“Buddhists use skull beads made of bone or wood in prayer, and they often wear them around their wrists for protection and long life.” He pulled a pack of Marlboro reds from his front pocket. “But devotees of Kurukulla, the Buddhist Goddess of witchcraft and enchantment, wear skull beads made from human and animal bone to—”
“Wait a second. This bead isn’t made from a human bone, is it?”
“I couldn’t tell ya.” He shot a nervous look in the direction of the wooden statue.
Although I suspected that the guy was a little off, I pressed on. “So what does this Kookarulla do?”
“Kurukulla.” He extracted a cigarette from the pack and laid it on the counter. “She’s a young goddess who uses her nudity and voluptuousness to seduce and bewitch others to bring them under her control.” The subject of sex must have reminded him to groom himself, because he pulled a comb from his back pocket and ran it through his greased-back hair. Then he tucked the cigarette behind his right ear and folded his hands on the counter.
“So, if you wear the beads, you could use them to try to make others do what you want?”
“That’s right.” He glanced at the statue. “Kurukulla’s followers wear them to overpower spirits and humans who get in their way.”
I thought about Saint Expedite, the pound cake, and even the potion. “Are these beads used to try to win court cases, by any chance?”
He nodded. “Yeah, we have a lot of customers who buy them for court.”
“Dem beads don’ madda none to Baron Kriminel,” a deep female voice said from the darkness.
I jumped backward at least a foot. The wooden statue wasn’t a statue at all—it was a real live woman with graying black dreadlocks, cappuccino-colored skin, and dark brown freckles on sunken cheeks. And she was shuffling toward me.
“He goin’ ta git dem who profit from death.” The nostrils of her wide, flat nose flared as she spoke.
“A-are y-you talking t-to me?” I stuttered. “I-I’m working a m-murder case, but I’m t-trying to help.”
The woman’s piercing amber eyes looked straight through me. “Ya not from ‘round heuh,”
“N-no, I’m new to town.” I hoped that my newness to NOLA would release me from the impending clutches of Baron Kriminel, whoever he was.
“Baron Kriminel come from de grave to seek justice agains’ de guilty.”
“But I’m not guilty.”
She raised a crooked, knobby finger. “Dat girl, she know what dat boy do.”
Wait. Who’s ‘dat girl’? My mind was racing, but in my panicked state all I could think of was the old Marlo Thomas show I’d seen on Nick at Nite. And ‘dat boy’? “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.”
“I cain’t tell ya what ya don’ see, chile. But Odette see. She see.” She had a faraway look in her eyes as she walked past me toward the door.
“Odette?” I watched her leave, more confused than ever.
She stopped and turned in the doorway, her mouth contorted with anger. “Dat boy, he done put a spell on her.” Her faced softened. “Ya got a man. A good man. But ya goin’ ta have ta work ta keep him.”
I’ve got a man? Is she talking about Bradley? “What do you mean, work?” If she was talking about Bradley, then I wanted an answer.
“But don’ let ‘im take ya down ta de bayou. Ya bes’ stay far from de bayou, chile, and everythang in it.” She turned and shuffled out.
I stood gaping, trying to decipher her cryptic messages.
The aging rockabilly broke the silence. “That’s Odette Malveaux. She’s a mambo.”
I turned to face him. “A what?”
“A voodoo priestess.” He pulled the cigarette from behind his ear. “Some say she’s a descendent of Marie Laveau, which is why she comes to the store from time to time. To keep an eye on things.”
I swallowed my shock. “Do you know who she was talking about?”
“No, but if I were you, lady, I’d figure it out.” He pointed the cigarette at me. “Baron Kriminel is an evil voodoo god. If he’s after you, you’re a goner. And it won’t be pretty.” He put the cigarette between his teeth and rushed from the room.
As I left the store and exited onto Bourbon Street, I realized that the excitement I’d felt when I first arrived was long gone. Instead, apprehension filled my chest. Because I was pretty sure Odette knew things about the Evans case and about Bradley too. Things that I couldn’t see.
