Franki Amato Mysteries Box Set

by Traci Andrighetti

  Veronica threw open the door, and both she and Hercules were dressed in matching orange rain gear. “Sorry it took me so long. I could not get Hercules’s galoshes on.”

  “No worries. Are you ready to go murder scarf shopping?”

  “Yeah, I’m just going to run him outside for a sec. To do his business,” she whispered and walked Hercules past me and out into the yard.

  “I’ll wait inside.” As I turned to close her door behind me, I caught a glimpse of the living room and did a double take. Instead of the familiar princess furnishings, I saw chunky, animal print-upholstered furniture made of dark wood—the legs, arms, and backs of which had been carved to look like tiki idols. Adding to the bizarre décor were tropical curtains, lamps with fuzzy orange shades, lime green wall-to-wall shag carpeting and enough plants to simulate a rain forest. It looked like our landlady Glenda had bought out the contents of Elvis Presley’s Jungle Room at Graceland on one of her antique-shopping trips.

  Veronica returned with Hercules and removed her raincoat. “What do you think of my new couch?”

  “Th-this is your furniture?”

  “Yes.” She beamed. “Do you like it?”

  “Uh, it’s wild.” I took a seat in an armchair that had what looked like an angry island god perched atop its back.

  “I know.” Veronica kicked off her galoshes and freed Hercules from his teensy galoshes and itty-bitty raincoat, which looked a lot like a doggie straitjacket. “Franki, I think I’ve discovered something important about the Evans case.”

  “What?” My tone was hesitant. I was still trying to come to grips with her Polynesian Primitive style.

  “Take a look at this.” Veronica retrieved a crime scene photo from her lava rock coffee table and shoved it under my nose. “I don’t know how I missed it before.” She pointed to the photo, which featured the yellow-trimmed scarf that had apparently been used to strangle Jessica.

  I scrutinized the edge of the scarf, which Veronica was jabbing at with a perfect pink nail. “I don’t see anything.”

  “Here, use this.” Veronica handed me a magnifying glass in the shape of a hibiscus flower.

  As I looked through the lens, I saw something thin and white where she was pointing. “What is that?”

  Her eyes glowed as bright as the lampshades. “It’s a fine barb.”

  “Um, okay,” I said sarcastically. “I guess you could call the scarf ‘fine garb’—if you work at the Renaissance Fair.”

  Veronica rolled her eyes. “I said ‘fine barb.’ It’s the piece of plastic used to attach a price tag to a garment.”

  I blinked. “You would know what that thing is called.”

  “Yeah, me and the millions of people who work in retail.” She took the photo and magnifying glass from my hands.

  “So, what do you think that fine barb thingy means?” I leaned over to stroke Hercules’s fluffy fur.

  She sat in the tiny armchair. “It means that the scarf was new.”

  “Why do you say that? Someone could have left it there without noticing.”

  “What kind of person leaves a fine barb on clothing and doesn’t notice?”

  “Beats me,” I said, thinking of all the times I’d unknowingly walked around with stickers from the store still on my clothes, not to mention the occasions when I’d put on my underwear or even my T-shirt inside out. Come to think of it, had I managed to put everything on the right way today? I did a quick spot check and then returned my attention to the case. “But, so what if it was new?”

  “I’m convinced that someone brought a brand-new scarf there on purpose.” She crossed her arms with conviction.

  “You mean, as a gift? But remember, Annabella said that Jessica hated cheap scarves. So why would someone bring her a scarf they knew she wouldn’t like?” I smoothed Hercules’s fur to see what he would look like without his Pomeranian poof.

  “Maybe the person who brought it to her didn’t know that. If it was a man—well, you know how clueless men can be about clothing.”

  “And if it was a woman, she would probably know that Jessica wouldn’t like the scarf.”

  “Precisely.”

  Veronica seemed to understand everything perfectly. I, on the other hand, couldn’t figure out how a gift-buying faux pas could solve a murder.

  “So what do you make of it?” I leaned back and assessed Hercules. With his fur flattened, he looked a lot like a Jorge.

