“Who’s Benjamin? An informant?”
Veronica reached into her handbag, pulled out a pink Chanel wallet, and extracted a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill with a flourish. “This is Benjamin. And sometimes I have to rely on a whole army of Benjamins to get the information I need from the police.”
I smiled. “So, you do have an informant.”
“Yeah, a police crime analyst who feels it’s her duty to ensure that cases get solved—by any means necessary. Especially crimes against women.”
“Perfect. Then this is a case she’s sure to help with. Murdering a woman who also had the great fortune to manage a LaMarca is a double crime against women.” It sounded like I was kidding, but I wasn’t.
“Agreed.” Veronica looked at the clock. “It’s five already. We’d better leave, or traffic will be a nightmare. I’ll drop you off at the apartment on my way to run errands.”
“All right.” But I wasn’t particularly eager to go home because I had two big boxes in my kitchen that I was doing my best to avoid unpacking.
Veronica typed a message on her phone. “There. I texted David and told him to do the background check on Ryan Hunter. Oh yeah, do you want to meet at Thibodeaux’s at seven o’clock for a drink? I’ll invite Glenda…”
I laughed. “Now there’s someone I’d like to see a background check on.”
At seven p.m. on the dot, I opened my front door to the grim reality of the cemetery across the street. I had quite the setup in New Orleans. My bordello-style apartment constantly reminded me that I wasn’t having sex, and the cemetery constantly reminded me that I was going to die. I definitely needed that drink. I walked the thirty or so steps to Thibodeaux’s Tavern and entered.
Veronica hadn’t arrived yet, but Glenda was already at the bar contemplating three empty tequila shot glasses with a long Breakfast at Tiffany’s-style cigarette holder in her hand. To complete her Audrey Hepburn look, she wore a black-sequined jumpsuit à la Cher and red platform stripper shoes à la Lady Gaga. She wasn’t wearing a boa, probably because it would’ve covered the skin she was trying to expose.
I approached the bar, surprised by the sumptuous brown leather furnishings, the stainless steel-covered bar, and the warm glow of candlelight. “Hi, Glenda. Heeeey, this place is really sophisticated for a tavern.”
“Did Miss Ronnie put you to work yet?”
So much for the formalities. I sat down on a barstool to her right. “Yeah, we got a big case today.”
“You lookin’ for a runaway, or what?”
I found it interesting that she would ask about a runaway. But then, she must have encountered quite a few of them in her line of work. “No, it’s actually a murder case.”
Glenda dragged off her unlit cigarette. “It’s not that strangled girl, is it?”“Yes, it is.” I was stunned by her insight.
She exhaled nonexistent smoke into my face. “I heard about that. She worked at Prada, right?”
For some reason, I waved away the smoke she didn’t exhale. “No, better. LaMarca.”
“Personally, I don’t care for their designs. All that fabric they use on their evening dresses is frumpy and confining.”
Of course, LaMarca had the most sought-after gowns in all of fashion. But compared to the clothing Glenda wore, their evening dresses—even ones that were strapless, backless, and slit to the pelvis—probably looked like pilgrim apparel to her.
An unkempt Sean Penn doppelganger approached me from behind the bar. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Um—”
“Another tequila shot,” Glenda interrupted.
“I’ll have a glass of Prosecco, please.”
Veronica slid onto the barstool next to me. “Make that two, Phillip.”
I turned toward Veronica. “I didn’t see you come in.”
“That’s because you two ladies were deep in conversation.” She smirked. “What were you talking about?”
“We were talkin’ about that girl who was strangled with the scarf, Miss Ronnie.”
Veronica looked at me quizzically. I shook my head to indicate that I hadn’t told Glenda any specifics.
“The case reminds me of a striptease I used to do when I was working at Madame Moiselle’s in the Quarter.”
“Oh?” I was instantly drawn in. There was something about Glenda that intrigued me.
“It was an artistic rendering of a woman’s transformation from victimization to self-empowerment.”
