“Voilà. You know him?”
“I know him well, Corinne.” My tone had turned grim. Terry was kind of lame. An Irishman with a Lucky the Leprechaun tattoo was like an Italian with a tattoo of Super Mario. Pitiful. Notre Dame’s Fighting Irish mascot would have made a way better stereotypical tattoo, especially for a big, muscular guy like the one romping around before me with the white powder puff.
“Franki, are you still zere?” She sounded panicked.
“Yes, sorry. I got distracted for a moment.”
“Zis man, does he have ze lucky leprechaun?”
I turned, and the guy was walking the dog. His right arm was extended from holding the leash, so I had a clear shot of the tattoo.
Lucky.
I would know that leprechaun anywhere. “It’s him, all right. Get down here right away.”
7
“Corinne might look like Tinker Bell, but she definitely doesn’t have her speed,” I grumbled to myself. Twenty minutes had passed since I’d called and told her to come to Jackson Square. Terry wasn’t going to stay at the park forever, and I didn’t want to have to confront him over Bijou. After all, the guy was the size of The Jolly Green Giant.
I sent Corinne a text asking for an ETA. Then I looked up.
Terry and Bijou walked toward the exit.
“Dangit. I could die for what I’m about to do, and I’m not even getting paid for it.” I sighed and chased down Corinne’s giant ex, stepping in front of him. “Terry O’Callaghan? Stop where you are.”
He lowered his eyelids but did as I instructed.
It occurred to me that if his whole body were green like his Lucky the Leprechaun tattoo, he would look a lot like The Incredible Hulk.
“Do I know you?” His voice was soft, but dangerous.
“No. I’m a private investigator, and I know that dog is stolen. So if you leave this park, I’m going to have to make a citizen’s arrest.”
He blinked. And then he began to cry like a baby—a large Irish baby. He sobbed and blubbered in a mix of English and Gaelic, calling Bijou his “wee aingeal” and “little leanbh,” which I knew were terms of endearment from all the Murder, She Wrote episodes set in Ireland.
I took the leash from his boxing glove-sized hand, and I saw Corinne running toward us. Her face was drawn.
“Thierry! What is ze matter? Why you are crying?”
Terry’s sobs turned to wails. And oddly enough, he sounded exactly like a howling dog.
Corinne wrapped her tiny Tinker Bell arms around his Hulk-like waist. “Zere, zere. Everysing is okay.”
Open-mouthed, I wondered what I was witnessing. Then I left the odd duo to work out their differences.
I headed in the direction of the office to drop off Napoleon before going over to Bourbon Street to Marie Laveau’s. Although I was hungry, I was going to skip dinner thanks to the pralines I’d eaten for lunch while staking out the park. Mardi Gras was just around the corner, and Veronica had told me that the average New Orleanian gained six pounds during the season, which meant I was sure to gain twelve. And frankly, I couldn’t afford to gain any more weight because I was already bursting from my clothes, and I was in no position to buy a new wardrobe.
Trying to drive thoughts of food from my mind—a hard thing to do in the Quarter near dinnertime—I walked up Decatur Street toward Saint Ann. But after only about five minutes, I stopped dead. Right in front of me at an outdoor table at Market Café sat none other than Bradley Hartmann. This was my chance to work my date-getting magic. I’d always been pretty good at getting a guy—I just had trouble keeping one.
I stood up straight, sucked in my stomach, and sauntered past his table, but he didn’t notice me because he was absorbed in The Times-Picayune. There were some empty tables near where Bradley sat, so I hurried to the hostess. In my haste, I bumped into a burly waitress with short, electric-blue hair, a sleeve tattoo, and triple-pierced eyebrows, causing her to drop a tray loaded with food.
“You just cost me a tip, lady.” Her tone was as tough as her look.
“I’m so sorry.” I bent down to help her pick up the dishes.
“Why don’t you let me take care of this? I think you’ve done enough already.”
I looked up from the pile of broken dishes and read her nametag—Charity. Talk about a misnomer. “Like I said, Charity, I’m sorry.” I put another plate shard on the tray. “And I can take care of that tip.”
