?”

  I nodded and put my finger to my lips. Then I moved one hand to my gun and pulled the door open with the other.

  A faint light came through the porthole.

  The pantry was empty.

  Wendell blew out another breath, and I continued to the walk-in. I stopped breathing as I peered around the corner to Alfredo’s office.

  It was empty too.

  I exhaled like Wendell. “It’s clear.”

  His eyes upturned, and he passed his hand over his face, pulling down his lips. “Miss Glenda musta been hearin’ thangs.”

  “Yeah, this boat
’s old and creaky.” I took a look at Alfredo’s desk, and on my way out, I yanked open the walk-in.

  Wendell’s trombone hit the tile and rolled.

  And so did Wendell.

  I knelt and patted his cheek while I looked up at Alfredo and struggled not to pass out myself.

  In a scene straight from the movie Goodfellas, he hung by the back of his shirt from a meat hook. Like Nick Pescatore, he had frost on his face, but he wasn’t holding a playing card. Still, the symbolism was clear—a mob hit.

  I glanced around the walk-in, woozy with shock. I had to keep my wits about me to look for evidence that would point to his killer. But all I could see were the lemons.

  And the thug, who hung from a hook behind the chef.

  20

  As I gaped at the bodies of Alfredo and the thug in the walk-in, I felt cold and lightheaded as though I were suspended from a meat hook alongside them. Their murders had effectively killed everything I thought I knew about Nick Pescatore’s case, and all I had left were questions that left me in a chilling state of limbo.

  Had Gigi Scalino come on the Galliano to whack his own brother? Not even Michael Corleone had shown that much cruelty in The Godfather. He had his men kill his brother Fredo, which could have been what the thug had come onboard to do. But if so, who’d whacked the thug? And did this mean Alfredo hadn’t killed Nick?

  Clenching and unclenching my fists to keep from keeling over like Wendell, I entered the walk-in. There were no signs of trauma on the front of the men’s bodies, but when I examined them from behind the cause of death was clear—their skulls had been crushed. The thug didn’t have frost on his face like Alfredo, but that was because he’d been alive within the past hour. Alfredo had been killed much earlier, which explained why I hadn’t seen him all day.

  I had to feel for the thug’s pulse, but I sure didn’t want to. My hand inched toward his wrist, and bile churned in my gut like the river below the Galliano. I was as grossed out as if I were about to touch Pat’s phlegm rag. It took a few seconds, but my fingers finally landed.

  His wrist was warm.

  And it moved.

  I let out a scream that could be heard downriver, even though I knew I’d caused the movement, and fell into a crate of lemons. Juice oozed through the seat of my jeans, a bitter reminder that no matter how bad things were, there could always be a lemon lurking that would make things worse.

  I heard a groan and a thud in the office, and my body went from cold to deep freeze.

  Had Wendell been whacked too?

  I pushed myself from the crate and peered with my gun aimed outside the walk-in door.

  And I relaxed.

  Wendell had moved, which meant he’d come to and fainted again.

  I went back inside the walk-in and checked for the thug’s pulse. He hadn’t survived the skull fracture.

  With a shudder, I slid my gun into my waistband and sent a text alerting Ruth and Kate to the murders. Then I left the walk-in and tried again to revive Wendell, but he was out cold—almost to the extent of Alfredo and the thug. I rose to check the galley first aid kit for smelling salts.

  And I saw Pat.

  She blocked the hallway, her eye twitch going ten miles an hour, like the steamboat.

  Had I been wrong about her innocence?

  “You’re the murderer.”

  Evidently not. “No, Pat, I found them dead a few minutes ago.”

  “You’re a big ’un. You killed ’em and hung ’em up like sides o’ beef.” She turned and limp-loped up the hall.

  “I’m not big, I’m tall,” I protested, following after her, “and my size doesn’t make me a murderer. I’m a PI, and I was hired to investigate Nick’s death. Wait till Wendell wakes up. He’ll tell—”

  My mouth clamped shut when I entered the galley.

  Pat was behind the island, wielding a chef’s knife. “I could tell there was somethin’ shifty about you the day you started this gig.”

  This from a woman who looked like the Sea Hag and walked like Igor from Frankenstein. “That’s probably because I was undercover.”

  “Yeah. An undercover assassin.”

  I raised my hands and approached the island. “Pat—”

  She raised the knife. “One more step, and I’ll carve out your heart and liver and make boudin outta ya.”

  That was unnecessarily graphic. “Try it. I’m packing a Ruger.”

  “So you are a killer.”

  “I carry a weapon to protect myself.” I heard a noise behind me and glanced over my shoulder, hoping Wendell had regained consciousness.

  “Pour le Roi et pour la France!”

  I turned as Pat charged with her raised knife. I ran to the opposite side of the island, wondering why she’d shouted about the King and France. “What are you yelling?”