Her burst of intellectualism left me at a loss for words. Veronica hadn’t been kidding when she’d said Glenda was smart.
“I dressed entirely in sheer scarves. As I stripped away each one, it signified her metamorphosis. There was a top layer of black scarves, then underneath a layer of gray, beneath that a layer of white and then finally, a single pink scarf.”
To my total astonishment—I was moved by her description. “That’s really beautiful, Glenda.”
Veronica leaned around me. “What did the pink scarf represent? The woman’s soul?”
Glenda looked taken aback. “No. Her vagina.”
“Ah.” I was again speechless—but this time for a different reason.
Phillip the bartender returned with our drinks.
Veronica pressed a finger to her cheek. “So, the woman reclaimed her power by taking back her vagina from her victimizer?”
Oh God. I took several gulps of the drink that I was overjoyed to have at hand.
“Exactly.” Glenda looked at her with renewed respect. “And after she took her vagina back, she did whatever the hell she wanted with it.” She cackled and elbowed Veronica.
Taking “The Vagina Monologues” as my cue to leave, I stood up and chugged the remainder of my Prosecco. “Well, guys, I hate to drink and run, but I’d better head out. After all, I’ve got a case to start investigating tomorrow.”
Veronica looked up at me. “I haven’t had a chance to tell you this, Franki, but I feel so much better now that you’re here. I know I can’t go wrong with an ex-cop on my team.”
Glenda tossed back another shot of tequila. “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard that one.”
“Thanks, Veronica.” I shot Glenda a haughty look. “It’s a nice change to work for someone who has so much confidence in my abilities. See you tomorrow.”
I exited the bar into the crisp January night and got an instant chill—but not from the wintery weather. It struck me just how much was riding on this case. It wasn’t only about my self-esteem, pride, and career. It was also about Veronica’s professional reputation and the success of the business she’d worked so hard to establish, not to mention the family of the woman who’d been killed. And then there was the not-so-insignificant matter of Ryan Hunter, the sinister-seeming accused killer I’d be helping to potentially walk free.
With all of that sitting on my shoulders like a five-hundred-pound barbell, the thirty or so steps back to my apartment seemed like the longest walk of my life.
4
The knocking at my front door grew insistent.
I hopped from my bedroom, pulling on the gray pants I’d bought on clearance at Target, and opened the door.
Veronica entered in a sleek brown Elie Tahari pantsuit with a cream-colored silk blouse. She looked like a gazelle, while I was the spitting image of a hippo.
“Morning.” Her tone practically beamed sunshine. “How are you and Napoleon adjusting to your new surroundings?”
“Pretty well, especially Napoleon.” I closed the door behind her as she entered the living room. “The bordello chic decor is really bringing out the animal in him. Last night when I came home from the bar, I found him lying on his back sound asleep on the zebra print chaise lounge with his legs splayed wide open.”
“Men—of any species—have no shame.” She followed me into my bedroom.
“I know, right?” I thought of Vince and his brazen attitude about his infidelity. I entered the adjoining bathroom to put on my makeup and was surprised by the sc
owling face looking back at me in the oval mirror of the knockoff red Louis XVI vanity. I forced myself to smile. I refused to waste anymore of my precious emotion on that cheat.
Veronica flopped onto the bed next to Napoleon. “Speaking of shame, we’re going to church this morning.”
My anger toward Vince was replaced by waves of Catholic guilt. I tried to remember the last time I’d been to church. I’d visited the Vatican on my trip to Rome three years ago, but they turned me away at the door for having bare shoulders, so I was pretty sure that didn’t count. “Why in the hell would we do that?”
She sighed. “Relax, Franki. We’re not going to mass.”
I shot her a questioning look from the bathroom doorway, holding my liquid eyeliner brush like a weapon.
“Or confession,” she said, interpreting my gaze. “We’re going there to meet Betty Friedan.”
I gasped, and my Catholic guilt morphed into feminist guilt for putting on my signature Sophia Loren-style cat eyeliner. “The founder of the National Organization for Women?”
