“One sec.” I took a step down and leaned a little farther.
The top half of the trellis cracked and pulled from the wall.
I heard Veronica gasp and fabric tear as I fell. I landed rear-end first on an immaculately groomed shrub as the trellis smacked loudly against the side of the house, like a rubber band that had been stretched too far and then released.
Veronica ran to the shrub. “Are you okay?”
“I think so.” I checked my limbs to make sure they were all intact.
Veronica gasped again. “The brunette just looked out the window. We’ve got to get out of here.”
I tried to move, but my bottom was stuck in the shrub. “Pull me out.”
She grabbed my hand and tugged with all her petite might. While she pulled, I leveraged myself on a branch with my other hand and broke free of the stubborn bush. I rolled onto my stomach, hopped down, and grabbed my pumps.
The front door opened.
Veronica and I exchanged a look of panic before hoofing it down the street. We reached the cemetery, and I ripped the car keys from my bra. Then we jumped into the Mustang and burned rubber.
Veronica patted her camera as I drove back to the office. “I wonder how Twyla is going to react to these photographs. After all, she’s expecting to see Patsy, not a beautiful young brunette.”
“Give me…a sec.” I gasped between breaths. A few minutes had elapsed since we’d left the brunette’s mansion, and I still hadn’t recovered from the two-hundred-yard sprint to my car.
“Maybe we should deliver them to her in person. She is prone to fainting spells, and I’d hate for something bad to happen.”
“Me too,” I wheezed.
“Okay, then it’s settled. We’ll bring them to her tomorrow.”
I slowed to a stop at the intersection of Governor Nicholls and Bourbon. It was a residential district, so the streets were quiet. I looked both ways and did a double take.
Bradley walked down the street with a masked young woman in a Mardi Gras queen costume—make that a teeny bikini with a few sequins and feathers.
I recovered the full force of my lungs. “Is that Bradley with that hot blonde?”
Veronica looked out the passenger window. “Didn’t you say his wife was a blonde?”
“Yeah, but that’s not her. She doesn’t have waist-length hair.”
“Well, it’s impossible to tell who that man is. He’s walking away from us, and it’s dark.”
“Oh, it’s not impossible.” I speed-turned onto Bourbon.
“What are you going to do?” Her tone was panicked. “Run them down?”
“No. We’re going to follow them.”
“But there’s a barricade up ahead. You can’t drive through there.”
I pulled into a rare Bourbon Street parking space and shut off the ignition. “That’s why we’re going to follow them on foot.”
Veronica put her hand on my arm. “Franki, this is not a good idea. If it is Bradley, what are you going to do?”
“I’m not going to do anything,” I said, although I wasn’t sure I was being entirely honest. “I just need to know if it’s him or not.”
“You might want to look at your dress first. It’s torn.”
“Veronica.” I threw my hands in the air. “This is hardly the time to worry about a little rip in my dress.”
Before she could reply, I blew out of the car and rushed down Bourbon. I could still see the man and the blonde a couple of intersections ahead. I had to catch up to them before they passed the barricade at St. Ann Street that separated the homes from the bar district. My high heels were slowing me down, but there was no way I was taking them off. It was one thing to run barefoot down a residential street in the wealthy Garden District, but it was quite another to do it on Bourbon.
I arrived at the intersection and spotted the guy and the blonde near the barricade. He turned to her and said something that made her laugh. The minute I saw his profile, I recognized the outline of Bradley’s Roman nose and strong jaw.
Veronica caught up to me. “Well?”
“It’s Bradley, all right.” I was so angry that I was sure flames shot from my eyes. “He’s already found a new woman to cheat on his wife with.”
“Okay. Now that you know it’s him, let’s go back to the car.”
I clenched my teeth. “Not before I get a better look at that blonde.”
I ran to St. Ann and pushed my way through the partiers, keeping my eyes glued to the back of Bradley’s head.
“Franki, wait,” Veronica called. “I’m trapped.”
I saw that she was stuck behind a group of tall men dressed as Catholic cardinals.
