My thoughts turned to Bradley, but I was no longer thinking about the night before. Instead, I wondered how he’d react if he found out that I’d asked one of his employees to provide me with confidential bank information. But whatever. It served him right.
At ten a.m., I rose from my desk to stretch and glimpsed something yellow outside the window.
Across the street from our building stood a plump, sixty-something woman in a yellow sack dress with a white scarf tied over coiffed silver hair. She looked like a giant lemon with bright pink lipstick.
The she-lemon glanced from side to side through huge white Jackie O-style sunglasses, as though she were afraid she was being followed. She lowered her shades, looked up, and made eye contact with me. She dipped her head, shielded her face, and hurried toward the entrance to our building.
“Looks like we have a reluctant visitor,” I called to Veronica as I walked into the hallway. I entered the lobby.
The woman’s white-scarfed head emerged from the other side of the door. “Pardon the intrusion,” she said in a Southern drawl. “Are you with Private Chicks, Incorporated?”
“Yes ma’am,” I said in Southern kind.
The rest of her body entered. “Well, hiii. My name is Twyyyla. Twyla Upton.” She extended a hand with yellow-lacquered fingernails. “I’m the wife of the Harold Upton?”
I shook her chubby, bejeweled hand. I had no idea who “the Harold Upton” was, but I could tell by the exquisite rings she wore that he was a wealthy man. “I’m Franki Amato.”
Veronica clicked into the lobby. “Mrs. Upton, I’m Veronica Maggio. What a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
Veronica turned to me. “Mrs. Upton is something of a local celebrity here in New Orleans because of her fabulous rose garden.”
Mrs. Upton removed her sunglasses and untied her scarf. “I have eighty-nine species of hybrid teas, miniatures, climbing roses, and floribundas. And please call me Twyla.”
“Wow,” was all I could think of to say. I wondered whether she’d tried to conceal her identity when entering our office to protect her rose-gardener reputation.
Veronica gestured toward the door. “Why don’t we chat in our private conference room across the hall?”
“That would be luuuvely.” Twyla smiled and followed Veronica out. “I do love to chat.”
We sat at the table, and Twyla sniffled. She retrieved a lace handkerchief, also lemon yellow, from her vintage white beaded handbag and dabbed her eyes. “It may surprise you young ladies to know that I’m not here on a social call.”
I feigned surprise. “No?”
“I was out shopping, and I saw your sign out front. I came in because I simply have nowhere else to turn.” Her sniffles turned into sobs. She reached into her bag and pulled out a glass vial, which she placed in front of me on the table.
Panic leapt into my chest. Was it Love Potion #9? Was she here to expose me for dosing Bradley?
She looked me in the eye. “Those are my smelling salts. I’m prone to fainting spells.”
“Good to know.” Relieved I hadn’t been outed, I accepted the responsibility of reviving her from a future faint.
She gave a sniffle. “I’m here because my Harry has been working late for the past several weeks, which is very unlike him. In the forty-eight years we’ve been married, why, he’s never missed a dinner at home. That is,” she dabbed her eyes, “until recently.”
“I see.” Veronica opened her laptop. “Have you asked him why he’s been working late?”
“Y-es,” she said—in two syllables. She gave a dismissive wave. “He says he’s working on a big legal project. He’s a highly respected patent attorney, you know.”
I smiled. “Well, if he’s an attorney, it wouldn’t be unusual for him to work late, right?”
“It is unusual because my Harry doesn’t work. That’s what his employees are for.”
The smile slipped from my face. As an employee myself, I resented that. “So, what do you think he’s doing?”
“Oooh!” Her tear-stained eyes squinted with anger. “He’s in the clutches of a brazen hussy.”
Veronica began typing. “Is this a woman you know?”
“Oh, yes.” Her drawn-on eyebrows furrowed. “Her name is Patsy Harrington, and we’ve been rivals since our debutante ball in 1963.”
“Rivals?” I loved cotillion catfight stories.
