"No," she said, furrowing her brow. "A plumber."
"Oh."
Chandra reached into her purse and pulled out a compact. "I was talking about the living and the dead," she explained as she examined her hair in the mirror. "Hurricanes are murder on plumbing, and they're terribly stressful for spirits, what with the atmospheric changes and high winds."
The high winds? I had a mental image of a gaggle of Caspar the Friendly Ghosts clutching their heads and screaming in fear of their non-lives while getting tossed around by a hurricane. Clearly, it was time to shake myself out of my Chandra-induced stupor. "So…about that warning. Can you give me some specifics?"
She snapped the compact shut. "Not right now."
"Why not?"
"The spirit's just too upset to speak," she said, depositing the compact into her bag.
"Oh, she is, is she?" I asked, annoyed. This spirit, provided she was real, of course, was something else.
"Try to understand her point of view," Chandra said, putting her hand on her hip and gesturing with her free hand. "She just had to fess up to some pretty rough stuff, so naturally she's embarrassed."
I frowned. I should have been biting into a beignet by now, but instead I was bickering with a selfish spirit via her mad medium. "Tell her that I'm kind of upset myself now that I know she's put me in danger."
She pursed her lips. "That wouldn't help. Spirits are really temperamental beings, so I don't want to push her. And, between you and me," she whispered, shielding her mouth with the back of her hand, "spirits kind of freak me out."
Now I was really taken aback. "You're a psychic, and spirits make you uncomfortable?"
Chandra glared at me. "It's not like I chose this profession. It was preordained. Besides, how would you react if a spirit was yelling at you?"
I wanted to tell her that I'd probably see a psychologist, but to be polite I went with, "I'd run like hell."
"You see?" she said, raising her brow. "So, we'll just have to wait until she feels like talking again."
"Whenever that is, please let me know." I handed her my card.
"I most certainly will." She took the card and looked at the front and back. "Franki Amato, Private Investigator. Private Chicks, Inc.," she read. "I don't get it."
Now it was my turn to get defensive. "You know, there's the two references to 'private,' and 'chicks' rhymes with 'dicks'—as in, 'detectives?'"
"Hm." She sniffed and dropped the card into her purse. "Well, it's stopped raining, so I really should be going."
As I watched Chandra walk serenely down Decatur Street, I pulled the bag of now lukewarm beignets closer to my chest. Even though I had my doubts about her psychic abilities, I couldn't help but feel concerned about my personal safety—and my conspicuous lack of business card symmetry.
I slunk into Veronica's office a good hour late and silently deposited the bag of beignets on her desk. I saw it as a kind of peace offering, albeit a cold and soggy one.
Veronica eyed the bag and then looked up at me. "What's the matter with you?"
"Huh?" I asked, startled by her unusually harsh tone. I felt like I was dreaming about zombie-stripper Veronica again. But one look at her healthy glow and crisp pink Donna Karan suit confirmed that she wasn't undead.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," she replied, leaning back in her chair.
"Oh, it's probably powdered sugar," I explained, wiping my mouth. "I ate a couple of beignets on my way in to the office." Okay, so I really had five or six. But who could blame me after my anxiety-inducing encounter with that psychic?
"No, you're pasty," Veronica said. "Are you feeling okay?"
"I think so," I whispered as I felt the lymph glands in my neck.
"Now don't go all hypochondriac on me," she warned. "It was just an observation."
"I'm not," I fibbed, casually moving my hand to my earring. It was a well-established fact that where contracting illnesses was concerned, I was open to suggestions. And now that she'd mentioned it, I was feeling kind of sick to my stomach. Not that it had anything to do with those half-dozen beignets.
"Wait. This is about Bradley, isn't it? Have you talked to him yet?"
I flopped down into a chair in front of her desk and let out a deep sigh. "No, I went by the bank, but he was in a meeting. Or, at least, that's what his protector, Pauline, claimed."
"Ah," Veronica said, crossing her arms. "That explains it."
"What?" I asked.
She smirked. "You're still feeling threatened by her."