I headed down St. Ann Street in the direction of the office to get Napoleon, wondering what in the netherworld The Crescent City had in store for me.
8
Barking awoke me, and my eyes flew open. Had Bradley’s dog, Trixi, come to terminate me?
From my prone position on the bed, I raised my head and realized that it was my new “Who Let the Dogs Out” ringtone. I’d changed it to something sure to wake me up, which had turned out to be an awful idea.
Collapsing face-down, I reached for my pillow so that I could put it over my head, but I couldn’t find it. I reopened my eyes, peered over the side of the mattress, and saw it on the floor. Thankfully, the phone had gone silent, so I prepared to go back to sleep.
Less than a minute later, the barking started again.
I needed a new ringtone. I pulled myself into a sitting position, but my head spun so violently that I lay down. Whoever was calling could wait.
When the barking stopped, I wracked my aching brain to figure out what was wrong with me. Was it a sinus headache? Or the flu? Then I remembered. It was the quarter bottle or so of Limoncello that I’d tossed back on an empty stomach after my heebie jeebie-inducing encounter with Odette Malveaux.
The ringtone sounded a third time. Lying flat on my back, I felt for the evil device on the nightstand with my hand. When I finally found it, I picked it up and looked at the display with one eye—Unknown.
Who would call so early on a Sunday? Reluctantly, I tapped Answer.
“Hello?” There was so much phlegm in my throat that I sounded like Louis Armstrong.
“May I speak to Francesca Amato?” The male voice was high pitched—like Mike Tyson’s but without the lisp.
“This is she.” I used the flat tone I saved for telemarketers.
“Oh,” the voice squeaked.
Silence ensued, and I wondered whether the line had dropped. “Are you still there?”
“Yeah. I thought you were your father.”
Embarrassed, I cleared my throat. “Um, who is this?”
“Pio. Pio Principato.” His tone was expectant, as though I would know his name.
“Oh, right.” I mentally cursed my interfering nonna—in English and Italian—for giving out my phone number. “Listen, Pio, you’ve kind of caught me at a bad time.”
“But your nonna said you’d be expecting my call.”
I could tell that Pio and I were going to get along famously. “Well, yes, just not so early in the morning.”
“But I was calling to invite you to mass at noon.”
Mass? On a first date? “I’m afraid I can’t. This is awfully short notice, and I have a lot to do today.”
He snorted in frustration. “Well, how about tomorrow then?”
“I’m sorry,” I said, even though I wasn’t feeling the least bit apologetic in light of his rudeness, “but the truth is that I’m expecting a call from another man.” There. The proper thing to do was to tell him about Bradley and end the call. Honesty is the best policy, right?
“Wow. I didn’t know you were that kind of a woman.”
Stunned by his presumptuousness, I had to ask for a clarification. “What kind of a woman is that, exactly?”
“A two-timer.”
“A what?” I shouted. To hell with my aching head—my pride was more important.
“Well, apparently you date around.”
Who did this guy think he was? I should have ended the call, but I was too mad to let it go. “In the first place, Pio, you and I are not dating. And second, I haven’t even
gone out with the other guy yet. All I said was that I was expecting his call. I hardly think that makes me a two-timer.”
“I’m sorry, but this isn’t going to work out.”
Un.Be.Lievable. “You don’t know how much I agree.”
“This is goodbye, then, Francesca.” His statement held a warning, as though he was giving me one last chance.
“Before you call another woman,” I repressed the urge to yell, “try reading a dating manual.” I tapped End really hard on my phone. Cell phones were convenient, but sometimes I missed being able to slam down a landline receiver.
I lay in bed, livid, wondering whether Marie Laveau’s sold a potion or a spell that could make arrogant men like Pio vanish. Or better yet, one that could make Sicilian grandmothers stop meddling in their granddaughters’ love lives. No, not likely. Not even all the voodoo priestesses in Louisiana could conjure up a spell that powerful.