“I met my Harry at that ball. Patsy had her eye on him because he was the most eligible bachelor in New Orleans, so she purposefully spilled punch on my dress. But that didn’t matter one whit to Harry. He danced with me the whole night, and Patsy has been after him ever since. She’s not one to be outdone.”
I was skeptical. “That’s a long time to chase after a man. Are you sure about this?”
“I’m sure.” She wiped away a tear. “Even after all these years, my Harry is still a catch. And that Jezebel Patsy is shameless. She’ll go to any lengths to get him.”
Veronica looked up from her laptop. “So, how can we help you?”
“I need for you girls to follow Harry and get pictures of him with Patsy so that I can confront them.” She raised her chin, and with it her pride. “He’s going to be working late tomorrow and Saturday night.”
Veronica put a finger to her cheek. “We have a big case right now, but it sounds like we could take care of this in an evening or two. What do you think, Franki? Are you willing to work some overtime?”
Twyla looked at me and turned up the sniffling, sobbing, and dabbing a notch.
I didn’t mind giving up a weekend if it meant catching a cheater in the act. I, of all people, knew the pain and self-doubt that came with betrayal, and it infuriated me to think that a husband would cheat on his wife. Especially if that husband had been dating me. “I’m game.”
“Maaahvelous!” Twyla turned off the tears as quickly as she’d turned them on. She reached into her purse and pulled out an envelope that she handed to Veronica. “Here is a recent picture of Harry, his business card, the make, model, and license plate of his car, and my contact information.”
Twyla was well prepared for a woman who’d happened upon our office by chance.
Veronica examined the picture and passed it to me.
Her “catch” of a husband looked exactly like Alfred Hitchcock with a Hitler mustache and a bad toupee. If Patsy’s been chasing this guy for fifty years, she’s either blind or senile. Or both.
Veronica rose. “We’ll be in touch Sunday morning with a report.”
“Thank you, ladies.” Twyla tied her scarf around her hair. “When this dreadful mess is all over, I do hope you’ll stop by for some tea in the rose garden. In the springtime, of course.”
Veronica beamed. “We’d love to.”
Slipping on her Jackie-O glasses, she wiggled her chubby fingers at us. “Toodle-loo.”
She slunk out the door.
Veronica leaned over the steering wheel of the Audi and squinted at the students exiting the Slidell School of Beauty. “They must be coming out for lunch or a break.”
I sunk low in the passenger seat. “It’s not going to be easy to deal with the Babe of Blackness so soon after that sunnily clad Southern belle, Twyla Upton.”
“I’m sure you’ll manage.”
“Don’t be too sure of that.” I glanced out the window. To my dismay, I spotted Domenica smoking a cigarette with some other students. I pointed in her direction. “There she is. At the picnic table.”
Veronica lifted her Chanel sunglasses. “Where?”
“How can you miss her? She’s the only one wearing all black.”
“I see her now.” She placed her sunglasses into her handbag. “It was hard to make her out with that black SUV behind her.”
I snorted. “So, how do you want to handle this?”
“We’ll go over there and tell her we’d like to talk to her.”
“In front of the other students?” I asked, surprised. “Do you thi
nk she’ll agree to that?”
“She won’t let the presence of the students stop her. If she’s got something to say, she’ll say it.”
I remembered the no-holds-barred comments Domenica had made in front of her mother. “You’re probably right about that.” I opened the passenger-side door. “Let’s get this over with.”
We walked across the campus, and Domenica shot up from the picnic table, her face dark with fury—and a lot of Goth makeup. She threw her cigarette to the ground, stubbing it out with her foot, and strode toward us.
Veronica forced a smile. “Hello, Domenica.”
“What are you doing here?” She looked from Veronica to me. “Why are you harassing me at school?”
I was already over her attitude. “Looks like you’re on a smoke break to me.”
Veronica shot me a silence-it look. “We’d like to ask you a few questions. This will only take a few minutes.”
