She maneuvered the Audi into a parking space right next to an old pink Toyota that was covered with Barbie parts.
I was mesmerized by the dismembered dolls. “I wonder if the driver of that car is in the slammer. If so, it’s got to be for Barbiecide.”
“Killing Barbies isn’t a crime, but bad taste in car décor should be.” She put her sunglasses into her bag. “We’d better get going. Domenica will go before a judge first thing this morning, and we have to talk to her before that happens.”
“Why?” I reached for my purse. “Aren’t we allowed to talk to her after that?”
“No, the judge is going to ask her who’s representing her. So we need to meet with her before she names her attorney or before the court appoints one to her. Otherwise, it’ll be too late for me to pose as her legal counsel.”
“Burning Love” blared from my purse. “Why didn’t I change that thing?” I muttered as I pulled out my phone. “It’s Bradley.”
“Are you going to answer?”
The tension in my stomach crawled to my chest. “I have to talk to him sooner or later.”
“Okay, but try to be cool.”
I nodded and tapped Answer. “H-hello?”
“Franki, it’s Bradley.”
“Oh?” I feigned a surprise that I regretted. In the smartphone era, it was obvious who was calling.
“I’m sorry to call you so early, but I’ve got back-to-back meetings again today, and I wanted to catch you before they got underway. Do you have a minute?”
“I suppose.” This time I feigned an indifference I didn’t feel. Even after finding out about his wife, my mind couldn’t help replaying the kiss-to-end-all-kisses.
“I tried to call you last night, but I guess you were out?”
“Uh-huh.” I had been out, just not the kind of out he was thinking.
“Listen, I’ve been thinking about what happened the other night, and I realized that I came on a little strong with that kiss. So I want to apologize if I was, uh, forward.”
I bit my lip. If only it were as simple as a kiss.
“Anyway, I know it’s short notice, but I have two tickets to the opening of Jersey Boys tonight. I was hoping you’d do me the honor of going with me. I promise I’ll behave like a gentleman.”
There were no words to express how much I did not want to turn down a date with Bradley, especially when he was being surprisingly sweet and respectful—and when I was already wearing the perfect Jersey-style outfit for the occasion. But after everything I’d been through with Todd and Vince, I couldn’t go from being cheated on to being a cheater. I didn’t want to hurt another woman, not even Sheilah. I had to draw the line firmly in the sand—or maybe quicksand because I felt like I was sinking. “I’m sorry, Bradley, but I don’t date married men.”
There was a deafening silence on the other end of the line followed by what sounded like a sharp intake of breath.
“I was planning on talking to you about that after we—”
“So it’s true?” I interrupted.
He paused. “I can explain…”
That was exactly what Vince had said. Tears filled my eyes and anger surged in my stomach. “I don’t need your explanation, Bradley. It’s all quite clear, thank you very much.”
“Franki, it’s complicated…”
I gave a bitter laugh. “Another tried and true cliché.”
He let out a long sigh. “Will you please hear me out?”
“No, because there’s nothing more to say except that I don’t ever want to see you again.” I ended the call and then stared at the phone before throwing it into my purse.
Veronica looked at me. “This guy really got to you, didn’t he?”
I nodded.
“I’ll take you home.” She pulled her keys from her purse.
“No.” I placed my hand on her arm to prevent her from starting the ignition. “I came here this morning to do a job, and I’m going to do it.”
“I know, but I can handle this one on my own.”
I shook my head. “I can’t keep getting sidelined by unfaithful men. The plan was to start over in New Orleans, and that’s what I’m going to do. Life is just going to be a little different than I thought.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “How so?”
“Well,” I opened my car door, “instead of getting a guy, I’m going to get…cats.”
Veronica smirked. “I think Napoleon will fiercely object to you becoming a cat lady.”
“True.” I glanced at the Barbie car. “Maybe I’ll start a dismembered doll collection.”
“This is taking way too long,” I said for at least the tenth time since we’d entered the jail. After going through a rigorous security screening and a meticulous administrative process complete with a semi-interrogation about the purpose of our visit and a stack of paperwork almost as high as my Jessica Simpson heels, we’d finally been taken to a small room to wait for Domenica.
Veronica didn’t look up from her notepad. “Welcome to the life of a criminal attorney. It shouldn’t be much longer now.”
“I hope not. I can actually feel myself rotting away in this jail.”
“It’s not like you’re locked up in a cell. Besides, be glad you’re not at the police department in New Orleans. This place is a palace in comparison.”
“Well, it’s better than I expected.” I surveyed the room. Everything about the Slidell jail was surprisingly clean and well kept, from the mowed lawn out front to the sparkling tile floors inside. It looked nothing like the seedy pictures of the New Orleans jailhouse that I’d seen in the tabloids following the much-publicized arrests of Nicholas Cage and Russell Brand.
The door opened, and Veronica stood. Domenica entered followed by a tall brunette police officer with a Miss America smile. Instead of her customary basic black, the Darling of the Dead was outfitted entirely in tangerine courtesy of the Slidell PD.
