“Yeah, well, don’t get your hopes up.” I watched Harry park in the back of the lot. “Coincidences like that only happen in books.”
She pulled into the lot and parked in the row in front of Harry’s car, and we slouched in our seats.
I peered over the dashboard and watched Harry open his car door and struggle beneath the weight of his Hitchcockian belly before exiting. He buttoned his over-sized sport coat, patted his toupee, and smoothed his mustache with his index finger and thumb. Then, he gave a little skip and a hop and set off for the restaurant entrance.
I gasped, outraged. “Did you see that? He’s so jazzed about his affair that he did a little dance.”
“Oh, that reminds me.” Veronica rummaged in her pink Prada handbag. “Twyla emailed me a picture of Patsy.” She handed me her phone.
I flinched when I saw the photo of the alleged cotillion coquette. Patsy had the white beehive hairdo and sharp features of the late Texas Governor Ann Richards, but the teeth of Alvin the Chipmunk.
“She won’t be hard to spot in a crowd.” I gave the phone to Veronica. “So, what do we do now?”
“We need to go inside. If we wait out here, we run the risk of Harry and his date leaving the restaurant separately. Then we’d miss the photo op.”
“We’re not going to let that happen.” I leapt from the car, slung my hobo bag over my shoulder, and assumed a vigilante posture. “Let’s do this.”
I entered the restaurant followed by Veronica and did a double take. The place teemed with men in full-on cowboy gear, from cowboy hats and neckerchiefs to chaps and boots.
I leaned over to Veronica. “The newspaper said this was an Italian restaurant, but based on the clientele, it looks more like a Wild West saloon. Minus the showgirls.”
Veronica tightened the belt of her Burberry trench coat.
We made our way through the crowded lobby, avoiding any spurs, to the empty hostess stand.
While we waited for someone to arrive, a lonesome-looking cowpoke with a toothpick between his teeth tried to take a gander down the front of my dress. I narrowed my eyes like Clint Eastwood in a spaghetti western. “Giddy on, little doggie.”
The toothpick fell from his lips. Then he adjusted his hat and moseyed away.
A harried-looking hostess rushed up to us. She had a partially untucked shirt and a run in her stocking, and I wondered whether an overzealous broncobuster had tried to lasso and hogtie her. “I hope you’re not waiting for a table.”
Veronica peered at the waitlist. “Actually, we are.”
“Well, then,” she said in a grim tone, “you’re looking at a two-hour wait.”
I counted ten total cowhands in the waiting area. “It doesn’t look like that many people are waiting.”
The harassed hostess gripped the edges of the stand, bowed her head, and took a deep breath before looking me straight in the eye. “There aren’t. But the good folks who decided to organize a cowboy convention in New Orleans thought our famous barbecued shrimp were cooked on a grill instead of a stovetop. So, the cowboys have all sent their orders back to the kitchen and are threatening to quote ‘rustle up a passel of wood and cook the dad-gum shrimps in the dad-blamed parking lot.’ As you might imagine, it’s going to take us a while to settle what the cowboys are describing as ‘this here sitchiation.’“
I sensing that it wasn’t the time to insist. “You know, I think we’ll just head on over to the bar.”
I led Veronica to an oyster-shucking area. “I don’t know about you, but I think we need to leave before these crazy cattlemen decide to brawl or stampede or something.”
“I agree, but we have to figure out a way to get a few pictures of Harry first.”
I thought for a moment. “I know. I’ll pretend like I’m one of those people who go around taking courtesy pictures of the guests.”
“That’s perfect. What do you need me to do?”
“Help me find Harry at the O.K. Corral here.”
“On it.” She took off, weaving through the tables.
I followed close on her heels and got an idea of what it must’ve been like to have been a pioneering woman in the Old West. The lewd whistling, suggestive winking, and flat-out leering—a girl could get used to that.
I spotted Harry at a table in the back corner of the restaurant. His back was to me, and he was blocking my view of his date.
I grabbed Veronica’s arm. “There he is.”
“Okay, give me your purse.”