"I am not," I snapped. "Pauline is hardly threatening. Controlling and deceitful, yes, but nothing I can't handle."
"Well, I've known you long enough to be able to tell when something's wrong. So, what is it?"
I debated whether to tell her about Chandra and the spirit. In keeping with her incredibly disciplined, workaholic nature, Veronica had a strictly practical, non-mystical approach to life. But on the positive side, you could always count on her for down-to-earth advice. Plus, I was terrible at keeping secrets. So I blurted out, "Something really freaky happened at New Orleans Famous Beignets and Coffee this morning."
"What? The cashier predicted you'd order a dozen beignets without you even telling her?" She snickered.
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. How did Veronica know I'd ordered twelve beignets? "No," I replied, refusing to confirm or deny the specifics of my order. "I met a psychic who said a spirit told her I was in danger."
She rolled her eyes. "Well I hope you did the scongiuri because if a psychic said it, you know it's true."
Scongiuri was an Italian hand gesture used to ward off the evil eye. It looks like The University of Texas' hook 'em horns sign, but with the index and pinky fingers pointed toward the ground. My nonna taught it to me when I was little, and Veronica never missed an opportunity to make fun of me for doing it. The thing was, I didn't think I'd made the gesture after Chandra told me I was in danger, so I immediately dropped my hands to my side, out of view of Veronica's judgmental eyes, and did so. Then I gave her a pointed look and said, "I wouldn't be so blasé about this if I were you, because that spirit knew your name."
"Come on, Franki. Psychics make it their business to know people's personal information. That's how they reel them in."
I resented the implication that I was a sucker, so I retaliated with a sure-fire comeback. "Okay then, explain to me how she would've known that I had a friend named Veronica."
"Hm, let me see." She pressed her index finger to her temple in mock concentration. "Our Private Chicks television commercial?"
"Oh. Right." I'd completely forgotten that our first-ever commercial was airing this week. In all likelihood, Chandra had seen us on TV, which meant that the Crescent City Medium was nothing but a Crescent City Con Artist.
No sooner had I reached that conclusion than thunder boomed in the sky so violently it shook our building. I jumped in my seat and told myself that those eerily timed thunderbolts couldn't possibly be messages from the spirit. Could they?
Veronica stood up and looked out the window just as the lobby door slammed hard.
I instantly recognized the exuberant slam as that of David Savoie, our nineteen-year-old, part-time employee.
"Will David ever learn to close the door like a normal person?" Veronica asked.
"Not until he gives up those Red Bulls and his testosterone stops surging," I replied.
A drenched David burst into the room holding a dripping wet Tulane backpack. "Dude, what's up with the rain?"
Veronica frowned at the water pooling around him on the hardwood floor. "Let me get you something to dry off with."
David moved aside to let her pass and turned to face me. "Like, the rain totally came out of nowhere. When I was parking my car, it was sunny and clear. But then when I got out, it was instant downpour."
"It happened to me too," I said. "It's kind of weird, isn't it?"
"I'll say," he said with a brisk nod.
Veronica retu
rned with two towels and handed one to David. "Well, it is the rainy season. You know the old adage about April showers."
"I dunno," David said, as he began to towel dry his hair. "I've lived here all my life, and I've never seen anything like it."
I shifted in my chair. So, I wasn't wrong in assuming that the weather was bizarre, even for New Orleans. There was something unusual in the air today. But was it even remotely possible that it was a spirit?
"Hey, speaking of weird," he continued, "are you guys expecting a client?"
I looked at Veronica, who was crouching in the doorway and sopping up the water.
"There's nothing on the books," she replied. "Why?"
"Because there's this really creepy lady out front in a black Cadillac DeVille," he replied.
I felt my stomach lurch as I thought of Chandra. "She's not, by any chance, a doughy little woman with a Dallas-style do, is she?"
"Nah," David replied. "From what I could tell, she's way skinny, and her hair is black and white and spiky. Oh, and she's got a crapload of dogs."
Veronica stood up and walked to the window overlooking Decatur Street. "I see the car, but I don't see her."
