Franki Amato Mysteries Box Set

by Traci Andrighetti

  I smiled. “I will, Dad. I promise.”

  I closed the call and returned to Veronica’s office.

  She looked up from her notepad. “Is everything okay?”

  “My Dad just told me he’s proud of me.”

  “Do you think he’s starting to see the light?”

  I flashed a sardonic smile. “I wouldn’t go that far. But it’s a start.”

  The office phone rang.

  “Private Chicks, Incorporated,” Veronica answered in her professional voice. “If you give us the time, we’ll solve your crime. What can I help you with?”

  I watched as she scribbled some notes on a scrap of paper.

  “We can definitely handle that. How did you hear about us? On TV this morning.” She glanced at me. “How about today at two o’clock? Perfect.” She hung up.

  “I hate to say I told you so…”

  She smirked. “No you don’t.”

  The office phone rang again at the same time the bell in the lobby sounded. Veronica and I exchanged a look.

  “It looks like Private Chicks, Inc. is on the map.” I rose and went into the lobby.

  Twyla Upton, staying faithful to the citrus family, stood by the door in a lime-green sack dress. “Oh, Franki.” She clasped her hands in front of her face. “The case is solved.”

  “Wait, you’re not talking about the Evans case, are you?”

  She gasped and put lime green-lacquered fingers to her orange-painted mouth. “Did poor Mrs. Evans think her husband was cheating too?”

  I smiled. “No, Twyla. I was just confused.”

  “Oh good.” She was visibly relieved. “I just came to tell you that my Harry wasn’t betraying my honor with that delightful woman in your pictures.”

  I would have bet all the toupees in Hollywood that Harry had been unfaithful. “Really?”

  “Ye-es,” she said in two distinct syllables. “That woman is one of the best interior designers in all of Louisiana, and she’s been helping Harry with the plans to redecorate a charming little mansion he’s bought me for our upcoming anniversary.”

  “Well, that’s terrific news.”

  “So, I came to invite you all to Brennan’s for a celebratory brunch. The head chef has agreed to open the restaurant early today just for us.”

  I imagined a meal of bananas foster and more bananas foster. “We would love to, Twyla. Let me go and get Veronica off the phone.”

  “You take your time. I’ll meet you all there when you’re ready. Toodles.” She waved and slipped out the door.

  I entered Veronica’s office.

  She hung up the phone. “That was another client. We have three new cases.”

  I leaned against the doorjamb. “All thanks to TV?”

  “Yes, every one of them mentioned Glenda.”

  “Then maybe you should hire her,” I joked. “Apparently, she’s a natural-born marketer, and she’s got some mean self-defense skills. While you’re at it, you might want to put Mambo Odette on the payroll. I mean, she had the answers to the Evans case all along.”

  Veronica smirked. “I wouldn’t go that far. Who was in the lobby?”

  “Twyla. She’s taking us all to brunch.”

  “What? I can’t leave now. I might miss a call from a new client.”

  “Whoever calls will leave a message. I mean, who would hire a regular PI when they could hire two PIs who were saved from a nun by a stripper?”

  Veronica shot me a look. “What’s the occasion for the brunch?”

  “Turns out we were wrong about Harry. He wasn’t cheating with the brunette, after all.”

  “Well, that’s good news.”

  “It is. And Twyla’s waiting for us, so we’ve got to get going.”

  Her brows furrowed.

  “Don’t worry, we’re going to have plenty of business after this case.”

  Veronica looked at me, a smile spreading across her face. “We are, aren’t we?”

  “Um, yeah. So let’s take the time to celebrate the end of our first big case before we dive into all these new ones.”

  “Great idea.” She smiled and rose to her feet.

  Veronica and I entered the lobby, and I looked at David. “Come on. You’re going to that brunch too.”

  He spun in his desk chair. “Aaaawwwesome.”

  My phone rang, and I whispered a prayer that it wasn’t my nonna before looking at the display. “It’s Bradley.” I bit my lower lip. “Hang on, I’m going to take this in my office.” I hurried down the hall. “Hello?”

  “Franki, this is Bradley.”

  “I know.” I used my telemarketer tone.

  “I’m calling on business. Do you have a minute?”

  “Business?” I repeated, taken aback. “Did you see us on TV this morning?”

  “You were on TV?”

  “In a way,” I hedged. “So what’s this about?”

  “I need to hire you to investigate an important case. It’s about a woman I met.”

  I recoiled, outraged. “If this is about that scantily dressed Mardi Gras queen I saw you with on Bourbon Street, then you can take your business somewhere else.”

  “You mean, Sheilah.”

  “That was Sheilah?” I disliked her even more.

  “Yes.” He sighed. “She came by the bank after hours. Because it was dark out, I offered to walk her to a party she was attending that evening.”

  My stomach clenched, annoyed. “What does this have to do with me?”

  He paused. “You have the wrong impression of me.”

  “I doubt that,” I muttered, remembering my earlier revelation about cheating.

  “Look, it’s true that Sheilah and I are married—”

  “No kidding.”

  “—and will be for about three more weeks.”

  I blinked. “Come again?”

