Franki Amato Mysteries Box Set

by Traci Andrighetti

  “Oh, good. This case is so personal to me. I’d really rather not talk about it over the phone.”

  “I understand.” Veronica gestured to the door. “Why don’t we go over to our conference room?”

  Concetta shook her head. “This won’t take long. I remembered something about Angie and Stewart, but I’m not sure it’s important.”

  Veronica retrieved a pad of paper and pen from David’s desk. “We appreciate all the information you can provide.”

  She tugged at the crucifix. “Well, not too long after Imma’s murder, the police called and told us we could come and get Imma’s things. So, my father and I flew to London a few weeks later, um, under the radar, so to speak.”

  I flopped onto a couch. “Under the radar?”

  “We didn’t tell Angie we were coming.” She sounded remorseful. “My father didn’t want to give her time to prepare for our visit.”

  Veronica’s head snapped up from her notepad. “Why not? Did he think Angelica had something to do with Imma’s death?”

  “It’s not that he believed Angie killed her, but he did think she knew something about her murder. And after I told him what I’d seen, he was convinced of it.”

  My curiosity was more than piqued. “What did you see?”

  “Well, I went into Angie and Imma’s room first, while my father was downstairs talking to the dorm manager. The manager had given me a key so that I could get in. When I walked into the room, Angie was there with Stewart.”

  I was shocked that Stewart would be bold enough to return to the scene of the crime when he was under suspicion for the murder. “Really?”

  “Yeah, and I could tell that they’d been deep in conversation.” Her eyes opened wide. “In fact, when Angie saw me, she jumped up and started babbling, as though she felt nervous. Or guilty.”

  Veronica scribbled a note. “Did you hear anything they said?”

  “Nothing.”

  I scooted forward on the sofa, eager to hear more. “And what did they say to you?”

  “Stewart never said a word. He lowered his head and then walked past me and left. But Angie said the usual things. You know, like ‘What a surprise!’ and ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?’“

  I noticed that Concetta was gripping the crucifix so tightly her knuckles were white. “Did you ask her what Stewart was doing there?”

  “Of course.” She jerked her necklace. “But she never answered because my father walked in.”

  Veronica looked up from the pad. “And you didn’t tell him what was going on.”

  “Not until we got back to New Orleans.” She looked at the floor.

  I massaged my neck. “Did you ask Angelica again later what Stewart was doing there?”

  “I never got a chance to. She refused to speak to me after that trip.”

  “So,” I said, confused, “why didn’t you tell your father that Stewart had been there?”

  She looked at Veronica and me. “My father was a stereotypical, hot-blooded Italian male. I was afraid that if I’d told him what I’d just witnessed, he would have done something awful. To Angie or Stewart or both. I’d already lost my sister, and my mother was ill…I couldn’t lose my father too.”

  “Of course not,” Veronica soothed.

  Concetta’s eyes filled with tears, and she studied Veronica’s face as though searching for something. “But I lost him anyway.”

  Veronica placed her hand on Concetta’s back. “I think we have all the information we need. Can I get you a glass of water? Or maybe some chamomile tea?”

  She shook her head as though coming out of a stupor. “I need to get back to the church.” She headed for the door. “I’ll let you know if I remember anything else.”

  After she left, I turned to Veronica. “What do you make of that?”

  “I think it confirms what we already suspect—that Jessica and Stewart had some sort of illicit relationship.”

  “It also confirms that Stewart is every bit as arrogant as he looks in that picture of him after he’d been acquitted.”

  “That reminds me,” Veronica tapped her pen on the pad, “have you tried calling his parents again?”

  “No. I’ll do that now.”

  I went to my office and dialed the Preston number. I waited for a couple of rings.

  “Preston’s rezidens,” a husky female voice responded.

  “Mrs. Preston?” I wasn’t sure whether it was her, but I thought whoever it was might be drunk. Or Hungarian.

  “No, I maid.”

  “Oh, hello. May I please speak to Stewart Preston, IV?”

  “He not here.”