"That's because I'm right here," a deep feminine voice drawled from the doorway. "I've been waiting in the lobby for the past five minutes."
We all turned, and I stared open-mouthed at the woman. Not because she'd startled me with her brash manner of speaking but because of her imposing appearance. She was sixty-ish and rail thin with skin as pale as the pearls around her neck. But her high cheekbones and prominent chin, not to mention her blood-red lips and fingernails, made it clear that she was anything but delicate.
"I'm sorry about the wait," Veronica said as she walked over to greet the woman. "We didn't hear you come in. I'm Veronica Maggio and—"
"Delta Dupré," she interrupted, extending her hand like she was expecting it to be kissed rather than shook.
Veronica took her hand and awkwardly shook-raised it up and down. "What can we do for you, Ms. Dupré?"
Delta cocked an eyebrow à la Cruella De Vil. "That's 'Mrs.' And the first thing you can do is have your boy take my coat."
"Uh, yes, Mrs.—I mean, uh, ma'am," a red-faced David stammered as he took her white floor-length fur and scurried away.
Delta frowned. "I hate to be cliché, but it's just so hard to find good help these days."
I was fuming at her rudeness. "Actually, David isn't our servant."
She turned and looked me up and down. "And you are?"
"Franki Amato."
"Interesting name," she said in a decidedly disinterested tone. Rather than extending her hand, as she had for Veronica, she began toying with a Gothic black cameo brooch that was pinned to the bodice of her red silk dress. It was framed in diamonds and depicted a skull in a top hat against a backdrop of guns and roses.
I glanced at Veronica and realized that she was oblivious to Delta's arrogance. Whenever jewelry was in the vicinity, she zoned out on her surroundings and zoomed in on the sparkly object.
"What an unusual brooch!" Veronica exclaimed. "Who is that supposed to be on the cameo?"
"It's Baron Samedi, a degenerate voodoo god who leads depraved souls to the underworld. I wear it because it reminds me of my late husband, Jackson Dupré."
Must have been some guy, I thought. Much like his wife.
Veronica cocked her head to one side. "That name sounds familiar. Was your husband in local politics?"
"He was the chief of police for twenty-five years. And now that I need him, the SOB isn't around. That's why I'm here."
"Please, have a seat," Veronica said, ignoring Delta's jab at her not-so-dearly departed. "I'm sure we can help you."
"I think you can too," Delta said, taking a seat in one of the two chairs facing Veronica's desk. "I saw that skinny old prostitute on the evening news a few months ago—the one who did all the interviews after you girls solved the murder of that shop girl?"
"Her name is Glenda, and she's an ex-stripper," I said as I reluctantly sat down beside her.
Delta waved her hand. "Prostitute…stripper… Same damn difference. Anyhow, I have an unusual case on my hands, so I need investigators who can think outside the box, unlike the ones currently employed by our police department. And since you two outsmarted the cops on the shop girl strangling, you're perfect for my predicament."
"Can you tell us more about your, uh, predicament?" I asked.
"I'm the executive director of Oleander Place, the antebellum plantation on River Road?" She looked at Veronica and me for signs of recognition.
I recognized it all right. It was the very plantation home that had distracted me and caused me to swerve into the swamp. "I just drove past it yesterday. You've got a really eye-catching place there."
"Yes, well, I'm afraid its beauty has been marred by a rather unfortunate incident," she said, fiddling with her brooch. "You see, three days ago, a twenty-eight-year-old woman named Ivanna Jones was murdered there. I found the body when I opened the plantation at eight o'clock the next morning."
"I heard something about that on the radio last night," Veronica said.
"Unfortunately, it's all over the news," Delta replied. "As you can imagine, the cancelations have already begun—weddings, craft fairs, even a TV show. And the problem is that Oleander Place isn't just my livelihood—it's my heritage. I'm a descendent of the original owner, General Knox Patterson. So, I'll do whatever it takes to protect my income and my family name."
I had no doubt she was telling the truth. She was no sweet Southern belle. She was a surly Southern beast. "Do you know how the victim got to the plantation?"