  “If you’re talking about Hercules’s fur, I think it looks awful. But if you mean the scarf, I’m not sure yet. But something tells me that if we find out why someone gave her that particular scarf, we may have our answer.”

  “Well, the fact that the scarf was new should make it easier for us to track down.”

  Hercules struggled out of my arms and ran to Veronica.

  “Correct.” Veronica repoofed his fur and gave him a reassuring pat. “So, I’ve made a list of local stores and their addresses. We’ll have to split up to cover more ground.”

  “Split up? That’s no fun.”

  “Francesca Lucia Amato.” Veronica shook her head. “A day of shopping is always fun.”

  After spending several hours scouring boutiques in the Canal Street area, I decided that it was time to break for a late lunch. The rain had stopped, and it was shaping up to be a sunny and unseasonably warm day. Fortunately, Pontchartrain Bank was open from noon until six on Saturdays. So, I figured I’d stop by before grabbing a bite—to check on the status of my ATM card, of course.

  I entered the lobby and scanned the room for Bradley. There was no sign of him, but I did see Corinne. She beckoned to me from her teller window, and she looked pale and despondent, like Tinker Bell without her pixie dust.

  I approached her window. “Is everything okay?”

  “Franki, you are a private investigator, non?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “Yesterday I come home from work, and my petite Bijou, she is missing.”

  I wasn’t entirely sure who or what a petite Bijou was, so I hazarded a guess. “Is Bijou your pet?”

  “Oui, she is my chien—pardon, my dog. She was a gift from Thierry.” Corinne choked down a sob.” She is just a puppy.”

  “What kind of dog is she?”

  “She is a bichon frise.” She reached for her handbag under the counter and pulled out her phone. She pulled up a picture of Bijou. He looked a lot like a white powder puff with black eyes and a black nose. “Franki, can you please help me find her? I pay whatever you want.”

  “Of course.” I examined the picture. “How did the thief get into your house? Had any of the doors been tampered with? Or a window?”

  “Non.” She blew her nose with a honk. “I live in an appartement on ze fours floor.”

  “Was anything else taken?” I handed the phone back to her.

  “Only Bijou.” She wailed and covered her eyes.

  “So, it sounds like someone went there just to steal her. Corinne, the last time I was here, you said that you and Thierry had broken up. Are the two of you back together?”

  “Non. We are fini.” She put her head in her hands.

  “Do you think he could have taken Bijou?”

  “It is possible.” She raised her tear-stained face. “He still has ze key, and he is very angry wis me. But he loves Bijou, so I don’t know if he would do zat to her.”

  “Does anyone else have a key? Like your parents or a friend?”

  “No, but in ze appartement office, zey have a key.”

  I pulled a notepad and pen from my purse. “Where does Thierry live?”

  “He stay wis a friend named Brady Reiff who lives near ze Place d’Armes. I don’t know ze adresse.”

  “Where is the Place Darm?” I asked in my very best Texan-French.

  “Ah, pardon. It is ze French name for Jackson Square, ze park by ze Mississippi River. You know, when Thierry live wis me, he take Bijou zere on Saturday afternoons for a walk.”

  “
Then that will be the first place I look. I need you to text or email me the picture of Bijou and a few pictures of Thierry so that I know what he looks like.” I wrote my contact information on a piece of paper for her.

  “Tout de suite. But Franki, can I help you with somesing? You came to ze bank…”

  “No, I just wanted to check on my ATM card.” I tore the paper from my pad and handed it to her.

  “Ah, oui. It came yesterday afternoon. I was going to call you, but Mr. Hartmann say he would do it. I get it for you. Un moment.”

  “Non,” I shouted in French, not wanting to leave even the slightest bit of room for doubt. Nothing and no one was coming between me and a call from Bradley Hartmann.

  Corinne blinked, confused.

  “There’s no time to lose. I have to get to work on your case right away,” I gushed, trying to cover for my outburst. I shoved my notepad and pen into my purse and started to leave. “Au revoir.”

  “Wait.”

  I turned to look at Corinne.

