Franki Amato Mysteries Box Set

by Traci Andrighetti

  The back of my head hit the wall. My nonna had been calling me a zitella, the Italian word for “old maid,” since I was sixteen. She’d also been telling me that she had one thing left to do before she could die—see to it that I was properly sistemata, or settled, and making lots of babies and home-cooked meals for my husband.

  “I still have-a some good friends there with-a some sons,” Nonna said. “They might-a be divorced once or twice, and they might-a have-a some kids. And maybe they don’t have-a no job. But remember, a zitella can’t-a be choosy. I’ll make-a some calls and get-a back-a to you.”

  I swallowed a lump the size of a calzone. “Thanks, Nonna. But I’d really rather meet men on my own.”

  My mother gave an unamused laugh. “Well, we can see where that’s gotten you, dear.”

  “Franki, when is this move?” My dad had once again shifted the conversation away from men. “I can help you, if you’d like. I wouldn’t mind going down to the French Quarter to check in with everyone at Central Grocery. That’s where I got my start in the deli business, you know. Making muffulettas.”

  “Yeah, I know, Dad.” As if I could’ve forgotten that Central Grocery’s famous muffuletta sandwich was indirectly responsible for me and my two brothers’ entire existence. “But that won’t be necessary. I’m leaving tomorrow with only what I can put in my car. I got rid of most of my stuff because the apartment’s fully furnished.”

  “What?” My mom and nonna shouted in unison.

  “You gonna sleep in someone else’s-a bed?” My nonna had genuine fear in her voice. “Porta iella!”

  I’d heard her use this phrase, which was Italian for “It brings bad luck,” at least twice a week throughout my childhood. To my nonna, practically every single action, if done improperly or in the wrong frame of mind, would either bring bad luck or invoke malocchiu, the dreaded “evil eye.”

  “And besides bad luck,” my mother said, “it’s just plain dirty, Francesca. You don’t know anything about the people who slept in that bed before you. Some people don’t bathe. And they might have had bedbugs. Or maybe—”

  “Okay, well, thanks for the advice, everyone. I’d love to keep talking, but I’ve got packing to do before I leave tomorrow. Ciao ciao!”

  I hung up without giving them a chance to respond—a technique I’d learned the first time I’d called home after moving away to go to college. Then I let out a long, slow exhale. To think I’d considered moving back home to Houston instead of New Orleans.

  After eight hours of driving—for Napoleon, eight hours of dozing—we turned onto our new street in the Uptown neighborhood of New Orleans. We were greeted by a crowd of people, who had their backs to us. I heard a live brass band playing “When the Saints Go Marching In” and realized that the crowd was walking in procession in time with the music. The people in the back of the procession wore casual clothes. Some twirled parasols, others shook handkerchiefs. Those in the front, however, were dressed more elegantly and mostly in black.

  “Oh, hell no. We’re following a jazz funeral.”

  Napoleon’s ears shot up as though he too understood that it wasn’t an auspicious beginning to our new life.

  As I inched down Maple Street, I caught glimpses of the horse-drawn hearse carrying a casket behind glass, and I watched as the funeral-goers danced joyously to the music. My father had once told me that the people in the front, the family and friends of the deceased, were called the “first line.” Those in the back were called the “second line” because they weren’t part of the funeral but instead were passersby following along and enjoying the music. Life was certainly different in New Orleans, and so was death.

  I glanced at the street addresses on my left and saw that they were odd-numbered. I looked at the next address and discovered that we were close to 7445. “We’re almost there, boy.”

  Napoleon cocked his head, no doubt wondering whether he would ever crack the mysteries of human speech, and I gave his head an affectionate scratch.

  A few minutes later, the funeral procession entered a large cemetery.

  I looked to my left again and saw 7445, an old two-story house that had been converted into a fourplex.

  And I shuddered in horror.

  My new home was right smack across the street from that cemetery.

  I was going to have to kill Veronica for not telling me about it. And after I did, I knew exactly where I would bury her. She was well aware that cemeteries—particularly creepy New Orleans ones with their assortment of tombs, sarcophagi, obelisks, gothic statues, and voodoo rituals—made my skin crawl.