  “Okay, well—”

  “Who zis?” she interrupted. “Zsuzsanna?”

  I hesitated, unsure how to respond.

  “Vat you vant?”

  I couldn’t tell whether she was being harsh or just foreign. “Um, his cell phone number?”

  “I say you before,” she whispered, “I sink he bad man. But, you vant number, I give. You vait.”

  “Thank you.” I was shocked at my unexpected success. I grabbed a scrap of paper on my desk—a receipt for tampons, gelato, and wine—and prepared to jot down the number.

  The maid returned to the phone and recited Stewart’s contact information.

  I repeated it to her.

  “Good. You no call again.”

  I shook my head, marveling at the less-than-stellar phone manners of the Preston household.

  My message tone sounded. It was my dad reminding me to check the oil on my car. I rolled my eyes. And I got another text. My heart skipped when I saw that it was from Bradley.

  In back-to-back meetings. But we need to talk. Call you later, B.

  Veronica entered my office. “Did you call the Prestons?”

  I jumped as though I’d been caught cheating on a test. “You’re not going to believe this, but I actually got his cell number.”

  “Have you called him?”

  “I was just about to.” I fired off an angry one-word reply in Italian to Bradley. Even though he didn’t speak the language, I was certain he’d know what it meant.

  “Let’s put it on speaker.” Veronica pulled up a chair.

  “Sure.” I typed Stewart’s number on the keypad and tapped Call.

  The phone rang three times and went to voicemail. There was no recorded message, only a beep.

  “Hello, Stewart. My name is Gina Mazzucco.” I shot Veronica a nasty look as she flashed a wicked smile. “I’m calling about an urgent matter regarding Angelica Evangelista. Please call me back at your earliest convenience.” I recited my number and hung up.

  Veronica crossed her arms. “Now we sit back and let him stew.”

  “I hope he takes the bait.”

  My phone vibrated.

  Veronica and I exchanged a look.

  With my heart pounding, I read the display. “Oh. It’s my parents. They know better than to call me while I’m at work.”

  “You should take it. It could be important.”

  “I suppose.” I tapped Answer. “Hello?”

  “Francesca?” My mother’s voice was unusually shrill. “This is your mother.”

  “Mom, I’m in a meeting, so I don’t have much time. What’s up?”

  “Well, your father says he texted you about your car, and you replied ‘vaffanculo.’ We’re just wondering what in the heck is going on down there.”

  I swallowed—hard. I’d told my dad to go screw himself, albeit in slightly more scathing terms, instead of Bradley. The only thing to do was take the easy way out. “Mom, like I said, I can’t talk now.”

  “Now Francesca, your father is waiting for an explanation.”

  “Tell him I meant to send that message to Bradley, okay?”

  “I don’t think that’s going to make him feel any better, dear. You know we didn’t raise you to use language like that. Not in Italian or English.”

  “Mom, I’ve got to go.” I hung up and dropped the phone o
n my desk, as though it had scalded my hand.

  Veronica raised an eyebrow.

  “Don’t ask.” I massaged my temples. That text message wasn’t going to help the already tense situation with my parents. On the positive side, I figured it would put a stop to the annoying car reminders from my dad.

  “You got a minute?” David’s usually bright eyes were dark.

  Veronica had warned me that he was lovesick for a girl in his Brazilian dance class who only had eyes for the Samba instructor. “I was about to head home for the day, but I’ve always got time for you.” I threw that last part in to try to lift his spirits. “What’s up?”

  “I’ve got to get to the library to study for an exam, but Veronica’s on the phone. Can I fill you in on my research real fast?”

  “Absolutely. What’ve you got?”

  He sat in front of my desk and leaned over with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped in front of him. “Not much.” He looked even more defeated than he had moments before. “I ran the background checks on the Di Salvos, and they’re all clean.”

  “Even the Diva of Darkness?” I was kind of expecting some sort of run-in with the law to surface—a public menace charge, at the very least.

  “Yeah, her too.” He looked down at his hands.