“Push ‘em the hell out of the way,” I yelled and turned back around.
Bradley and the blonde had disappeared.
I scanned the crowd for any sign of them.
“Hey, catch,” a sexy male voice shouted from a balcony above.
I looked up and a bead necklace hit me in the face.
The man who had thrown the necklace winked and raised his glass in a silent toast. A group of his friends gathered around him and smiled at me.
“Here ya go, beautiful.” One of them tossed a handful of necklaces in my direction.
I stood there, surprised. I’d been to Bourbon Street several times before, once even in my pre-cellulite days, and I’d never seen that kind of action.
“Are you supposed to be Poison Ivy or Eve in The Garden of Eden?” a drunken male voice asked.
I looked away from the balcony and saw a Humpty Dumpty-shaped guy in a Court Jester outfit standing in front of me. “Huh?”
He took a sip from his long, neon green, hand grenade-shaped cup. “Those leaves on your hooters and your hoo ha.”
I looked down. At some point during my fall from the trellis and the ensuing struggle with the shrub, my three-quarter-sleeve, beige knit dress had acquired leafy accessories in the nether regions. It had also gained a ten-inch plunging neckline that could only be described as Glenda-worthy. That explains the beads.
“Because if you’re Eve,” he said, “then you really should’ve worn a bikini instead of that big dress.”
That from a Court Jester whose only exposed body parts on the chilly January night were his face and hands. “Speaking of big,” I leaned in close to the egg-shaped joker, “if you don’t shut your big mouth, I’m going to take your big cup and shove it up your big—”
“Franki,” Veronica interrupted after she’d broken free from her Catholic-costumed captors. Then she clasped her hands to her face and stared at me. “Your dress.”
“Believe me, I know about my dress.” I glared at the Court Jester, who took that as his cue to beat it. I bent over, collected my beads, and put them around my neck to cover my fully displayed cleavage. Then I plucked some leaves from the area below my waist. “Now let’s get going. But first I need a drink.”
“I think I do too.”
I saw a young woman in black shorts, a bright green tube top, and white go-go boots selling Jell-O shots outside the Funky 544 club. “Perfect.” I pointed to the woman. “Let’s go over there.”
“A Jell-O shot?” Veronica crinkled her face. “Those are so disgusting.”
“I haven’t eaten dinner yet, so this way I can get something in my stomach while I drink. Otherwise, you’re going to have to drive home.”
Veronica gave me a look. “I don’t think Everclear-infused Jell-O qualifies as solid food.”
I walked up to the shot seller. She shivered in the cool night air and chewed gum a mile a minute. “How much?”
She popped a gum bubble. “Three bucks for the test tubes, seven for the syringes.”
“You have them in syringes?”
The girl smacked her gum and nodded. “You can inject ‘em.”
“Even better. I’ll take two.”
The girl handed me two syringes the size of toothpaste tubes.
“If you want, I can inject them into your mouth.�
�� She pocketed my fifteen dollars in cash and then adjusted her sagging tube top.
I looked at her hands. “Thanks, but I can handle it from here.” I squirted them one by one into my mouth.
Veronica looked annoyed. “Can we go to the office now? I’d really like to get these pictures printed.”
“Let’s go.” I said it as though I’d fully intended to go to the office after drink-eating Jell-O shots.
The mob on Bourbon seemed to grow by the minute, so it took a while to make our way back to the car. At around the halfway point, we were forced to stop behind a huge crowd that had gathered in the middle of the street to listen to a traveling jazz band that was playing “Shake It and Break It.”
“Let’s wait until the song ends and then forge ahead,” I shouted over the music.
Veronica nodded.
We stood at the edge of the crowd, and I got the creeped-out feeling that someone was watching me. I looked over my left shoulder but didn’t see anyone out of the ordinary. Then I glanced to my right.
There, down a side street, was Domenica with a group of Goth teens. The others were absorbed in conversation, but she was watching me, her face so full of loathing that I took a step backward.