  “That’s how long it’ll take the divorce papers Sheila signed at the bank the other night to go through the courts.”

  “Oh.” My jaw shut with an audible click. The word divorce had never sounded so sweet.

  “I swear I wanted to tell you, but I was under a gag order until now. Sheilah and I got married too young, mainly because our families were close. We wanted to end it almost immediately, but her mother got sick, and after that her father’s business fell apart. So, we waited. In the meantime, I left Boston to kickstart my career, so the divorce delays weren’t a huge issue. All of that changed, though, when I met the woman I mentioned.”

  I pulled up a chair. The case was starting to pique my interest. “This woman…what can you tell me about her?”

  “She’s a knockout private investigator with a mean right hook. I’m crazy about her, but she’s not talking to me. I need you to do some investigating to find out whether I still have a chance with her.”

  My smile was as big as Julia Roberts’ in Pretty Woman. “Sounds like an exciting assignment. Too bad Veronica and I are booked for the next month.”

  “The whole month, huh?”

  “Yeah, but since the situation is obviously urgent, I suppose I could have you over for dinner tonight at, say, sevenish to discuss the details?”

  “I’ll be there.” The playfulness had left his tone.

  “I look forward to it,” I said. And boy did I.

  PROSECCO PINK

  by

  TRACI ANDRIGHETTI

  ***

  Copyright © 2014, 2019 by Traci Andrighetti

  Cover design by Lyndsey Lewellyn

  Limoncello Press www.limoncellopress.com

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are
either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Created with Vellum

  To my beloved grandmother, Annie Lee Andrick, for saving those old Nancy Drew books just for me

  Book Backstory

  Prosecco Pink is the result of three trips I took to Oak Alley Plantation. With its canopied path of southern live oak trees leading to the Mississippi River, the place is marvelous—and creepy. Cases in point: Bette Davis filmed parts of Hush, Hush Sweet Charlotte there, and it was also used in several scenes in Interview with a Vampire.

  Creepiness aside, my favorite memory of Oak Alley is of my dad buying me my first-ever mint julep. For a few minutes, I sat on the plantation porch sipping my drink and pretending that it was the antebellum era, and I learned why so many women fainted. It wasn’t just the corsets beneath their hot, hoop-skirted dresses, it was the Louisiana heat and all the bourbon in those drinks!

  Speaking of my dad, I’d like to thank him for making me fall in love with New Orleans. And while I’m thanking family, a very special thank you goes to my son for being as patient as he could while I wrote; to my mother for being my biggest fan and for catching my mistakes (She has always had a special talent for that, btw.); and to my husband for reading various passages and listening to me drone on—and on and on and on—about plot issues.

  In terms of the plot, I owe a huge debt of gratitude to Detective Ruben Vasquez and Wally Lind, both of whom graciously spend their free time answering the questions of writers like me, and to my friend Gregg Charalambous for inspiring the character of Troy. (He knows why.)

  Last but not least, I'd like to thank all my friends who lent me their names for Prosecco Pink. You know who you are, and if you don't, you'll have to read the book to find out!

  Baci e abbracci (XOXO),

  Traci

  Cocktails

  PINK PROSECCO LEMONADE

  Franki Amato loves her Limoncello, but she’s also rather fond of pink Prosecco. In the spirit of excess (I mean, where’s the spirit in moderation?), she has found a way to combine them in this pink lemony drink.

  Ingredients

  Pink Prosecco

  Limoncello

  Pink lemonade

  Strawberry for garnish

  In a fluted glass, mix two parts pink Prosecco, one part Limoncello, and one part pink lemonade. Garnish with a strawberry.

  PINK PROSECCO WITH RASPBERRY SORBET

  Veronica’s favorite “ladies’ night” drink also involves Prosecco—but with a scoop of yummy raspberry sorbet. It goes without saying that Glenda substitutes pink Champagne—and skips the sorbet).

  Ingredients

  Pink Prosecco

  Raspberry sorbet

  Place one scoop of raspberry sorbet in a fluted glass. Fill with pink Prosecco and serve immediately.

  1

  "Who takes their secretary to a working dinner at a freaking bed and breakfast?" I asked aloud as I sped down Great Mississippi River Road in Louisiana plantation country. I didn't usually talk to myself, but the stress of the situation more than justified it.

  "I mean, what's wrong with a restaurant in the French Quarter? People travel from all over the world to eat there."

  I steered my 1965 cherry-red Mustang convertible out from behind the 18-wheeler to make sure the black BMW was still up ahead. As soon as I'd spotted it, I dropped back behind the hulking truck. I couldn't let Bradley know I was following him.

  Bradley Hartmann was the president of Pontchartrain Bank on Canal Street in New Orleans. With his shocking blue eyes, full lips, and chiseled jaw, he was without a doubt the sexiest bank executive this side of the Mason-Dixon line. And he was mine. We'd been seeing each other for the past three months, ever since his divorce was finalized. Okay, maybe we started seeing each other a bit before then, but that was an accident. I promise.