  “Merci beaucoup.” Her big blue eyes were full of gratitude.

  “Prego.” I thanked her in Italian in keeping with the foreign language theme. “And don’t worry, Bijou will be back before you know it.”

  As I turned and headed for the door, I again scoured the room for Bradley, using my peripheral vision so as not to seem too obvious. But there was no sign of him, which either meant that I was a bad investigator—entirely possible—or that he had the day off.

  Outside I glanced at my watch and saw that it was two o’clock. Marie Laveau’s was open until one thirty in the morning on Saturdays, so I had plenty of time to stake out Jackson Square before going to investigate the skull bead. But first I would need to let Veronica know that I’d taken a new case. I pulled my phone from my purse and dialed her number.

  “Hey, Franki.”

  Veronica sounded extra upbeat, probably because she was shopping. “Any luck?”

  “Well, I’ve found plenty of things for me, but I haven’t found the scarf, if that’s what you mean. What about you?”

  I leaned against a lamppost. “No scarf, but I did get a case.”

  “How?”

  “A bank teller I met named Corinne wants us to find her stolen dog. I know we’re in the middle of the Evans investigation, but I’m thinking maybe her ex-boyfriend took the dog, so it should be a fairly simple case to solve.”

  “Way to go.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “So you don’t mind?”

  “Mind?” She giggled. “Private investigators work multiple cases all of the time. Besides, we could use a bank contact.”

  “What for?”

  “At the moment, for the Evans case. Ryan Hunter seems to think that Jessica Evans had more money than she should. Your teller might be able to help us find out if someone was paying her.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Corinne is really nice, so she might be willing to help us. Speaking of the Evans case, I’m going to Marie Laveau’s later today. Right now I have to follow up on a lead about the dog.”

  She sighed with mock despair. “I guess I’ll have to go it alone in the scarf search, then.”

  “You’re a real trooper, Veronica.” I’ll call you later with an update.” I closed the call and headed toward my car. I had parked at the office, which was just down the street from Jackson Square. But I needed to go home and get Napoleon. He and I were going undercover.

  “We’re on the clock now, Napoleon.” I shot him a somber look as we walked along the sidewalk toward Jackson Square Park in the French Quarter. “And we’re Texans, so we’ve got to go big or go home.”

  He turned and lifted a paw, confused.

  I realized how my words of encouragement must’ve sounded. “I’m not talking about doing your business—or going back to the apartment. You dogs are so literal.”

  He resumed walking—his version of a shrug.

  I scanned the area. I was fairly certain that Thierry wouldn’t bring a stolen dog to the park, but it was as good a place as any to search. First I wanted to case the streets that bordered the square because they were more popular with pet-walking pedestrians than the park itself. Also, I had to keep Napoleon moving as I investigated the area because, as dogs go, he wasn’t the ideal park companion. Either he didn’t understand the concept of fetch, or he just plain didn’t want to play the game. And like the French conqueror after whom he was named, Napoleon was territorial and made darn sure the other dogs knew it. On the plus side, he was the perfect cover for staking out a prospective dog thief.

  We arrived at the heavy iron fence that enclosed Jackson Square Park, and I peered through the slats. It was fairly empty and really lovely with its brilliant pink and yellow flowers, perfectly manicured lawns, and gorgeous old oak trees. In the center there was an equestrian statue of Major General Andrew Jackson, commemorating the Battle of New Orleans. Overlooking the park was the Cathedral-Basilica of St. Louis King of France, the oldest Catholic cathedral in continual use in the United States, with its stunning gray and white spires.

  Before entering the park, I led Napoleon across the street to Washington Artillery Park on the Mississippi River. A crowd had gathered at the small amphitheater near its replica Civil War cannon to watch a couple of boys tap dance, but there was no sign of Thierry or Bijou.

  We walked back toward the Jackson Square Park entrance and turned left onto St. Peter Street, which ran along the park’s west side and was home to the famous French Market with the yellow-gold archway. I stopped to window-shop at a cute little jewelry store called Ooh La La. After all, I had to look the part of a local on a Saturday afternoon stroll with her dog.