“Like I said, lady, I got this.” She shot me an aggressive look.
“Well, if you insist.” I rose to my feet. “Listen, I’m really pressed for time, and I don’t see your hostess. Would you mind if I seated myself?”
Her pierced brows twitched. “A member of the staff has to seat you. Restaurant policy.”
“All right. Can you seat me then, please?”
She stared at me for a moment and clenched her teeth. “Let me get you a menu.”
By then I was in such a hurry that I didn’t want to wait. So I blew right past her and made a beeline for the banker. “Bradley!”
Apparently, he wasn’t used to women shouting his name in restaurants, because he jumped and knocked over his beer, spilling gold liquid all over the bulk of his newspaper.
“I’m so sorry.” I sounded like a broken record. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
He gave an ironic smile as he rose to his feet. “I didn’t want any more of that beer, anyway.”
Charity, who had been standing with arms crossed by what was supposed to be my table, rolled her eyes and came over to help us clean up the spill with a towel. She wadded up the wet newspaper and pointed to a table far away. “Your menu is on the table over there.”
“Thanks, Charity,” I said none-too-appreciatively and willed her to leave. For reasons I couldn’t fathom, she seemed adamant that I was going to sit at the table she’d selected for me, because she wouldn’t budge. And I wasn’t budging either.
Bradley, who couldn’t help but notice the standoff between Charity and me, came to my rescue. “It’s Franki, right?”
I nodded.
“Would you like to join me? I ordered a few minutes ago, so I’m sure there’s still time to add your order.” He winked at Charity to smooth things over.
“I would love to.” I cast Charity a triumphant look. “But I’m not hungry,” I lied, hoping he couldn’t hear the growling—make that the roaring—of the mighty lion who had chosen that moment to take up residence in my stomach. “I was just going to have a glass of Pinot Grigio.”
“So, just the wine?” Charity asked.
To my dismay, I remembered that I was still on the clock—and on a diet. “Make that a cup of coffee. Decaf.”
She looked me up and down, as though weighing me with her eyes, and went to place my order.
Bradley turned to me. “You’ve really got a way with the staff, don’t you?”
Okay, so maybe he wasn’t the best choice for a date. I opted to change the subject to safer ground. “So, what have you been up to today?”
“Errands mostly. And Trixi and I took a walk along the river.”
“Trixi?” I felt as though I’d just been kicked in the stomach by that ornery lion.
“Yes, she’s my devoted companion.” His eyes were twinkling.
“Oh.” I was taken aback by my disappointment. After all, I wasn’t really interested in the guy. I just needed a date to ward off my nonna.
Bradley looked under the table. “There’s my girl.”
I followed his gaze and saw a darling cairn terrier with wheaten fur lying at his feet. Of course, cairns were my favorite breed, but I hadn’t exactly pegged Bradley as a cute little dog guy. It was definitely a point in his favor.
“She’s adorable.” I reached down to pet her.
Without raising her head, Trixi lifted one side of her mouth and flashed her teeth at me.
I recoiled in surprise. She wasn’t as sweet as she looked. But then again, maybe she was timid and needed a little time to get to know to me. I
acted as though nothing had happened with Bradley’s beloved canine. “I have a cairn too. His name is Napoleon because he’s small in size but big in personality.”
“Cairns are great dogs, aren’t they? I like them because they’re spunky and independent. That’s the way I like my women too.” He shot me a wicked grin.
Charming. I shifted in my chair. The movement angered Trixi, who snapped at my shoe with the speed of a snake. I yanked my foot away. “You have to be careful with cairns, though.”
“Yeah, but not with my Trixi.” Bradley reached down to stroke her head. She rolled onto her back exposing her butterball belly. “She’s an angel.”
I glared under the table. More like a con artist. “She’s something all right.”
Charity the waitress returned and gave Bradley his sandwich, a po’ boy filled with oysters that had been battered and deep-fried to a golden brown.
She placed the cup of decaf on the table. “Can I get you guys anything else?” Charity looked straight at me. “Like, for example, a meal instead of a cheap cup of coffee?”
I met her gaze with a hint of a glare. “Nope, we’re doing great.”