“Gah, Franki. Calm down, will you?” Veronica was lying on her side with her head propped up by her arm, indifferent to my issues. “Betty Friedan is our informant’s code name.”
I was relieved that Betty was just an informant because that meant I could wear blush and lipstick too. “How was I supposed to know that? I mean, why doesn’t she have a normal informant name like Deep Throat or Huggy Bear?”
“Because she’s not Bob Woodward’s Watergate source or a TV character from Starsky and Hutch. She’s a feminist crime analyst from the New Orleans PD.”
“So, we’re going to a church to pay off a corrupt feminist employee of the police department.” That seemed like an obvious violation of all that was holy. “What’s the occasion?”
“She’s going to give us the police report on the Evans murder and photos of the crime scene. I called her and asked for them after David texted me the results of Ryan Hunter’s background check. His record is clean, by the way. That is, except for the assault charge on Jessica he told us about and a surprising number of moving violations.”
I remembered how angry and aggressive he’d seemed yesterday. “I’m sure he’s got a serious case of road rage. People like that are capable of anything.”
“That’s a big accusation coming from a woman who once intentionally ran her car into her ex-boyfriend’s house.”
I glared at her. “It wasn’t his house. It was his fence. The little picket fence we’d painted white together when I was still stupid enough to think he was going to marry me. And I can’t believe you would bring up Todd Rothman. College was years ago.”
She blinked. “That was road rage, wasn’t it?”
“No, it was relationship rage after he forgot to tell me he’d found a new girlfriend and was sleeping with her in the house that was supposed to be ours.” I rubbed blush on my cheek so vigorously that it turned red on its own. “Besides, knocking down Todd’s fence certainly doesn’t make me like Ryan Hunter.”
“Of course not.” She rubbed Napoleon’s belly, and he looked at her with love in his eyes. “I’m just trying to point out that road rage doesn’t make someone a killer. So, until we find evidence to prove otherwise, we have to proceed on the assumption that Ryan is innocent, no matter how despicable he may be.”
“I know, I know.” It was so annoying when Veronica was right. I had all but convicted Ryan and was fully prepared to throw away the key. “But the jury’s still out on that guy. And for the record, I’ve come a long way since Todd. Just look at how well I’ve handled Vince’s cheating.”
“I’m very proud of you for that.”
Her admission took the angry wind out of my sails. “So where is this church?”
“On Rampart Street in the Quarter. It’s the old Mortuary Chapel.”
“A mortuary chapel, Veronica?” She knew how creeped out I was by cemeteries and churches, so I couldn’t believe she would take me to a combination of the two. “Really?”
“Really. It’s close to the police station where Betty works. And they haven’t kept dead bodies there since the yellow fever epidemic of the 1800s, so you’ll be fine. You’ll like it too because it became an Italian immigrant church.”
She’d intentionally used our heritage to persuade me. Such an attorney.
“Now let’s go.” Veronica gave Napoleon a final scratch and jumped off the bed. “I’ll drive. You’re kind of jumpy today.”
“Okay, but we’re going out the back door. There is no way in inferno that I’m passing by a cemetery on my way to a mortuary chapel.”
Veronica stopped the car in front of the chapel. “See? No gothic spires or gargoyles on the outside, and I promise there are no bodies inside.”
I stared out the passenger window. “Why did you tell me this was called the Mortuary Chapel? The sign says Our Lady of Guadalupe Catholic Church.”
“Because I know you, and if you’d read the historical plaque over there and learned that the original name had the word mortuary in it, you would’ve caused a scene. Possibly even in the church.” She turned off the engine and put her keys into her brown Balenciaga bag.
Good point. I exited the car and walked over to the plaque eager to find out if there was anything else about the church she’d failed to mention. “Hey, this doesn’t say anything about being an Italian immigrant church. But it does say that it’s the official chapel of the New Orleans Police and Fire Departments. Is it really a good idea to meet Betty here?”
Veronica walked up behind me in her dainty Jimmy Choos. “It’s the perfect place. No one in the police department would be surprised if an employee came here. Plus, with all these people around, no one would suspect a payoff was going down either.”