I pulled out my phone and handed the bag to Veronica. “Here goes nothing.”
I walked to the table where I was shocked to discover that Harry’s date wasn’t Patsy at all but rather an attractive forty-something brunette in a white Chanel suit with black trim.
How does he do it? I approached the double-crossing duo. “Good evening.”
Harry jumped in his seat, and the brunette hung her head.
“How would you two like a picture as a memento of your dinner at Pascal’s Manale?”
The bashful brunette looked at Harry.
His cheeks puffed like Alfred Hitchcock’s. “Oh, no. No. That won’t be necessary.”
“Don’t be silly.” I gave Harry a not-so-playful shove. “This’ll just take a sec.”
He shielded his face with his hand. “We’d really prefer not to have our picture taken.”
“Nonsense.” My teeth were clenched as I placed my hand on Harry’s back and pushed him toward the brunette. “Now you two lean in and say cheat. Wait, did I say cheat? Oopsy, I meant cheese.”
“Please leave us alone.” Harry waved his arm and knocked his wallet, which he had placed beside his silverware, onto the ground. He leaned down to retrieve the wallet.
“Franki!”
I turned and saw Veronica pointing at a manager-type who stormed in my direction. I had to take the picture, and fast.
I spun around, aimed, and snapped. When I pulled the phone away from my eyes, a red-faced, toupee-less Harry with little pieces of pink tape on his head made a grasping motion toward my chest.
“Whoa, there, partner.” Was Harry trying to take a swing at me?
He grabbed at me again, and I looked down and saw it—his toupee was caught on the top button of my blazer. Eww. I struggled to remove the rebellious rug from my button.
The manager-type arrived at the table. “What’s going on here?”
“She…my…we…” Harry sputtered.
“I’m helping this gentleman with his toupee.” As proof, I slapped the offending item on Harry’s hairless head. “There. That toupee tape ought to stick now, sir.” I turned and hightailed it outta there faster ‘n a polecat in a perfume shop, followed by Veronica.
Outside, we jumped in the car and peeled out of the parking lot.
Veronica glanced in the rearview mirror. “I wonder who that woman was with Harry.”
“Who knows. A ‘catch’ like that could get any woman in the city.”
“What the…?” I stared out the window of Veronica’s Audi.
In our yard stood a five-foot-five body builder with gel-styled hair and a thick gold chain with a huge cross and a cornicello, a twisted horn-shaped charm for warding off the evil eye. Even in the dim porch light, I could see the Italian pride-themed tattoos on his bulging biceps and the orange glow of his spray tan.
Veronica gripped the steering wheel. “Do you know that guy?”
I squinted to get a better look. Although I had no idea who he was, I didn’t have to look beneath his wife beater to know that he’d spent far too much time at the gym. “No, but he looks like he would have been a shoo-in for the cast of Jerseylicious.”
The steroid stud’s eyes caught mine. He puffed out his chest like a toad expanding its throat and revealed a mouthful of teeth as florescent white as his velour track pants. Then he bent over to pick up something.
“Get down.” I ducked into my seat. “He’s got a gun.”
“Actually, it looks like a small guitar.”
I peered out the window and saw the offending instrument—a mandolin.
“Mamma mia,” I wailed, sinking into my seat. “I’m about to get a Sicilian serenade—Jersey style.”
No sooner had I spoken the words than I heard my nonna’s favorite song, E vui durmiti ancora,” which meant “And you’re still sleeping.”
Veronica looked thoughtful. “Say what you want about your nonna, but I really admire her determination.”
I didn’t bother to comment. I sat in my seat waiting for my ripped Romeo to finish his serenade and leave.
“Well?” Veronica nudged me. “Aren’t you going to get out of the car?”
“No.” I crossed my arms like a stubborn child.
“Come on, Franki. You’ve got to deal with this.”
I turned to face her. “Or what? He’ll wake the dead across the street with all that romantic racket?”
Veronica rolled her eyes. “So you can ask him to leave.”
“Good point.” I started to get out of the car, but then a disturbing thought occurred to me. “Oh no.”