“Awesome.” She slammed down a plastic tray with the bill and walked away.
Of course she’d left only one peppermint.
“This sandwich is huge.” Bradley picked up half. “Would you like some?”
“No thanks.” I devoured the po’ boy with my eyes. “I couldn’t even think of food right now,” I fibbed, pouring four Splenda packets into my coffee in hopes of adding some density.
“Well, okay, then.” He took a hearty bite.
I was starting to think that Bradley knew I was hungry and was rubbing it in. Trying to avoid watching him chew, I took a big, hungry sip of my decaf. It was much hotter than I’d realized, and it scalded my mouth. “Mmm,” I moaned, tightening my lips to avoid spitting blistering hot coffee onto Bradley like an erupting volcano. I opened my mouth a crack to let some steam out. “Aawwhh.”
“Are you all right?”
“Ow-huh.” I forced the burning liquid down in one fiery gulp. “Iss juss so…goouh,” I said, avoiding any contact been my tongue and the roof of my mouth.
“Oh, okay. Listen, I was planning on calling you—”
“You were?” I interrupted, forgetting about my scorched mouth—and my dignity.
He flashed a mischievous smile. “Your ATM card finally arrived.”
“Right. My ATM card. That’s what I thought you’d be calling about.” I feigned an intense interest in stirring my coffee.
“I could mail it to you, if you’d like.” He took another bite of po’ boy.
“Oh no.” I wanted to be sure I got that card in person. “What I mean is, I need it before that. I’ll just drop by the bank and pick it up.”
“Well, the bank’s actually open until six today, so you could make it over there in time if you leave after you finish your coffee.”
I detected a hint of teasing in his voice. Bradley seemed to think I was into him, which was utterly ridiculous. My interest was strictly business—family business. “It can wait until Monday. I mean, I have lots to do today.”
He looked amused. “Anything fun on the agenda?”
“Well, after this I have to go to the voodoo store.”
Bradley stopped in mid-bite. “Mind if I ask why?”
“For a case I’m investigating.”
“That’s right, Corinne said you were a PI. So tell me,” he cocked an eyebrow, “which Charlie’s Angel are you most like?”
Resentment boiled in my belly—or maybe it was the coffee. He was obviously insinuating that I was both a dilettante and a sex object, but I wasn’t play-acting at my job. “Well, if you must know I…”
Bradley reached out and freed a strand of my hair that had gotten stuck on my lipgloss, his fingertips lightly grazing my check and my neck.
A shiver ran down my traitorous spine.
He leaned back and draped an arm over the chair next to him. “You were saying?”
“Um, what?” I didn’t remember anything before those fingertips.
He flashed one of his fabulous smiles. “About your work?”
“Oh, yeah. That.” I shot him an annoyed look. “Well, not just anyone can be a PI. It’s a dangerous job. For instance, I just wrapped up a dicey missing dog case, and now I’m investigating a murder.”
“Which one?”
“The Jessica Evans murder.” I gave a solemn nod for effect.
He massaged his chin. “That was such a terrible thing. She was a client at the bank.”
“She was?” I asked, surprised.
“Yeah, but I didn’t know her very well. She only came in once a month, and she was pretty reserved.”
“Really? Just once a month?”
“To make a deposit.”
Charity barged up to the table. “Sorry to interrupt.” She looked anything but regretful. “My shift actually ended at five, so I’m, uh, on my way out.”
Bradley looked at his watch. “I didn’t realize how late it was.” He stood and pulled his wallet from his back pocket. “I’ve got a few more errands to run, so I’d better get going.”
“Yeah, I’d better be on my way too. I’ve got to get over to the voodoo store.” I shot a pointed look at Charity.
“Franki, I’d like to hear more about your work sometime.” He handed Charity a twenty-dollar bill. “How about dinner?”
A date! I’m saved! my inner voice cheered. But I had to play it cool. “That would be wonderful.”
Charity made a disgusted snort and left, no doubt intending to keep the change.
“Great. If you like Cajun food, we could go to one of Emeril Lagasse’s restaurants.”
“Perrrfect,” I purred.
“I’ll make reservations this week and call you.”