  The good news was that next to the cemetery was a tavern named Thibodeaux’s, which it looked like I was going to need.

  I parked on the street in front of the house. Before I could get out of the car, Veronica came out her front door, smiling and waving with Hercules in tow in a turquoise fuzzy sweater that matched hers perfectly. Despite her Sicilian father, Veronica looked Swedish like her ex-ballerina mother, with long blonde hair, cornflower blue eyes, and pale skin.

  “Franki!” She squealed.

  I climbed from the car and bent over—at the waist—to hug her. I’d forgotten how tiny she was, and I wondered for at least the hundredth time how her internal organs could function in such a small frame.

  She looked at me and smiled. “How does it feel to be in New Orleans?”

  I glanced over at the cemetery and then back at her. “At the moment, it feels fairly morbid.”

  “Oh, come on. You don’t still have that weird cemetery issue, do you?”

  “Yes, Veronica. And I can’t believe you didn’t tell me that there’s one right across the street. Lots of people would find it disturbing to go to sleep at night with a cemetery in their front yard, especially a New Orleans cemetery.”

  Veronica shook her head in mock disgust as she grabbed a box from my back seat.

  “Thank God there’s a bar right next to it, in case I need to drink myself to death from despair.”

  She gave a sweet smile. “Well, if you do drink yourself to death, I wouldn’t have to carry you very far for your burial.”

  I pointed my index and pinky fingers downward—the opposite of the University of Texas hook ‘em horns gesture—like my nonna had taught me to ward off the threat of death, which Veronica had so carelessly cast upon me.

  She rolled her eyes. “You still do that silly scongiuri gesture? God, Franki, you make me so glad my nonna stayed in Sicily. You’re so superstitious.”

  “I do it just in case,” I snapped. “I mean, you never know…”

  Veronica walked to my new front door, which was next to hers, and pulled a key from the front pocket of her designer jeans. “Glenda—our landlady—told me to let you in. She’ll come downstairs to meet you in a few minutes.”

  With the box balanced on her left hip, Veronica unlocked my front door and shoved it open with her shoulder. She turned to me and bowed. “Welcome to your humble abode.”

  Excited, I entered the apartment with Napoleon at my heels. As I surveyed the living room, a number of adjectives came to mind, but humble was not one of them.

  The room was the home-decor equivalent of Amsterdam’s Red Light District. The walls were covered in fuzzy, blood-red wallpaper with shiny gold fleurs-de-lis, and hanging from the ceiling was a baroque red-and-black crystal chandelier. The couch was a rococo chaise lounge in velvet zebra print, and next to it was a lilac velour armchair with gold fringe that matched the drapery to perfection. On the opposite wall there was a mahogany wood fireplace with a hearth covered in white candles of various sizes and shapes. In front of the fireplace, a bearskin rug replete with a bear head covered the hardwood floors. The only thing missing was the red fluorescent light in the living room window signaling my availability for prospective clients.

  “Wow. So…this Glenda… Is she a prostitute?” It was a joke. Sort of.

  “Former stripper, actually,” Veronica said. “And she’s really touchy about the diffe
rence, so don’t use the word prostitute in front of her.”

  I gaped at my best friend. “You’re serious?”

  She blinked as though renting me an apartment from a former stripper across from a cemetery was normal. “You know, I was reading that the brothel look is really popular. I believe it’s called ‘bordello chic.’“ She paced as she tried to reconcile her unusually conflicted sense of fashion. “But now that I think about it, Lenny Kravitz redecorated his house here in New Orleans, and designers call his style ‘bordello modern.’“

  “Something tells me that Lenny didn’t decorate this place. And I wouldn’t exactly call this ‘bordello modern.’ It’s more like ‘bordello seventies.’“

  “Well, at least you won’t have to add any touches of color.”

  “I’ll say. Speaking of color, any idea of the backstory on this furniture?” I eyed the chaise lounge nervously. “I mean, I know it’s used. But do you have any idea where it was used?”

  Veronica shrugged. “Glenda’s a collector. She’s always going on some trip or other to buy antique furniture. You’ll have to ask her where she got it.”

  I considered Glenda’s potential sources and then immediately resolved to get a new couch. And a new bed.