  Next, we took a right onto Chartres Street, on the north side of the park. We were immediately thrust into the throng of tourists who had gathered to see the street musicians, mimes, and open-air artist colony. I enjoyed the work of street musicians and artists, but not the mimes. The appeal of painting oneself monochrome and silently pretending to do something like juggle or cry was lost on me. As I browsed the caricatures, portraits, and landscape paintings displayed on the iron fence that encircled the park, I did my best to ignore a pesky silver-colored mime who pretended to give me what I can only assume was a pretend flower.

  After scouring the masses on Chartres, we turned right onto St. Ann Street. Napoleon pulled at the leash and growled at some tarot card readers who’d set up their little tables in front of the shops.

  “Hey, Dog Whisperer.” A genie wannabe with a hoop earring and a head scarf rose from his tiny card table. “How about you control your deranged mutt?”

  I looked him in the blue-eyeshadowed eyes. “Let’s go, Napoleon. I don’t trust these sham fortune-tellers either.”

  A tarot reader in a top hat and tails scowled and stood in solidarity with the genie.

  Before they could put a curse on us, or whatever tarot card readers did, I dragged Napoleon down the street to the gourmet and kitchen shop Creole Delicacies. I tucked him under my arm and popped inside to buy some pecan pralines—the riverfront streetcar box of twelve, to be precise. I didn’t need the calories, but I considered sampling local specialties to be an essential part of my cover.

  With pralines in hand—and in mouth—I decided it was time to stake out the park. We took a right onto Decatur Street and entered through the iron gates. We walked down the park’s gravel-lined walkways, and I kept my eyes peeled for Thierry and the powder puff.

  Napoleon kept his peeled for pigeons and squirrels.

  We circled the park a few times, and I sat on a bench near the statue of Andrew Jackson. To pass the time, I pulled out my phone and snapped a few pictures of the statue and the St. Louis Cathedral. Then I reviewed the pictures that Corinne had sent of Bijou and Thierry. The photos of Thierry were blurred, so I wasn’t sure if I would be able to identify him if he walked by dog-less. But the plan was to stay put for an hour or so, munching on pralines and watching joggers, people pushing baby strollers, and dog-walkers.
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  A small, fluffy white puppy appeared from behind a giant oak tree, and I dropped the last praline in the dirt. “Mannaggia.”

  Napoleon grabbed it before I could invoke the five-second rule.

  With a sad sigh, I pulled out my phone and studied the photo of Bijou. As I looked from the photo to the dog, a big, strapping man with reddish hair emerged from behind the tree and scooped the tiny puppy into his powerful arms.

  “Poo, poo, poo.” He snuggled his ruddy red, freckled face into the little white ball of fur. “Poo, poo, poo.”

  I wasn’t sure whether he was cooing or telling the dog to go, but either way it was embarrassing.

  He turned the dog in his arms, and I spotted a tattoo on his right bicep. I looked again at the picture of Thierry. He seemed to have light brown hair, not red, and he wore a sweater, so it was impossible to tell whether he had a tattoo.

  I dialed Corinne’s number while the guy made smooching sounds at the dog. Whoever this dude is, he sure loves that fluffball.

  “Allo, Franki?”

  “Hey, Corinne.” I spoke in a whisper. “I’m at the park at Jackson Square. There’s a white puppy here that could be Bijou—”

  “Really? What does it look like?”

  “It’s definitely a bichon frise, but the photos you sent of Thierry aren’t very clear. And the guy who’s here with the dog looks, well, Irish.”

  “Zat is him.”

  “What? Thierry is just Terry? I thought he was French.” I glanced nervously at the guy, but he didn’t seem to have heard me.

  “No, he is Irish. His surname is O’Callaghan. Oh, Franki, it is him, non?”

  “There’s an easy way to find out. Does Thierry, er, Terry, have a tattoo on his right bicep?”

  “Oui. It is a leprechaun. From ze americain cereal.”

  “Wait a second. Do you mean Lucky? The Lucky Charms leprechaun?”