“I’ll be back for her in fifteen or so.” The officer flashed her pearly whites and closed the door behind her.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Domenica spoke in a bored monotone as she took a seat at the table.
I bared my teeth. “We’re here to ask you some follow-up questions. You know, in light of your recent arrest?”
“Is this even legal? I mean, I’m in jail. So how is it, exactly, that the two of you can just cruise in here and interrogate me?”
Veronica folded her hands. “I’m a criminal defense attorney.”
Domenica scrutinized her for a moment. “So, are you here to defend me, or something?”
She looked at the table. “No, I’m not.” Then she looked Domenica in the eyes. “But I’ve been informed of the charges against you, so I can provide you with free legal advice in exchange for your answers to a few questions.”
Domenica looked from Veronica to me. “You people are incredible.” A silence ensued that included several pensive flicks of her tongue piercing. “So, what is it you’re so desperate to ask me?”
I draped my arm on the table. “For starters, we’d like to know if you had anything to do with the murder of the cemetery caretaker.”
Her eyes cast daggers—or tongue spikes. “I had nothing to do with that, understand? I’ve never even seen that guy before.”
“But you admit that you were a frequent visitor to the Slidell cemetery, right?”
“Sure.”
I smirked. She acted as though hanging out in cemeteries was as natural as hanging out at the mall.
Veronica stared at Domenica. “You know, I actually don’t believe that you had anything to do with Henry Withers’ death, but I may be in the minority on that count. So if you know something, even if it’s just secondhand gossip, then I’d advise you to tell the police with your attorney present.”
Domenica returned her stare but remained silent.
“Because if you don’t,” Veronica said, undaunted, “there’s a strong chance based on your Goth appearance, your defiant attitude, and this
grave-defacing charge that you’ll go down with your friends for first degree murder, a charge that carries the death penalty in the state of Louisiana.”
“That’s profiling.”
I leaned forward. “Is it? Or is it just reality? Because I’m an ex-cop, so I can tell you from experience that the police will be a whole lot more inclined to believe that someone like you murdered a cemetery caretaker than someone like my partner here.”
She shot me a look of pure hate. Then she studied her hands and began picking the black nail polish off one of her fingernails.
Veronica crossed her arms. “Now, why don’t you tell us about this grave dancing business?”
“What about it?”
I snort-laughed and shook my head. “You do understand that most people find the notion of dancing on a grave to be bizarre?”
“That’s their problem.”
Veronica sighed. “Can you tell us why you do it?”
“It’s not a big deal, all right?” Domenica’s devil-may-care demeanor had turned defensive. “My friends and I think death is cool. It’s a part of life, you know? So we dance on graves to celebrate it.”
I shuddered. I could think of plenty of ways to celebrate life, and none of them included cemeteries.
She smoothed her black bangs over her eye. “And it’s not like we’re doing anything bad.”
Veronica held up a finger “But you did do something illegal. The arresting officer said that you spray-painted a word on a gravestone, but he wasn’t sure if it was foreign or just misspelled.”
I remembered the insult Domenica had scrawled on Jessica’s yearbook picture. “What did you write?”
She hesitated. “Vendicata.”
I straightened in my chair. “The Italian word?”
She nodded and looked at her nails.
Veronica and I exchanged a look. Vendicata meant avenged, and the a ending indicated that the avenged person was a woman.
I instantly thought of Immacolata. “Whose tombstone did you write this on?”
“Imma’s,” she said, deadpan.
Veronica and I stared at each other, trying to process the revelation.
I cleared my throat. “Can you explain what you meant when you used the word?”
“I think it’s self-explanatory.”
“Actually, it’s not. Here’s why—It doesn’t indicate who did the avenging.”
The door opened, and the brunette officer flashed another pageant-winning smile. “It’s time to go.”
Domenica stood, and a smirk formed at the corners of her mouth. “Well, I guess that’s what you two hotshot PIs have been hired to find out, now isn’t it?”
As I watched her leave, I pondered the ramifications of her use of the word vendicata. And I wondered whether someone with such a positive view of death would find it easy to take a human life.
19
“You’re off the hook, Franki.” Veronica stood in my office doorway.
I looked up from my mid-afternoon bag of beignets, consumed by Catholic guilt for whatever I’d done wrong. “For…” I inhaled a mouthful—make that a throat full—of powdered sugar and coughed. “…what?”
“I just got off the phone with Ed Orlansky, and he agreed to let me screen the video this afternoon.”
“Huh?” Powdered sugar puffed from my mouth. “And miss a chance to work late with you tonight?”
“I told him about the stakeout and said that if I couldn’t come within the next hour, I was going to have to cancel.”
“That explains it.” I turned back to my beignets. Like a good Italian-American girl, I’d decided to drown my dating sorrows in dough products.
“I also talked to Ryan.”
I yawned. That guy made me tired. “What did the charming Mr. Hunter have to say?”
She smiled like a cat who’d caught a canary and a cockatoo. “He’s pleased with our progress.”
“Pleased?”
Her smile turned Cheshire. “Apparently, the police hadn’t figured out the vendicata clue.”