  “She also collects stripper costumes.” Veronica took a seat on the lilac armchair.

  “I guess you could say she’s the Debbie Reynolds of the stripping world.”

  “How do you mean?” I was dying to hear the rationale behind that analogy.

  “She collects stripper costumes like Debbie collected Hollywood costumes. She’s got an Anna Nicole Smith, a Dita Von Teese, and a Gypsy Rose Lee. You know, Glenda was quite the local celebrity back in the sixties and seventies. She stripped for all the famous singers, actors, and politicians. She even danced for President John F. Kennedy. She made a fortune and invested it all in real estate, antiques, and strip memorabilia.”

  “What did you say her last name was?” I was determined to google her.

  “O’Brien. But her stage name was Lorraine Lamour.”

  “Oh, solid choice.” I was truly impressed.

  “Do you want to go see the boudoir?”

  “Okay. But promise me that it doesn’t have a heart-shaped bed or a mirrored ceiling.”

  “Lord, no. I don’t go in for the tacky look,” a raspy voice said behind me.

  I turned and saw standing in the doorway a short, wiry, sixty-something woman with a deeply lined face, platinum boob-length hair, and the longest false eyelashes I had ever seen. From the outfit she was wearing, I had no doubt whatsoever that it was Glenda. She was dressed in a sheer black robe with gold sequins, a ruffled leopard print corset with a matching ultra mini skirt, black satin stripper slippers with feathers, and a bright yellow boa. In her left hand, she held a Mae West-style cigarette holder, and in her right was a glass of champagne.

  “You must be Miss Franki. I can see that you’re Italian because you look like that actress from the 1960s, Claudia Cardinale. You’ve got her tits too.” She sized up my chest as she took a drag from her cigarette. “My name’s Glenda, but I also answer to Lorraine. Welcome to New Orleans, sugar.”

  “Thanks, uh, Miss Glenda.” I threw in the Miss because I was uncertain of proper Southern stripper forms of address and whether I was supposed to throw in a honey or a doll. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Likewise, I’m sure.” She inelegantly exhaled a puff of smoke. “I see that Miss Ronnie here has shown you the place. In case she didn’t mention it, the laundry room is downstairs in the basement. And if you need more storage space, there’s a walk-in closet down there you’re free to use. I used to keep my costumes in it, but after the post-Katrina floods I moved them to the apartment upstairs.”

  “Veron—, I mean, Miss Ronnie, told me that you collect costumes.”

  “I still have every one I wore on stage, except one made of packing tape—they had to cut me out of that one, child.” She laughed with a hacking sound typical of smoker’s cough. “Anyway, I dropped a wad of strippin’ tips on those costumes, so I’ve gotta look after my investment.”

  “Of course.” I did my best to sound empathetic.

  “Now. I don’t mind your furry friend here as long as he doesn’t poop and pee on my chaise lounge. I had to search all over Louisiana to find one in faux zebra.”

  I glanced at Napoleon, who was hiking his leg on Hercules, and nudged him with my foot. “Oh, he’s house trained.”

  “Good. One last thing—The Visitor Policy. I don’t allow my female tenants to have more than two male friends spend the night at one time. I’ve got a reputation to protect, and I don’t want people to think I rent to whores.”

  “Certainly not,” I said with conviction.

  “Let me know if you have any questions.”

  I started to ask Glenda about the origin of the furniture and then decided to keep my mouth shut. “No, I think it’s all painfu—, er, very clear for now.”

  “All right then, you ladies have a good evening. And when you’re all settled in, Miss Franki, I’ll take you over to Thibodeaux’s for a Harvey Wallbanger. Au revoir.”

  I turned to Veronica. “What’s a Harvey Wallbanger? Or is that a who?”

  “It’s some drink from the seventies.”

  “That’s funny. I’d sort of taken for her a Fuzzy Navel or Slippery Nipple drinker.”

  She gave me a sideways look. “You know, Glenda’s a little rough around the edges, but she’s whip smart.”

  “An interesting choice of adjectives to describe her intelligence.”

  Veronica leaned over to pick up Hercules, who, despite his mighty name, had been having a tough time fending off Napoleon’s skillful battle techniques. “So, what do you say, Franki?”