“My mother and I already told you everything we know.” She flipped her bangs. “Stewart killed Imma and got away with it. Then he obviously killed Angelica too. End of story.”
I struggled to control my temper. “That’s what we wanted to talk to you about. Is there somewhere we can sit down?”
Domenica stared at me blankly, refusing to make a suggestion.
“Okay then.” I abandoned all attempts to hide my frustration. “Let’s just do this right here. I’ll start. Why are you so sure Stewart killed Angelica?”
Domenica took a step toward me and raised her chin in defiance. “Who the hell else would have done it?”
“I don’t know. But she could’ve had other enemies. From what we’ve been told, she was a difficult person to deal with.”
“That’s for damn sure.” She flicked her tongue piercing. “But do you really think anyone else hated her enough to kill her?”
“Domenica,” Veronica said in a soothing tone, “that’s what we want to find out. But we need your help.”
She shook her head. “The only person who had a reason to kill Angelica was Stewart.”
“But why? He’d already been acquitted of your sister’s murder, so what did he stand to gain by going out and killing someone else?”
“You’re the PIs.” She curled her lips. “Why don’t you two go figure that out and leave me alone?”
I rolled my eyes. “Come on. If you know something, you need to tell us. Do it for your sister.”
She assumed her hostile, sociopathic stare. “Here’s what I think happened. Stewart got sick of paying her to keep her mouth shut, so he told her he wasn’t going to do it anymore. She threatened to go to the cops, and he strangled her—with a scarf, just like he did my sister.”
Veronica met her gaze. “Why do you think he was paying her?”
“Well, someone certainly was. All of a sudden she started buying fancy clothes and jewelry and stuff, and she didn’t have a job. Even my dad thought Stewart was paying her off.”
I licked my lips. “Did your dad have any proof?”
“He didn’t need any. It was painfully obvious.”
Veronica shifted her handbag. “Okay, but what do you think Angelica knew about Stewart? According to your mother and Concetta—”
“Wait,” she interrupted, stunned. “You talked to Concetta?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s interesting, because my Mom and I haven’t seen her for months.”
Despite her acidic disposition, I felt kind of sorry for Domenica. One by one, her family members had all abandoned her, and some had apparently done so of their own volition.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Veronica said. “But as I was saying, Angelica testified that she didn’t know anything about Stewart or his relationship with Imma, so I’m not sure whether she really did have any evidence against him.”
She crossed her arms. “That’s hilarious, because Angelica made it her number one priority to know other people’s business. That’s how she got ahead in life. So I’m sure she was keeping an eye on Stewart, if for no other reason than his connections.”
I pursed my lips. “In the fashion industry, you mean.”
“Yeah, what else? I’m sure you’ve heard all about Jessica’s ambition by now. It was legendary.” She turned to look at the other students, some of whom were returning inside the school. “Are we done here? Because I’ve gotta get back to class.”
Veronica touched her arm. “Just a few more questions.”
She pulled back. “Like what?”
“Your sister told us that you became a Goth after Imma’s death.”
“Oh, God. Of course my sister, the saintly nun, would bring that up.”
I shrugged. “She’s worried about you.”
“Only because she thinks I belong to a Satanic cult.” She crossed her arms. “But black clothes, makeup, and death rock don’t make me a devil worshipper.”
“True,” I said, although I had my doubts, particularly in light of what appeared to be the points of a pentagram tattoo protruding from the low-cut neckline of her black cotton shirt. “So, what you’re saying is that Goth is basically a fashion statement for you.”
“No, I’m not saying that. For me, Goth is a way of life. But having a fascination with death doesn’t make me a disciple of Satan.”
“O-kaaay.” I was unsure what to make of the “fascination with death” revelation.
“I’m glad we’re clear on that.” She looked behind her and saw that the other students had gone inside. “Now I’ve really got to go.”
I took a step toward her. “One more question. Were you close to Angelica, like Imma and Concetta were?”