  “What about Bill Evangelista?”

  David sighed. “Nothing. It’s like the dude dropped off the face of the earth.”

  “That’s so odd. You know, I just keep wondering whether he or his family could be connected to this case in some way.”

  “You mean, like his daughter, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Yeah, she definitely could’ve been jealous of Jessica, and maybe she wanted to eliminate the competition, you know? Women are ruthless like that.” His face turned as red as an apple, and he held up a spindly fingered hand. “But not you or Veronica, or anything.”

  I smiled. “I knew what you meant. Anything else you want to talk to me about?”

  He opened his mouth, but Veronica burst into the room. “Come to my office. Quick.”

  David and I followed the order.

  Veronica’s face was somber. “I just got off the phone with Betty at the police station. Domenica Di Salvo has been arrested.”

  David and I looked at each other, stunned.

  “For Jessica’s murder,” I breathed. “I knew it.”

  “Not for Jessica’s murder.” She frowned. “For grave dancing.”

  David yelled “Holy crap!” as I shouted, “Say what?”

  “According to Betty, Domenica was arrested two hours ago, at around four forty-five . Apparently, she belongs to a group that dances on graves, and they’ve been charged with defacing a tombstone.”

  I closed my shocked mouth. “I told you that girl was creepy. What normal person would ever want to hang out in a cemetery, much less freakin’ dance a jig there?”

  David’s head bobbed. “I know, right?”

  “And where, exactly, have they been doing this?” I held up a hand. “No, don’t tell me. Let me guess—where Marie Laveau is buried.”

  Veronica cocked her head. “Wrong. In Slidell. In the cemetery where Immacolata is buried.”

  I stared at her, speechless. “No. Way.”

  “Yes way. From what I’ve been told, it’s the only place they’ve been doing this. And that’s not even all there is to the story.”

  I wasn’t sure how much more of the story I could take.

  “The police are also investigating whether this group had any involvement in the murder of a man named Henry Withers.” Veronica placed her hands flat on her desk. “He was the cemetery’s caretaker, and he was hacked to death with an ax in the cemetery last Halloween night.”

  David stood openmouthed as I gasped and collapsed into a chair. I’d been suspicious of Domenica and her deviant demeanor, but I hadn’t expected a hacking murder.

  She reached for her day planner. “So, we’re going to have to pay Domenica yet another visit.”

  I ran my fingers through my hair. “How are we going to do that if she’s in jail? You know her mother isn’t going to have the money to bail her out.”

  “I’m a criminal attorney, Franki. I have a right to speak with my client.”

  “Veronica, you’re not seriously thinking of representing her, are you?”

  “Definitely not.” She raised her chin like my nonna. “But that’ll be our little secret, now won’t it?”

  18

  It seemed perfectly normal that I would be at an Elvis Presley concert. But something in the back of my mind told me that The King wasn’t singing “Burning Love” to me in person. It was the sexy, black leather-clad Elvis from the ‘68 Comeback Special, not the sparkly cape-wearing, bell-bottomed Vegas version, and I was pretty sure he hadn’t gotten back in shape since he was dead.

  Then it hit me—I’d been listening to my “Burning Love” ringtone in my sleep. I really need to get an old-school alarm.

  I opened my eyes and shrunk from the daylight. Elvis was singing below me, so I peered over the edge of the chaise lounge where I’d spent the night. Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw. On the floor next to my phone were a bag of potato chips, a tub of sour cream and chive dip, a container of Ben & Jerry’s Dublin Mudslide, a box of chocolate-covered cherries, and a bottle of red wine, all of which were empty. I whispered a silent prayer that Napoleon had eaten all the food while I’d been sleeping, because it was clear that I’d been the one to drink the wine. But given that he was sitting beside the empty containers with his plastic food bowl in his mouth, the chances of that were slim.

  I rooted out my phone from underneath the potato chip bag and saw that Corinne was calling—at seven a.m. “Hello?”

  “Bonjour. It is Corinne. Is zis Franki?”