“What?”
“I’m wearing leopard print.”
Veronica blinked. “So?”
“He’s from New Jersey. They go crazy for leopard print there.”
Veronica shook her head. “That’s stereotyping, Franki.”
“Can you not see him, Veronica?” I gestured toward my serenader. “He’s pretty much a walking stereotype, I’d say.”
“Well, at least he’s not singing ‘O Sole Mio.’“
“Ain’t that the truth.”
Veronica and I exited the car and started up the sidewalk, and Glenda flung open her front door. She was wearing what looked like Borat’s mankini in shocking pink underneath a sheer baby doll robe. Of course, because it was cold out, she’d put on matching faux fur leg warmers over her high-heeled slippers. To keep her calves warm, naturally.
“Loooord almighty,” Glenda breathed as she gave the buff bodybuilder a once-over that would make a seasoned gigolo blush. “What do we have here?”
I shot her a wry look. “We have what’s known in New Jersey as a juicehead.”
Glenda took a drag off her foot-long pink cigarette holder and blew an alarming smoke signal—a perfectly formed heart-shaped smoke ring. “Well in that case, sugar, I’d like to take a long, slow drink of that nectar.”
My stomach churned. I had to put a stop to the serenade-slash-stripper circus, and pronto. I turned to the strapping Sicilian. “Stop singing.”
He ceased, mid-word, and stared at me.
I walked up to him and looked down (I was a good seven-to-eight inches taller than him in my heels). “Listen, uh…”
“Guido.”
Seriously? “I’m sorry, Guido, but you went to all this trouble for nothing. I’m not interested in dating right now. Or in men, for that matter.”
“Yo, if you’re into chicks,” his lips spread into a leer, “I’m down wit’ that.”
My lips went Mr. Grinch. “How incredibly generous of you.”
Glenda took another drag off her cigarette. “Speaking of men…”
I turned and followed her gaze toward the street. Bradley had just walked out of Thibodeaux’s. My stomach dropped. I didn’t want to see him. Well, I did, but I didn’t.
Bradley crossed the street. He narrowed his eyes as he walked up the sidewalk. “Evening ladies.” He nodded stiffly at Guido.
I feigned a look of surprise. “I thought you’d be at Jersey Boys—with your wife.”
Guido jutted out his lower lip. “That’s a great show, bro.”
I turned and shot Guido a piercing look, and his chest deflated like a popped balloon.
Bradley put his hands in his pockets. “I guess I deserved that.” His brow rose. “Am I interrupting something?”
Glenda sidled up to Bradley like a stripper to a pole. “Miss Franki’s getting a serenade from a juicehead. Isn’t it delicious?”
Bradley’s lips tightened into a line. “I see.”
I moved to stand beside Guido, who reinflated his chest, and an uncomfortable silence descended upon the yard.
Bradley sought my gaze. “I guess that’s my cue to leave.”
I wanted to ask him to stay, but I couldn’t.
He turned and headed for his car.
Glenda dragged off her cigarette. “A crying shame, sugar.”
“Stay strong, Franki.” Veronica slipped her arm around my shoulders as I stared after him.
“I’m trying. But this time it’s really hard.”
She gave me a squeeze. “You’re a tough girl, though.”
I nodded and heard the reprise of the mandolin. I spun around to give Guido a piece of my mind and stopped, horrified.
He was no longer serenading me—he was serenading Glenda. And she was doing what she did best—a striptease.
I saw the first faux fur leg warmer fly, and I fled to the sanctuary of my bordello, er, house.
20
The morning sunshine streamed into the CC’s Community Coffee House on Royal Street. The bright, warm room and smell of coffee made me kind of glad that I’d had to wake up early to get my laptop from the office. After the events of the previous night, I’d intended to wallow in self-pity in my house—actually, in my bed—all day. But an early Saturday trip to the French Quarter had turned out to be what I’d needed to lift my spirits.
“What can I get you?” a teenaged cashier with charming braids and freckles asked.
“A double soy latte to go.”
“Anything else?”