“I hope you’re right. You know my nonna would never live it down if I got busted in a church.” My nonna was convinced that my lapsed Catholicism was a major impediment to my ability to attract a suitable husband. If I got excommunicated too, it would surely seal my fate as a lifelong zitella in her eyes.
Veronica looked at her phone, ignoring my concerns. “We’re early. Betty might not be here yet. Let’s go inside and wait.”
“Why not?” I asked—not without a note of bitterness.
When I followed Veronica into the church, I noticed a line of people in front of a statue of a Roman centurion holding a cross and stepping on a bird that, on closer inspection, appeared to be a crow. He looked like one of the modern-day Italian men who hang around the Colosseum in Rome dressed in cheesy centurion and gladiator costumes to pose in pictures with tourists. I watched as each person who approached the statue rubbed its feet, murmured something, and then made the sign of the cross. A few people had deposited flowers at the base of the statue, but others had left slices of what looked like pound cake.
“Man, I wish people would leave me flowers and pound cake. Which saint is that anyhow? The patron saint of florists and bakers?”
“That’s Saint Expedite,” a strong masculine voice said behind me.
I turned to see an unorthodoxly attractive young priest with thick, wavy brown hair, sensual lips, and a ravishing smile. If he’d lived in Rome he would have been a candidate for the annual priest calendar, which, in my mind, was the bizarre and seemingly sacrilegious Italian equivalent of the fireman’s calendar. Of course, I didn’t think this priest was good looking or anything—it’s just that he wasn’t anything like the old priests I’d grown up around in Houston.
“I’m Father John.” He clasped my hand in his.
The minute his skin touched mine, I itched. Ever since I was a young girl in Sunday school, I’d been allergic to the clergy. It was a psychosomatic reaction to the Catholic guilt I felt about my sporadic visits to church as a child, thanks to my parents’ seven-day-per-week work schedule and the fact that my over excitable nonna couldn’t be trusted with a car.
I withdrew my hand from his as though it had been burned by the fires of hell and blurted, “Bless me fat
her for I have sinned.”
He looked confused. “Did you come for confession?”
“Oh, no.” I felt my face turning as red as communion wine. The phrase was the only thing I could remember ever saying to a priest. I forced nonchalance as I scratched a spot on my left elbow. “I’m good. I’m here with a friend. She needs to confess, though.” It wasn’t true, but it served her right for disappearing.
“Well, we can certainly help her with that.” He flashed another gorgeous smile.
“Gr-great.” I scratched my side. The icky combination of his handsomeness and his holiness really freaked me out. “I don’t remember learning about Saint Expedite in Sunday school.”
“You didn’t learn about him in Sunday school because he’s not officially recognized by the Catholic Church.” He cast a doubtful look in Saint Expedite’s direction. “But the Church occasionally tolerates the veneration of local saints.”
I scanned the church for Veronica and mentally cursed her. Then I felt guilty for thinking profanity in a church. “What’s he the patron saint of?”
“Anyone who’s looking for a quick solution to a problem, who needs money, or wants to stop procrastinating.”
Me, me, and me. The saint had gotten a lot more interesting. “So, why are those people leaving him pound cake? I mean, I can kind of understand the flowers, but cake?”
“Well, in recent years, Expedite has become the patron saint of people who need to win court cases. They leave him a slice of pound cake as an offering so that he’ll be more inclined to help them stay out of jail or—”
“Hold on.” A pang of guilt jabbed at my gut for cutting off a priest, but I had to get to the bottom of the cake thing. “They leave him pound cake so that he’ll keep them out of the slammer?”
“It has its origins in voodoo. In New Orleans, voodoo and the Catholic Church are closely related. The fusion of the French and African cultures in Louisiana resulted in an association of the voodoo spirits with Christian saints. Some people call Saint Expedite the Voodoo Saint because he represents Baron Samedi, the voodoo loa of death.”
Franki Amato Mysteries Box Set Page 5