  I couldn’t blame her for not recognizing me. I sounded like my mouth was full of gravel. Or chips. “Yes, hi. It’s me.”

  “I have some information for you.” Her tone was hushed. “But I am at ze bank, so I must hurry before ze osers come to work.”

  I flopped onto my back. “Is it about Jessica’s monthly deposits?”

  “Oui. Ze deposits she make each mons were checks.”

  “Her LaMarca paychecks?” I held my breath in anticipation.

  “Non, for her paychecks she have ze direct deposit.” Zese checks were from a life insurance company.”

  I exhaled. They weren’t payoffs from the Prestons, after all. “A life insurance company? Is there any way to tell who the policy holder was?

  “Non, but ze policy is from an oil company in Baton Rouge.”

  “Really?” That was weird. “How big were the checks?”

  “Zey were small. One hundred dollars.”

  It was looking like the bank lead was a bust. “I guess the policy was from a relative or family friend. It’s obviously not a bribe.”

  “Wait, Franki. I save ze best for last.”

  Hope filled my chest. “What?”

  “Jessica receive other PPD deposits, besides her paycheck.”

  “What do you mean by ‘PPD deposits’?”

  Napoleon put his food bowl down and gave a high-pitched bark.

  I put my finger over my lips as though he could understand.

  “Ah, ‘PPD’ is an SEC code, so it tell ze bank ze transaction type. A code of PPD means ‘Prearranged Payment and Deposit.’ It is a repeat deposit, like for a paycheck or pension or somesing.”

  “How much were these deposits for?” I switched the phone to my left ear so that I could pet Napoleon with my right hand to keep him from barking.

  “Ten sousand dollars.”

  I sat straight up on the chaise lounge. “Ten thousand dollars?”

  “Oui.”

  “How often did she receive them?” I was reeling from the amount of those deposits.

  “Every mons.”

  It looked like I’d hit pay dirt—as, apparently, had Jessica. “Is there any way to tell who these direct deposit
s were from?”

  “Ze registry shows zey are from ze Vautier Group.”

  “Could you spell that?” I ran and grabbed a pen from the kitchen counter. For me, French might as well have been Sanskrit. Using the box of chocolate-covered cherries as a note pad, I jotted down what she said. “Do you have any idea what this company does?”

  “Non, I never hear of it.”

  “Corinne, this is very important. Can you tell me how long Jessica has been receiving these deposits?”

  “Since she open ze account with us in 2012. I do not know if she receive ze money before zat.”

  If only she’d been with the same bank since Immacolata’s murder. “Did you see any other activity in her account that looked unusual?”

  “Non, zat is all.”

  “Well, if these payments are what I think they are, this could be a huge break in the case. I can’t thank you enough for your help.”

  “It is my pleasure. But now I must go. Au revoir.”“

  “Ciao, Corinne.”

  I hung up and saw the second awful sight of the day—Bradley had called the night before. And I needed to talk to him—to tell him to stop calling me, of course.

  I flopped onto the chaise lounge in a funk. I’d fallen asleep early because of the wine, which I’d only drunk because I’d been disturbed by Domenica, a.k.a. the Dame of Demise, and her deathly antics. That girl was getting on my last nerve. Or maybe I should say she was dancing on it. And I had to be ready in half an hour to go to the police station with Veronica to question her.

  I sent a text to David asking him to find out the names of the owners and board of directors of The Vautier Group. Then I walked and fed a testy Napoleon before heading to my closet to pick out something attorney-like.

  The Slidell City Jail came into view, and my stomach tensed. I didn’t relish the idea of going into a police station on false pretenses. “So, what am I supposed to do when we get inside?”

  Veronica turned into the parking lot. “I’m going to introduce you as my paralegal. That way, the police will direct all the questions to me.”

  “That’s good.” I glanced at her smart gray suit and raspberry silk blouse. In comparison, the Forever 21 black blazer and leopard-print dress I’d thrown together made me look more like I was ready for a night of fist pumping at the Jersey Shore than a day of representing incarcerated clients.