  “I say that people think Austin is weird, but it’s got nothing on NOLA.”

  “Are you ready to start work tomorrow?” She adjusted Hercules’s sweater.

  I took a seat on the chaise lounge. “After today, I’m ready for anything.”

  My phone rang on the nightstand.

  Thinking it was my mom or my nonna calling to make sure that I’d encased the mattress in plastic, which I had seriously considered doing, I rolled onto my side in the black French bordello-style bed and pulled the hot pink duvet over my ear.

  But I could still hear Napoleon snoring beside me.

  And my phone continued to ring.

  I opened my eyes and glared at the hot pink canopy, Then I sat up and looked at the display.

  Vince.

  He’d called every day since I’d caught him in bed with the wrathful wrestler, but I never answered. I had also promptly deleted all of the messages he’d left for me without listening to a single one of them. Deep down I was thinking that if I just avoided him, I wouldn’t really have to face the fact that it was over, that I was alone yet again. But I knew that the time had come to hear him out and then tell him in no uncertain terms that we were through. Otherwise, I was never really going to be able to reassemble the shattered pieces of my life—not to mention my pride—and move on.

  I tapped Answer. “What do you want, Vince?”

  “Franki, finally. Why haven’t you returned any of my calls? I’ve missed you, babe.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you haven’t missed me that much. You seem to be perfectly capable of finding other women to keep you company when I’m not around.”

  “Babe, listen. That…it was all a misunderstanding.”

  “Really? So, you’re telling me that I didn’t see the Munich Maniac’s legs wrapped around your waist? Or, maybe I did, but she was just giving you private wrestling lessons? Is that it?”

  “Look, the guys dragged me to one of those nude oil-wrestling joints—”

  “Spare me the sordid details. I don’t care anymore.”

  He sighed.

  I punched a pillow.

  Napoleon stopped snoring, but he didn’t wake up.

  “Okay, babe.” Vince spoke with a note of surr
ender. “I admit it. I made a mistake. Haven’t you ever made a mistake?”

  “Yeah. I have. The day I decided to trust a cheat like you. And while we’re on the subject of mistakes, did you happen to notice that Petra looked a lot like a Peter?”

  “Damn it, Franki. Why are you being so harsh? Lots of couples deal with cheating, and they come through it stronger, babe.”

  I snorted a laugh. “First of all, stop calling me ‘babe.’ And second, don’t try to make it sound like cheating is a normal part of a relationship. I don’t have to accept womanizing, and I’m not going to.”

  “Yeah, because you’re so damned perfect, aren’t you? It’s time to grow up and deal with reality instead of running away to New Orleans like a child.”

  I stiffened. “Wait. How did you know I left Austin? Have you been spying on me, or something?”

  “I’m a lot of things, but I’m not a stalker, Franki. When you wouldn’t answer my calls I got worried, so I called Nonna Carmela. She told me you’d moved.”

  I’m sure she also told you to remind me that I wasn’t getting any younger and that zitelle couldn’t be choosers. “Vince, please leave my family out of this. This is between you and me—at least it was. There’s no you and me anymore. Not now, not ever.”

  “So, you’re going to throw away everything we had over an indiscretion?”

  “We’re not talking about an indiscretion. It’s a huge betrayal. And yes, I most certainly am.” I was proud of myself for holding my ground, even though my legs would’ve been shaking had I been standing on actual ground. I had a history of looking the other way where men were concerned. But not this time.

  “If that’s what you want, you’ve got it. You won’t hear from me again. But let me make something clear.” His tone had turned lowdown, like him. “If you’re waiting for Prince Charming or for a knight in shining armor, he ain’t gonna come. Especially not at your age. So you’d best think about that long and hard, principessa, or you’re gonna end up old and alone.”

  The call ended.

  Vince had hung up.

  I sat with the phone frozen to my ear. Not even a minute before I’d been so proud of myself, thinking that I’d come a long way from the insecure woman who would forgive a man practically anything. Then in ten seconds flat Vince had reduced me to a stubborn and naïve zitella with one foot in the grave—make that the cemetery across the street. And just like that all of my insecurities rushed back.