I tapped Veronica on the arm. “You’ll never believe who’s standing down the street over there.”
She turned and huffed. “Domenica? She’s not drinking is she? All she needs right now is a minor-in-possession charge.”
“I don’t see a drink. She’s just glaring at me. Maybe she thinks we’re following her.”
“Who knows.” She turned to watch the jazz band. “But it would be best to stay away from her right now.”
“Fine with me.” The farther I stayed from Domenica, the better.
The song ended, and the crowd dispersed.
I looked in Domenica’s direction, but she’d vanished.
Veronica and I resumed our trek to the car. My high-heeled feet moved slowly, but my mind raced.
If Domenica was Jessica’s strangler, would she be desperate enough to try to kill me or Veronica to silence us? And what about Stewart Preston? He’d already killed once. What would he do if he found out I wasn’t a friend of Jessica’s at all but a private investigator working her murder case?
As I contemplated the questions, not even the warm glow of my syringe-shot buzz could eliminate the chill that had spread through my body.
22
I took a bite of my boudin and tossed my fork onto the plate. Even though I’d lost my appetite after seeing Bradley with the blonde bimbo the night before, I’d ordered Thibodeaux’s breakfast special—Cajun-style eggs Benedict with boudin patties and home fries, a side of pain perdu, otherwise known as French toast, and unlimited juice refills. But I asked for carbonated water to cut calories.
“Cheer up, Franki.” Veronica sat across from me with a half-eaten Creole omelet and a few remaining mini baguette slices.
I swallowed a mouthful of oozing eggs and Tasso ham Hollandaise sauce. “How, exactly, am I supposed to do that? I mean, it’s bad enough that Bradley turned out to be married, but then I have to see him with a beautiful blonde on his arm.”
Veronica picked up her café au lait. “You’re an attractive woman too, you know. Have you forgotten that men were throwing beads at you left and right on Bourbon Street last night?”
I shot her a look. “Maybe that had something to do with the fact that my boobs were bursting out of my dress and my vajayjay was framed in leaves.”
“That wasn’t the only reason.”
“Whatever. Looks aren’t the issue here. His marriage certificate is the problem.”
She buttered a slice of baguette. “Have you considered the possibility that he might have a logical explanation for all of this?”
“You mean, for going out with a barely dressed Mardi Gras queen instead of his wife?” I stuffed a cluster of fries into my mouth.
She rolled her eyes. “Well, that and the fact that he’s married. You never really let him explain.”
My look was pointed—like a dagger. “What’s there to explain?”
She shrugged. “For one thing, why his wife lives in Boston while he lives here. Maybe the marriage is over.”
“Or maybe they’re living apart while he spends a year at a New Orleans bank.” I cut into my boudin with a little too much zeal.
“Maybe. But that’s the kind of thing you should find out. Because it’s real obvious that you still care about Bradley.”
I put down my knife and fork, in case I got the urge to stab myself. “It doesn’t matter how I feel about him. I’m tired of sharing my boyfriends with other women. I want a man all to myself. So, as long as Bradley’s married, he’s off limits.”
“That banker man got you down, sugar?” Glenda stood at our table.
She was in all her glory. Her top was nothing special by her standards, just a red spandex jog bra, heavy on the cleavage. It was her matching red spandex pants that were so spectacular. They were essentially crotchless, but it wasn’t only the crotch that was missing. It was all the fabric below the waistband. So her red G-string was prominently exposed, from hip to hip and on down, so to speak. And to think I was worried about a few lousy leaves.
“Oh, Glenda.” Veronica put a hand to her chest. “You look sensational in red.”
She batted her two-inch false eyelashes. “It’s scarlet.”
Veronica stared expectantly at me.
I spit out the first compliment that came to mind. “Nice biceps.” I chose to focus on Glenda’s upper body. “Have you been going to the gym?”
“No, it’s from years of swinging on poles.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, since my mouth was hanging open. I hoped that she would either sit or leave. Having that G-string right next to my face was killing my urge to emotional eat. Then again, maybe that was a good thing—diet by disgust.