As I stood up from the table, Trixi lunged at my feet. I stumbled and lurched forward into Bradley’s arms.
Trixi, who was undoubtedly lying in wait for any misstep on my part, jerked her head down in the direction of my shoe as though prepared to strike again.
I gazed at Bradley, realizing with a shiver just how tall he was.
He gave a rakish grin, oblivious to Trixi’s attack stance. “You didn’t have to throw yourself at me, Amato. After all, I did just ask you out.”
“You don’t think I did that on purpose?” I was outraged, but I didn’t dare move both because I liked being pressed against his muscular body and because I felt Trixi’s hot breath on my foot. “I tripped over your d—”
“Shh.” He placed a finger on my lips. “I was trying to get a rise out of you.” His voice was husky. “You’re really hot when you get worked up.”
My eyes went into autopilot, closing in anticipation of a kiss. But, inexplicably, Bradley released me.
As he and the Trixinator turned to leave, I stood as straight and still as a statue. I was numb all over, and it wasn’t from fear of his killer cairn.
At six p.m. the throng of partiers on Bourbon Street was already dense, and the sounds of blues and jazz blasted from the doorways of the bars. As I weaved my way through the crowd toward Marie Laveau’s House of Voodoo, I was practically floating from the excitement of being asked out. In fact, I was so elated that I didn’t even mind when a drunk girl wearing a pink boa, a black mini skirt, and a red-sequined halter top spilled strawberry daiquiri from her elongated plastic fleur-de-lis glass onto my arm. And I actually smiled when a shirtless and unshaven fifty-something-year-old man in a red-white-and-blue top hat looked at me and screamed the Mardi Gras cry, “Show me your tits!”
Yes, life is good.
I spotted the hand-painted black sign for Marie Laveau’s at the corner of Bourbon and St. Ann and made my way through the crowd. I climbed the two small steps to the store and stopped short in the doorway, surveying the ghoulish scene. The place was jam-packed with candles, voodoo dolls, severed chicken feet, alligator heads, and a creepy altar to Marie Laveau, wh
ich had unidentified dead things on it and signs that said, “DO NOT PHOTOGRAPH” and “DO NOT TOUCH.”
Don’t worry. I won’t.
“Can I help you?” A bored-looking cashier with a severe case of acne stifled a yawn.
“Yeah, do you have any beads like this one?” I pulled the skull bead from my purse and held it up for him.
“In the back next to the shrunken heads.” He nodded in the direction of the next room as he picked at a cyst.
“Um, thanks.” I think.
I walked to the back of the store. Despite the dim lighting, I could see that the smaller, secondary room was for the more serious voodoo practitioner. There were books on voodoo, talismans of various shapes and sizes, and supplies for creating altars and spell kits. As soon as I entered, my eyes were drawn to the “Speak No Evil Kit,” which showed users how to drive coffin nails into a tongue to prevent someone from saying bad things about them. I shuddered but told myself that the tongue included with the kit couldn’t be real.
“Did you come for a reading?” The deep James-Earl-Jones voice erupted from the semi-darkness.
And I almost erupted from the store.
The source was an older, heavy-set man with an oversized rockabilly pompadour. He sat behind a counter against the back wall of the room, next to a bizarre wooden statue of a seated woman.
I considered getting a reading to see what my future with Bradley held, but I decided against it. Voodoo wasn’t real—at least, I hoped it wasn’t. I deposited the skull bead on the counter. “No, I was looking for beads like this one.”
He glanced at the bead with bloodshot eyes. “It’s from a Tibetan prayer mala. We sell them in necklaces and bracelets. They’re right over there.” He gestured toward the wall on his left, revealing a colorful tattoo of a decorative skull with his same rockabilly hairdo on his bicep.
“What’s a mala?”
“It means ‘garland,’ but it refers to prayer beads. Buddhists use them like a rosary to keep track of time while they’re meditating with mantras.” His eyeballs darted left to look at the wooden statue.
“Oh. I thought this bead was for voodoo since it’s made of bone and carved like a skull.” I mean, what else would anyone use a skull carved from bone for? Not decoration, surely.
Franki Amato Mysteries Box Set Page 9