“Let’s see, Angelica always told me I was fat and ugly when I was a kid, and she betrayed my sister’s memory for money. So, what do you think?”
Veronica exhaled. “It sounds like you didn’t like her very much.”
“Honestly, lady, I hated the bitch, and I’m not the least bit sorry she’s dead.” Domenica stormed toward the school.
I waited until she was out of earshot and turned to Veronica. “So, do you still think she’s just going through a phase?”
She didn’t reply, and she didn’t need to. Like me, she was wondering whether Domenica could’ve killed Jessica.
I was also wondering how long our list of suspects would grow.
17
“Concetta left an interesting message while we were out.” Veronica stood in her office with the phone to her ear and her hand on her hip.
“What did she say?” I returned the growing Evans case file to its place on her desk.
She hung up. “She remembered something she’d forgotten to tell us. She’s coming in.”
“I wonder if it’s about her psycho sister.”
“No clue.” She glanced at the time on the phone display. “But she’ll be here any minute.”
“Intriguing. Any other messages?”
“Mr. Orlansky’s assistant.” Veronica took a seat at her desk. “Apparently, three of the five scarves were purchased with cash. They have the video file for one of the scarf purchases, but they had to request the DVD for the other two from Baton Rouge. Mr. Orlansky wants to go through the first file with me tonight.”
“Looks like someone’s in a hurry to watch videos with you.” I sat down on the edge of her desk and shot her a knowing grin.
Veronica’s smile was wry as she turned on her laptop. “Maybe I should bring some popcorn and Raisinettes.”
“That should keep his hands and mouth busy. For a while, anyhow.”
“Cute, Franki.” She looked at her agenda. “Right now I’ve got a scheduling problem to work out.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, we’ve got the Upton stakeout tomorrow and probably even Saturday night. So, if the DVD for the other two purchases arrives in the next day or two, we won’t be able to look at it until Sunday at the earliest. And I can’t let the Upton case jeopardize the Evans investigation.”
“Do both of us need to
do the stakeout?”
“It’s my company policy to have backup in a situation like that. It’s one thing to go undercover to talk to a sales girl at LaMarca, but it’s another thing altogether to try to entrap a man committing a crime. For all we know, Harry Upton could be dangerous.”
“I’m sure Mr. Orlansky would be only too willing to work some really late nights with you.” I winked, but I hoped she wouldn’t ask me to go with her. Although I’d been doing my best to keep my chin up in the workplace, I was really down about Bradley. All I wanted to do was go home and curl up in my bed.
“I don’t want to be there alone with him after the store closes.” She chewed her lip for a moment. “Maybe David could go through the tape with him?”
As much as it pained me, I had to give her my honest two cents. “Veronica, you know as well as I do that Mr. Orlansky isn’t going to work late with the likes of David.”
“You’re right. So…”
Here it comes.
“Any chance you could go with me after the stakeout? If it comes to that, of course.”
“Yeah.” I looked at the floor. “I don’t have any plans for the weekend.”
“How are you feeling about the whole Bradley situation?”
“Bummed.” I sighed. “But my main worry right now is my nonna. She’s been too quiet after hanging up on me.”
“You think she’s up to something?”
“Of course she is.” I gesticulated Veronica style. “She’s busy scaring up some more Sicilian suitors. And based on the ones I’ve encountered so far, Harry Upton is a ‘catch’ by comparison. So is Ed Orlansky, for that matter.”
The lobby bell sounded.
Veronica rose. “That must be Concetta.”
I followed her into the waiting area, where Concetta stood looking uncertain. She was dressed almost exactly as she had been the day before, in the same sensible shoes and white shirt, only her ankle-length skirt was a muted brown instead of gray.
“I hope I’m not interrupting.” Her close-set eyes had a worried look about them, and she was fingering the cross at her neck.
Veronica patted her arm. “No, not at all.”
Franki Amato Mysteries Box Set Page 19