Thanks to Pio’s call, I was fully awake and far too angry to stay in bed. I got up and headed to the bathroom for some aspirin. And I almost stumbled over Napoleon, who was splayed out on his back on the floor against my pillow with one ear open and the other flopped over. He looked like he’d had a hard night too.
I stepped over him, grabbed three aspirin from the bathroom medicine cabinet, and headed for the kitchen where I found the telltale evidence that I’d tied one on the night before. On the counter, beside the empty bottle of Limoncello, sat a half-eaten jar of Nutella. So much for skipping dinner to lose weight.
I poured myself a glass of water and popped the aspirin. It hurt when I leaned my head back to take a drink, and my mouth was so dry it felt like I’d been eating spoonfuls of salt instead of the creamy chocolate-hazelnut spread.
As soon as the aspirin were down my throat, I collapsed into a Bordeaux-and-gold cushioned dining chair and tried to remember what, if anything, I needed to do that day—that is, besides tell my nonna to call off her Sicilian attack dogs.
My phone barked.
I sighed, steeled myself for another suitor call, headed back into the bedroom, and looked at my phone. Unknown. I didn’t think Pio would call again after we’d ended things so badly, but just in case, I decided to give him one final piece of my mind.
“Hello?” I responded a little too testily.
“Franki Amato?” an equally testy male voice asked.
“Yes?” I tried to remember where I’d heard the angry voice before.
“Ryan Hunter.”
Did Mambo Odette put a curse on me? Because not even I could be this unlucky all on my own. “I’m sorry, Ryan, I thought you were—”
“Listen to me.” His tone was nasty, like him. “I don’t have time to chit chat. I’d like to know why no one has called me with the biweekly update on my case that I was promised.”
Yeah, she put a curse on me all right. I could envision the voodoo doll of me, tiny cell phone in hand, with pins jabbed into its head and stomach.
“Franki, are you there? I expect an answer.”
“Yes, I’m here, Ryan.” Despite my hangover haze, I remembered that we had accepted his case on Thursday afternoon, and it was Sunday. “We just took your case a few days ago, and I can assure you that Veronica is extremely organized when it comes to handling our workload. I’m sure she plans to call you tomorrow or the next day. During business hours.” I added the last part to make the point that Veronica and I didn’t need to be spending our free time on the likes of him.
“Look, I’ve already wasted fifteen minutes this morning trying to track down your contact information, which I don’t appreciate. Luckily, I called your office and that kid Donny was there.”
I sat on the edge of the bed. “David.”
“David, Donny, whatever. The point is that I’ve already left two messages on your partner’s cell this morning, but she hasn’t bothered to call me back. Now, I have a meeting with my attorney first thing tomorrow. So if you’ve got any information, I need it. Capish?”
I stifled a gasp at his inappropriate use of Italian and somehow stopped myself from telling him off for being so rude and for calling me on the weekend. After all, Veronica was in charge of the human relations aspect of the business. And, whether I liked it or not, Ryan Hunter was paying us to investigate the Evans case. I took a deep breath and tried to recall everything we’d discovered.
“Okay then. We got the photos of the crime scene, and we have reason to believe that whoever killed Jessica intentionally brought an inexpensive scarf to LaMarca to strangle her with. The killer either wore it to the store or may have even brought it as a gift.
He laughed so hard his breath sounded like a storm in the receiver. “Well, that should clear me then, because I knew better than to give Jessica a cheap present.”
His repulsive humor left me speechless. I stayed silent to let him know I had no comment.
“So, tell me, Franki,” his tone was mocking, “how did you figure out that the killer brought the scarf there on purpose?”
“Because LaMarca is known for its silk scarf collection, but the killer didn’t use a scarf from the store.”
“Gee, you’re a regular Miss Marple. What else you got?”
I flopped backward onto the mattress. The man was exhausting. “I went to LaMarca and spoke with the salesgirl who found Jessica’s body. While I was there I found a bead made of bone and carved like a skull, near where Jessica’s body was found and—”
“How do you know it’s connected to the murder?” he interrupted. Again.