  The problem was, now that his ex-wife was out of the way, his sexy new Chinese-French secretary was in the way. All six feet of her. And at five feet ten inches myself, I wasn't used to looking up to a woman, especially not one as lowdown as Pauline Violette. She did everything she could to keep me away from Bradley—including scheduling these weekend working dinners at bed and breakfasts outside of town. And judging from the way she batted her violet, almond-shaped eyes at him, it was clear why.

  "How is it even possible that her eye color matches her last name?" I asked as I hit the gas. "Her boobs are clearly manmade, so those eyes have to be too."

  I glanced out the passenger window to try to catch another glimpse of Bradley's BMW, and a flash of pink caught my eye. But it wasn't the coral-pink hue of the thousands of oleanders that framed a stunning, three-story, columned plantation home. It was the pink crinoline skirt of the woman standing on the balcony. It was a hauntingly beautiful image, like something you'd see in an old oil painting.

  Unfortunately, the road started to curve sharply, but I was too busy staring at the Southern belle to notice. My tires hit the soft shoulder, and I jerked the steering wheel hard to the left. But it was too late. My car slid sideways right into a swamp.

  "Mamma mia!" I exclaimed as I realized what had happened. And I did want my mother. Because when I restarted the engine and tried to drive to land, I discovered that I was stuck in the filthy swamp mud.

  I threw open my car door, mentally whispered a farewell to my new boots, and stepped into the black swamp water. I trudged around to the back of the car and saw that the rear passenger tire was the problem. I needed to find some wood or stones to put beneath it to try to gain traction. Just as I was about to turn around and head for shore, I made a horrifying discovery. The water was moving.

  That's when a bumpy black reptile lifted its moss-covered head above the surface of the murky swamp water, and I came face-to-face with an alligator.

  The unsightly beast opened its toothy, cavernous mouth and made a loud hissing sound.

  Make that an angry alligator.

  "G-good gator," I stammered, frozen with fear.

  The alligator lowered its head back into the water and began swimming in a circle, its large cat-like eyes trained on me like the sight of a gun.

  "Nice b-boy, Al," I said as I began inching backward through the watery, foul-smelling mud. In case the alligator decided to charge at me, I needed to make it to the driver's side taillight to have a clear shot at the open car door. "Or, maybe you're an Alli?"

  As though confirming my suspicion, she slapped her tail hard against the surface of the water.

  I estimated her to be around six feet in length—precisely Pauline's height. Then I promptly reminded myself that during my rookie cop days in Austin, Texas, I'd once tackled a male ostrich that was getting frisky with some mothers at a petting zoo. Plus, I'd seen the Gator Boys and the Swamp Men wrestle alligators on TV, so I figured that I could take her if push came to shove, er, thrust came to lunge.

  Alli stopped near the stump of a bald cypress tree and opened her mouth, revealing eighty or so two-inch-long yellow teeth.

  Okay, maybe not.

  I took another step backward, and she resumed circling.

  "That's right, girl. Just keep swimming," I whispered, advancing another inch or two. "It's good for your waistline." I took another step, and my right foot sunk into what felt like a muddy mass of tree roots. I tried to pull it out, but it was stuck solid. Just like the rear tire of my Mustang.

  I felt a fresh wave of fear wash over me, but I knew I had to keep calm. I took a deep breath of the putrid swamp air and tried again to free my foot.

  "Franki?" a male voice called.

  "Bradley," I breathed. "Oh thank God." My relief quickly gave way to dismay, however, when I realized that he must have seen me following him and Pauline before I ran my car
off the road. But surely he would overlook that minor detail now that I was standing in filthy, mosquito-infested swamp water and being stalked by an alligator.

  "Don't move," he said in a calm, even tone. "You don't want to startle him."

  No, I most certainly don't, I thought.

  "As soon as he turns to swim away, make a dash for the other side of the car."

  "Don't you think I would've done that by now if I could?" I asked, trying to control my increasing hysteria.

  "Why can't you? What's wrong?"

  "Let me see… Where should I start?"

  "Franki," he began, a note of tension creeping into his voice, "why can't you get to the car door?"

  "My shoe is caught on something." Should I add that my new boots were the knee-high lace-up kind—with triple buckles?

  "Okay, then slip your foot out of your shoe," he said through clenched teeth.

  No, now was clearly not the time to tell him. "Um, it's not exactly the slip-your-foot-out-of-your-shoe kind of shoe."

  There was a heavy silence.

  "Then we're going to have to wait him out," he said.

  I gasped. Was he seriously not going to come into the water and pull me out? I mean, saving me from an alligator was the least he could do after planning to take his secretary to a B&B, right?

  "If I move, he could attack," Bradley explained. "And you're his closest target."

  Before I could protest, I heard an ear-splitting bellow behind me. I jerked my head to the left and saw the largest alligator I'd ever seen. At roughly fifteen feet in length, he was practically a dinosaur.

  Terror shot through my body like a white-hot flash of lightening. But I fought to keep my wits about me because the gargantuan gator was standing near Bradley. And as mad as I was about Pauline and the whole leaving-me-to-the-gator thing, I could hardly let Bradley be eaten by a Tyrannosaurus alligator on my account. I had to do something. And fast.