“I told you Italian was a useful language.” I felt vindicated. During our sophomore year, I’d persuaded her not to switch from Italian to Swedish when she was in the throes of a burst of Nordic pride. “But how did Ryan know what the police had or hadn’t found?”
“Simple. His attorney went to the police station after Domenica was arrested and demanded to know what was going on.”
“Smart move.” I nodded and noticed I had powdered sugar on my chest. I was going to have to switch to something less messy, like raw cookie dough.
“He also found out that the police questioned Stewart Preston.” She crossed her arms. “Two days ago.”
I steepled my powdered fingers. “So he’s probably in town and hasn’t returned my call, which means I’m going to have to get insistent.”
“Or even demanding.”
“While you’re at Lenton’s today, I’ll go through The Times-Picayune society pages and make a list of the restaurants and bars where he’s been spotted in the past. That way, if he doesn’t return my call, we can try to track him down at one of his favorite hangouts.”
“That’s a great idea.” Her lips thinned. “Stewart Preston is no match for two Private Chicks.”
The slamming of the lobby door announced the arrival of David.
I grinned at Veronica, who massaged her forehead.
“Ladies.” David bowed and entered my office. “May I?”
“You may.” I wondered whether I should’ve been concerned about his uncharacteristic formality.
He bounded into my office and plopped into a chair. “Prepare to be amazed.” He pulled his laptop from his backpack with a flourish. “I had some time to kill between classes this morning, so I did some research on corporate affiliations.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Turns out that The Vautier Group is the parent company of Preston Textiles, Inc.”
“So the Prestons were paying Jessica.” I pounded my fist on my desk. Then I looked at Veronica, anticipating one of her voice-of-reason-style responses.
“Now hold on, Franki,” she said, not disappointing me. “I know it looks suspicious, but Jessica was in the fashion business, as is Preston Textiles. There’s always the possibility that they were paying her for a legitimate service.”
“But Preston Textiles wasn’t paying her. The Vautier Group was.”
Veronica turned to David. “What does The Vautier Group do?”
“Uh, basically, they just buy and control other companies through majority stock ownership. And by the way, Stewart Preston, III, is on the current board.”
“Well,” she met my gaze, “it’s certainly beginning to look like those deposits could’ve been payoffs.”
“Which would explain the weird conversation Concetta witnessed between Stewart and Jessica and the extravagant purchases Jessica started making right after Immacolata’s death.”
She chewed a pinky nail. “We’ve got to find Stewart ASAP.”
“Don’t worry. As soon as you leave, I’ll start calling him. Every hour if I have to.”
David cleared his throat. “Um, before you go, I’ve got some more information.”
Veronica lowered her hand. “What is it?
“So, I’ve been going through the Google hits for ‘Bill Evangelista’ and ‘William Evangelista,’ and I found one that says a guy named Bill Evangelista died in a car accident in Gulfport, Mississippi in 1989.”
“That’s close to here, right?” I asked.
“Yeah, a little over an hour away.” He broke into a boyish grin. “My buddies and I went there for spring break last year because it’s got some freakin’ awesome beaches. Even though it is an oil town.”
I thought of the life insurance payments Jessica had been receiving from the oil company.
Veronica looked at me. “Sounds like our Bill Evangelista. The age of the daughter would also be about right, since Bill referred to her as a baby in his letter.”
“Dude—”
David looked up from his lashes. “I mean, mademoiselle—it’s totally him.”
I leaned forward. “What makes you so sure?”
“Because the obituary I found said his daughter was named Jessica. And she and her mother, Wanda, died in the accident too.”
Veronica slowed the Audi’s speed to ensure that we were following Harry Upton’s blue Mercedes at a safe distance.
I looked out the passenger window at the gorgeous nineteenth-century architecture of the historic New Orleans neighborhood of Uptown and sighed.
“What is it?”
“I spent all day calling Stewart Preston, and I haven’t heard a peep out of him. Not even a text telling me to go to hell. I feel like the chances of questioning him are getting slimmer by the minute.”
“Give it a little more time. I think he’ll call, either out of concern or just plain curiosity.”
“Maybe.” I turned toward her. “Anyway, you haven’t told me what happened at Lenton’s today.”
“It must have slipped my mind.”
“I take it you didn’t find anything?”
Veronica shook her head. “The scarf buyer was an African-American male.”
I flashed a lascivious smile. “How was Ed?”
“He wasn’t there. He’s got the devil’s grip.”
“Do I even want to know what that is?”
She smirked. “It’s a disease that causes severe chest pain that lasts for up to a week.”
I had to goad her a little. “Are you sure he wasn’t just overexcited about spending the day with you?”
Veronica stared eagle-eyed out the windshield. “Harry just pulled into Pascal’s Manale.”
“Hey, I read about this restaurant today.”
She slowed the car to a stop outside the parking lot. “It’s kind of a New Orleans tradition. Everyone eats here sooner or later.”
“Including Stewart Preston. According to The Times-Picayune, he comes here fairly often.”
“Really?” Veronica gave a well-what-do-you know frown. “That would be amazing if we saw him here too.”
Franki Amato Mysteries Box Set Page 21