  “My ancestors were Bourbon monarchists who helped defeat Napoleon. That was their battle cry.”

  “Yeah, well, the king is dead, and that French won’t work on an Italian-American.”

  She growled a hmphf worthy of the Sea Hag herself. “Because you’re a dirty mobster.”

  “Don’t confuse me with Alfredo and Gigi.”

  Her eye twitched. “There you go trashin’ the Scalinos again.” She rotated the knife. “Keep it up, and I’ll cut out your spine for a nice backbone stew.”

  Pat might not have killed anyone on the Galliano, but I was starting to think she was a female Hannibal Lecter in her free time.

  We sized each other up across the island.

  She hunkered into a linebacker position and growled.

  When she’d lost her uterus, her testicles must’ve dropped. It would be a tough fight, but if I could get my arms around her barrel chest, I was sure I could subdue her without firing a shot. But all bets were off if I ran into that phlegm rag.

  Her eyebrow cocked as though she’d heard my thoughts, and she darted along the side of the island.

  The galley door opened, and before Pat could turn the corner, Kate rushed in and delivered a hip check that knocked her into the supply rack and sent the chef’s knife skidding.

  Kate stooped to retrieve the weapon. “As we say in roller derby, ‘Win some, bruise some.’”

  I stepped from behind the island. “Nice hip work.”

  “Thanks. When I was training to make my team, I practiced on Danny in his Dancing Hand Grenade costume.”

  I wished I’d been there to see the green drink go down.

  Pat pulled herself from the supply rack and touched her teeth to see if she’d lost another. “What’re you gonna do to me?”

  Kate shrugged. “Franki?”

  I eyed the Sea Hag. “First you’re going to answer some questions. And remember, Kate’s got your knife, and I’ve got a gun, so don’t try to BS us.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Whether you’ve been withholding information about any of the murders or the drugs.”

  Her eyes met mine, and they didn’t twitch. “Chef Scalino never said nothin’ to me that wasn’t an order.”

  Another reason to adore him. “What about Nick’s uncle, Luigi Pescatore? Alfredo was holding him hostage onboard. Do you know where?”

  She rubbed her thighs. “The chef had me make meals for someone, but I don’t know if it was him.”

  Kate shook the knife. “Who delivered the meals?”

  “Gerald.”

  Was she talking about a passenger? “Who’s Gerald?”

  “The dead guy hanging behind the chef in the walk-in.”

  He had to be Irish. No Italian mobster would give his son a name like that. “What about Detective Sullivan? Have you seen him with Alfredo or Gerald?”

  She shook her head. “I ain’t seen them together, no.”

  Kate ran a hand through her short hair. “This is going nowhere. What should we do with her?”

  I narrowed my eyes at Pat. “We’ll lock her in the pantry for the night. We can’t trust her given her blind loyalty to the Scal
inos.” And my army wasn’t so ragtag that we’d take a woman with a rag soaked in phlegm. “I’ll take care of her if you help Wendell. He fainted by the walk-in when he saw the bodies. But first, put away that knife, or he’s likely to go down again.”

  Kate returned the knife to the block, and she strode into the hallway.

  I drew my gun and ushered Pat to the pantry, keeping at least a foot between me and the rag. She entered without a struggle, and I locked the door and returned to the galley to keep watch for the killer until Kate and Wendell were ready to leave. While I waited, I pulled out my phone to search for a number for the coast guard.

  Veronica Maggio appeared on the display. “Finally.” I tapped Answer before it even rang. “Veronica, you’re not going to believe—”

  “Franki, can you hear me?”

  “Yes, can you hear me?”

  “Barely. I’ve been calling to tell you—”

  The line went dead.

  “Seriously?” I tapped her number, but it didn’t ring. I sent a text and got a Not Delivered message.

  Kate led a grimacing Wendell and his trombone into the galley.

  I couldn’t tell if he was in pain or embarrassed. “Why don’t you go to your cabin and lie down?”

  His eyes threatened to blast from their orbits. “By myself? Uh-uh. Not on this boat I won’t.”

  Kate looked at me. “Do you think we should tell the passengers to go to their rooms?”

  “We’d have to tell them about the murders, and pandemonium could break out.”

  “An’ dis is Loosiana.” Wendell raised his trombone. “People got guns.”

  Kate chewed her lip. “But if we don’t warn them, innocent people could get killed.”

  I leaned against the island. “This is a Mafia thing. They typically only kill each other.”

  “Are you sure about that? The detective could have done this.”

  I gazed at the floor. Sullivan was a snake, but I didn’t think he was a killer—at least, not yet. “All I know is there’s safety in numbers. So why don’t you guys go back to the casino and try to keep the passengers there? Offer door prizes every half hour or something like that.”