Veronica looked up at Glenda. “Would you like to join us?”
“No, I phoned in a to-go order.” She paused and shot me a guilty look. “I have a gentleman caller at the house.”
I knew she was talking about Guido. For a split second I felt something akin to jealousy—certainly not of Glenda having the Jersey juicehead in her bed, but of her ability to attract men so easily. But ultimately I was happy. I needed their relationship to continue to keep my nonna off my back. “If you mean Guido, I’m totally fine with the two of you seeing each other.”
“Well, if you need a man to replace that banker, sugar, I’m willing to share.” Glenda gave a Vanna White-like flourish of her arm. “A body like this can’t be wasted on only one gentleman, even if he is a strong man in the circus.”
“A strong man?” Veronica clapped. “Tell me more.”
I, on the other hand, had already heard all I wanted to hear. I picked up my phone and stared at the time. “Gosh. It’s almost ten thirty. We’d better get going if we’re meeting Twyla at the office at eleven.”
Veronica frowned. “Duty calls.” She pulled two twenties from her wallet. “Let me get this since you’re having to work on a Sunday.”
“Thanks.” I grabbed my purse and fled the bar.
“Good afternoon, ladies.” Twyla’s tone was somber as she entered the office lobby. Her vibrant pinkish-yellow sack dress made her look a lot like a giant grapefruit.
“Hi, Twyla.” I scooped up the photos of Harry and the brunette that Veronica and I had been reviewing on the coffee table.
She took a seat on the couch across from us, clutching a vintage wooden decoupage purse to her chest as though it were a shield she could use to protect herself from the news she was about to receive. “I’d like to thank you girls for so kindly agreeing to meet me at your office on a Sunday.” Her ruby red lips set in a thin line. “I would have dearly luuuved to invite you to tea, but Harry is at home right now playing with his train set.”
A train set? Harry was the opposite of a catch—he was a release.
Veronica rose and sat beside Twyla. �
�It’s not a problem. It’s probably better if you look at the pictures here, anyway.”
A muscle twitched in Twyla’s cheek. “What did you find out, Veronica?”
“We—”
Twyla raised her right hand. “Don’t tell me yet.” She opened the clasp of her purse with pinkish-yellow-lacquered fingernails and took out her smelling salts. She placed the bottle on the coffee table and pulled her purse back to her bosom. “Okay. I’m ready now.”
Veronica cleared her throat. “As you know, we’ve followed Harry for the last two nights. On Friday, he went to Pascal’s Manale restaurant in Uptown, and on Saturday he went to a private residence in the Garden District.”
Twyla’s eyes grew wide at the mention of a home. “Was this house on Magazine Street, by any chance?”
I shook my head. “Prytania.”
She blinked.
I pushed the photos of Harry and the brunette across the table to Twyla. “He met this woman on both occasions.”
She peered down at the photo on the top of the pile with one eye closed. With a sharp intake of breath she jerked her head up in alarm. “That’s not Patsy.”
Veronica glanced at me. “No. We haven’t been able to identify the woman yet. The house where Harry met her is listed in a man’s name.”
Twyla stiffened, her eyes rolled back in her head, and she fell back against the couch, her head hanging over the back.
She was out cold.
Veronica fanned her with a photo. “Grab her smelling salts.”
I snatched the vial off the table and snapped it open. Veronica lifted Twyla’s head, and I waved the vial under Twyla’s nose.
She jerked. Her eyelids fluttered, and she opened her eyes. She blinked a few times. “Am I in heaven?”
I half-smiled. “No.”
She raised a brow. “The ICU?”
“You’re at Private Chicks,” Veronica said. “You hired us to investigate your husband, Harry.”
Twyla furrowed her brow as though deep in thought and went straight to despondent mode. “Haaaarry.” She choked back a sob. “How could he do this to me? And after almost fifty years of wedded bliss.”
Franki Amato Mysteries Box Set Page 24