“Now that you mention it, I could use a little something to eat.” I rested a hand on my bloated belly. How could something so empty feel so big? “I’ll take a lemon pastry.”
“The iced lemon pound cake or the lemon square?”
“Both. And make that three of each.”
She placed the pastries into a bag and rang up my order. I swiped my credit card through the reader, dropped fifty cents into the tip jar, and headed toward the coffee bar.
While I waited, I looked around the rectangular-shaped room at all the people enjoying a lazy morning reading newspapers, studying, and surfing the Internet on their laptops. An older man at the table closest to me edited what looked like a play or a screenplay with a red pen, and I was reminded of some of the cool movies that had been filmed in New Orleans—A Streetcar Named Desire, Interview with a Vampire, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, and the all-time classic Big Momma’s House 2.
I admired the architectural features of the old building, starting with elliptical transom window over the entrance. My gaze lowered to the glass pane of the door below.
And I jumped.
Concetta peered inside wearing a scowl that clashed with her nun’s habit.
I wondered what she was doing in the area, and then I remembered that there was a Catholic Center up the street. I held out hope that she wasn’t looking for me. Maybe she was mad because she hadn’t had her morning coffee.
Her eyes zeroed in on me like a heat seeking missile.
No such luck.
She shoved open the door and marched to me. “I heard you and Veronica paid Domenica a visit in jail yesterday.”
I shifted in my purple Ugg boots. Gone was the charitable nun—she’d been replaced by an overprotective big sister. “Yes, that’s right.”
She leaned close. “Do you mind telling me what that little charade was all about?”
“It wasn’t all a charade, Concetta.” I guiltily watched the cross on her necklace swing from side to side rather than look her in the eyes. “Veronica did give her some legal advice.”
She put her hands on her hips and snorted in disbelief. “You call telling her to be frank with her attorney ‘legal advice’?”
“Listen, I can understand why you’re upset, but Domenica needed to hear what Veronica had to say.” I glanced around to make sure that no one was watching me argue with a nun. “She’s not exactly forthcoming, you know.”
She rolled her eyes. “Well of course she doesn’t feel like talking, much less being interrogated after losing half her family. Tell me, just how do you expect a teenager in her situation to behave?”
“I don’t know. But I certainly don’t expect her to dance on graves and deface her own sister’s tombstone, and especially not in a cemetery where an unsolved murder took place.”
Concetta’s face contorted in anger, and her right eyelid twitched. “I told you and your partner before—I don’t approve of Domenica’s Goth look. But that’s all it is, a look. My sister is not a Satanist, if that’s what you’re insinuating. And she’s definitely not a murderer.”
From the corner of my eye, I saw the cashier conferring with a pasty-faced twenty-year-old guy who appeared to be the manager. They were whispering and casting concerned looks in our direction.
“We’re disturbing the customers. I think it would be best if we continued this conversation with Veronica at our office.”
“That won’t be necessary. But you guys gave Domenica advice, so let me give you some—If you really want to solve this case, you’ll leave my sister alone and start interrogating Stewart Preston. Unlike her, he’s a known voodoo practitioner and a killer.” She spun on her heels and left the store.
“Double soy latte,” the barista shouted.
Ignoring my coffee call, I reflected on what had happened with Concetta. I was frustrated by her inability to understand that we had to re-question Domenica after her unexpected arrest. But I did think she’d been right about one thing—If Veronica and I were ever going to solve this case, Stewart Preston was the key.
I walked over to the counter to get my latte and resolved to step up my phone call assault on Stewart, right after I called Veronica about my run-in with the nun.
I pulled in front of my house twenty minutes later and scanned the yard for Sicilians before getting out of the car. I hadn’t heard a word from my nonna since the serenade, so the Sicilian coast was by no means clear. As soon as I was certain the area was suitor-free, I grabbed my bag of lemon goodies and bounded up the sidewalk to my apartment. It was my first lazy Saturday morning in ages, and I was determined to enjoy it—boyfriend or no boyfriend.
Franki Amato Mysteries Box Set Page 22