“I don’t. Right now it’s just a hunch.”
“A hunch. Jesus Christ, my life is on the line here, and all you guys have are hunches?”
I rolled my head back and forth on the bed in silent protest, but the room began to tilt so I stopped. “No, that’s not all we’ve got.”
“Well then let’s hear it, Franki. I don’t have all damn day.”
Neither do I, and yet I’m spending my day off taking abuse from you. “If you’ll just let me speak I’ll explain everything.”
He stayed silent. Blissfully.
“Thank you. A man went to see Jessica at LaMarca one night after the store had closed, and from the sound of things she knew him, and they were arguing.”
“Yeah, well, that’s hardly surprising. Jessica had a talent for bringing out the worst in people.”
His derogatory remarks about Jessica were getting on my already frayed nerves. “This guy was threatening her, Ryan. He said she’d broken some agreement they had and told her to leave New Orleans. Do you know anything about this?”
“So, you’re asking me if I was that guy, right?” He snorted. “Why is it that every time I talk to you, I get the feeling that you’re interrogating me instead of looking for the real killer?”
I bolted upright—and had to lay down again. “I just met you a few days ago. For all I know, you and Jessica had a fight one night at her workplace, and you told her to get out of your life or something.”
“Well, that didn’t happen because I’ve never even been to LaMarca.”
“Okay, fine. But you need to understand that when I ask you a question, I’m not implicitly accusing you.” Although I certainly wouldn’t put anything past you. “I have to cover my bases to make sure I’m not following up on a dead end.”
“Fair enough.”
I sat up again, astonished. That was the first time Ryan Hunter and I had seen eye-to-eye on anything. “Apparently, this guy also mentioned the London College of Fashion during the argument. Do you know if Jessica attended this school or had friends there?”
“Like I told you the other day, I don’t know anything about her past. She didn’t talk about it, and I didn’t ask.”
“All right. Veronica is going to call—”
“Wait,” he interrupted yet again. “I heard her mention London once.”
Excitement coursed through my chest, and I rose and began to pace, albeit slowly. A lead, finally. “When?”
“On a phone call. A
month or two ago.”
“Do you know who she was talking to?”
“No, but she said a name. It sounded like a woman’s name, but I couldn’t say for sure. It was Eye-talian or something.”
“Do you remember what it was?” I figured it was unlikely given his inability to recall the proper pronunciation of Italian.
“No, it was a weird name. All I know is that it ended in an a.”
Well that narrows it down since pretty much all Italian women’s names, including my own, end in the letter a. “How did London come up in the conversation?”
“She said something like, ‘You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. You know I wasn’t even in London when it happened.’“
“So, she was angry.”
“Oh yeah. At the time, I thought she was having a fight with some Eye-talian girlfriend of hers from London.”
I sighed. Was it really so hard to say the it in Italian? “Did she tell you anything about the call when she hung up?”
“No, she just stared at me. I don’t think she even knew I was home. Then she started bitching at me about something.” His tone had turned bitter. I think I’d forgotten to take out the trash or pick my clothes up off the floor. Who the hell knows. I could never do anything right in her eyes…”
I sidestepped the toxic topic of his relationship with Jessica. “Okay, well, we’re going to follow up on the London angle tomorrow, so I’ll have Veronica call you in the afternoon with an update.”
“Good, because I’m paying you for information. Solid information.” He hung up, and he did it from a landline too because I could hear him slam down the receiver.
The jerk.
All that standing was getting to me, so I made my way to the chaise lounge to call Veronica. I tapped her number, closing my eyes as I waited for her to answer.
“Hello?” She sounded breathy.
“Uh, did I interrupt something?”
“Hercules and I are on our Sunday morning jog. What’s up?”
Thanks to my hangover, I shuddered at the thought of bouncing up and down. “I just got a call from Ryan Hunter.”
Franki Amato Mysteries Box Set Page 10