"She drove. Her car was in the parking lot, unlocked, with her purse on the front seat." Delta reached into her black Louis Vuitton and pulled out a manila envelope. "This is a copy of the police report and photos from the scene."
I looked at her in surprise. "How did you get those?"
"Thanks to my Jackson, I still have important connections on the police force."
Veronica took the envelope and began to examine its contents. "This will be a tremendous help to us."
I turned to Delta. "Did you know the victim?"
"No, but she took one of our plantation tours a few weeks ago. I'm sure it was her, but I can't prove it because she didn't pay with a credit card or sign the guest registry."
"Was anyone with her?" I asked.
"I don't know. Our tour groups are often fairly large, and I wasn't really paying attention."
I looked at Veronica. "Anything interesting in the report?"
She scanned the information on the first page and then looked at Delta. "The cause of death is listed as 'undetermined.'"
"Which is why I need your help," Delta said. "The police are dilly-dallying around with this investigation because they think the woman committed suicide. And as a business owner, I don't have time to waste. Every day this crime goes unsolved is a day I lose money."
By now it was clear where Delta's priorities lay. This woman was a real steel magnolia. "What makes you think it wasn't suicide?"
"It has to do with the placement of the body and the plantation's history," she replied.
"Take a look," Veronica said, handing me a photo.
It was a shot of a beautiful young woman with long, golden-blonde hair and rose-red lips. If I didn't know better, I would have said she was asleep. "Wow," I breathed, "she looks just like Sleeping Beauty."
Delta shook her head. "No, she's the spitting image of Evangeline Lacour."
"Who's that?" I asked.
"She was Knox's second wife. He spent a fortune building Oleander Place for her, and then the tramp went and cheated on him. You know how those French women are," she said with a knowing look.
I couldn't resist asking, "Are you related to her, as well?"
"Certainly not!" Delta replied, her eyes wide with alarm. "I'm descended from Knox and his first wife, Caroline Landry. He and Evangeline had no children, thank
heaven."
Veronica cleared her throat. "Why do you say the victim looks like Evangeline?"
"Well, for one thing, she's the spitting image of the oil painting Knox commissioned of Evangeline when they were married. And for another, she was found lying in Evangeline's bed in the exact same position Evangeline was in when she died in 1837, and she was wearing her pink crinoline dress."
I immediately thought of the woman I'd seen on the balcony of Oleander Place. But I knew that it couldn't have been Ivanna Jones, because she was killed the day before.
"You mean, the dress Evangeline was wearing when she died?" Veronica asked.
Delta nodded. "We have it in storage at Oleander Place. It's the one we always see Evangeline wearing when she appears."
Now my eyes opened wide in alarm. "Come again?"
"Evangeline's spirit still resides in the house," she replied.
I swallowed hard. "The plantation is haunted?"
Delta raised her chin and gave a smug smile. "As haunted as they come. Oleander Place ranks among America's top ten most haunted buildings."
To say that my mind was reeling would be putting it mildly. I simply couldn't process the possibility that I'd seen the ghost of Evangeline Lacour on the balcony of Oleander Place yesterday. Surely it was one of the plantation tour guides, right? And then I thought of Chandra. Despite my better judgment, I wondered whether there was any connection between the spirit she'd claimed she was talking to and Evangeline. Or was it just one big transcendental coincidence that two people had approached me about incidents involving spirits on the same day? Either way, I was starting to get the distinctly ominous feeling that the inhabitants of the netherworld—or their earthly representatives—were trying to tell me something. And I didn't like it. Not one bit.
4
I cocked my head to the side. "When you say 'as haunted as they come,' what do you mean, exactly?"
"What do you think I mean?" Delta snapped. "I mean we have a lot of ghosts floating around Oleander Place."
"Whoa!" David exclaimed—from a safe distance in the hallway.
"You can say that again," I muttered. I was starting to feel like I was in a speeding "doom buggy" on Disneyland's Haunted Mansion ride, and I wanted it to slow the hell down.
Franki Amato Mysteries Box Set Page 31
