"Besides Evangeline," Delta continued, "Knox and Beauregard are the main spirits on the plantation."
"Who's Beauregard?" Veronica asked as she began typing notes.
"He's Knox's brother, and he was a decorated army colonel," Delta said with pride. "But then when Knox made general before him, he turned pirate."
"Pirate?" I squirmed in my seat. Of course, I'd never met a pirate, alive or dead. But if I were a betting girl, I'd wager that a pirate ghost was not the friendliest of souls.
"They called him 'Beau the Black,' and he was notorious for his ruthlessness." Delta touched her pearls, and the corners of her mouth turned upward into a Joker-like smile. "I'm assuming you girls have heard of him?"
I looked questioningly at Veronica.
"I'm sure he's very infamous," she began politely, "but I'm afraid we're not well versed in pirate lore."
Delta frowned. "He was one of the pirate Jean Lafitte's right-hand men. In fact, Beau and Lafitte helped General Andrew Jackson defeat the British at the Battle of New Orleans. You have heard of Lafitte, I presume?"
"Oh, sure," I replied as I grabbed the stack of photos from Veronica's desk. "When I went to that bar 'Jean Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop' in the French Quarter a month or so ago. And if he was anything like that purple voodoo drink they serve there, then he must have been a real swashbuckler."
The room fell silent. I looked up from the pictures and saw both Delta and Veronica staring at me. I felt my face flush, probably similar in color to that drink. "So…how was Evangeline killed?"
Delta raised her brow. "She was poisoned."
Veronica's fingers began flying over her keyboard. "How do you know? Are there any records?"
"Yes, the Times-Picayune reported on her death. And we also have Knox's journal in our plantation archives. Both sources indicate that Evangeline was found with an oleander flower in her hands. At first, everyone thought it was because she loved oleanders. It was well known at the time that she was the one who had them planted on the grounds." She looked hard at Veronica. "And for the record, she just insisted on that coral pink. Had it been me, I would have selected a less vulgar shade."
Veronica nodded. She'd always turned up her nose at coral jewelry because she didn't approve of orange in her pink.
"But then they discovered oleander in a half-empty cup of tea on the table beside Evangeline's bed." Delta paused and curled her lips. "As far as I'm concerned, that flower was a message that Evangeline was as toxic as the oleander plant."
Talk about the pot calling the kettle black, I thought as I flipped through the pictures.
"Who did they think poisoned her?" Veronica asked.
Delta exhaled deeply. "Knox blamed Antoinette, the house slave who'd served her the tea, and the police agreed. Of course, she fled the plantation, and the case was closed. Nevertheless, a rumor persisted that Knox had done it."
I looked up at Delta. "Why would anyone suspect Knox?"
"Because the day before the French tart was killed, he found out that she was planning to run off with his brother," she explained with a pointed look. "Apparently, he came across a letter she was writing to Beau that detailed their sordid affair. And everyone knew about it, too, because Knox woke the whole plantation that night."
"What for?" I asked.
Delta snorted. "He was tearing the place apart looking for a pink diamond Beau had given Evangeline."
Veronica leaned forward, her eyes sparkling like a precious gem. "There was a pink diamond?"
"Yes. In the letter Evangeline mentions an emerald-cut diamond that Beau had secretly given her as a promise of his intent to marry her. Like her beloved oleanders, it was that tacky coral pink," she said with a dramatic eye roll. "He told her he would come for her as soon as he'd made enough money from smuggling to buy some land and build her a house."
Veronica sighed. "That's so romantic!"
Delta threw her head back and gave a raucous laugh, revealing a row of yellow teeth that clashed with her alabaster skin. "Foolish, if anything. But men are blind when it comes to a beautiful woman."
I instantly thought of Bradley and Pauline and grudgingly found myself agreeing with her. "What ever happened to the diamond?"
"No one knows," Delta replied. "The only record we have of it is what Evangeline wrote in the letter. She said that she would sit on the balcony holding the stone in her hand while she waited for Beau's ship to come down river. And that's where we usually see her, on the balcony."
I shuddered. Was that what I had seen? The spirit of Evangeline waiting for her buccaneer beau, Beau?
"What happened to Knox and Beau after Evangeline's death?" Veronica asked as she resumed typing.
Delta picked a white hair off her blouse. "Knox died in 1838, presumably of a broken heart." She straightened in her chair and raised her chin. "But Beau died valiantly in 1862 in the capture of New Orleans, trying to defend our beloved city from those dreadful Union forces during the Civil War."
I got the distinct feeling that Delta was prouder of the pirate than the general.
"Today, Beau's spirit roams the grounds of Oleander Place looking for Evangeline—Knox had the trollop buried in an unmarked grave, naturally. And Knox storms the halls looking for Beau."
Great. A ruthless pirate and an angry general, I thought as I studied a photograph of Ivanna's body. Can't wait.
"Do you know where Evangeline was buried?" Veronica asked.
"I don't, nor do I care to," she replied, crossing her arms.
The more I looked at Ivanna's body, the more something seemed off about the picture. And then it hit me. "You said that Ivanna was found in the exact same position as Evangeline, but I don't see an oleander flower."
Delta clutched her creepy cameo. "Oh yes. That's because she was holding a bottle of lip gloss."
Veronica began turning the pages of the police report. "That's mentioned here, but it says the bottle was unmarked. Do you know who made it?"
She shrugged. "Who knows?"
"Wait a second," Veronica said, returning to the first page. "The report has a business listed as Ivanna's personal address. Lickalicious Lips. I wonder if it was one of their brands."
I sat up straight in my chair. "Hey! They make that flavored lip gloss I used to wear in college, remember? The one I had to stop buying because I couldn't stop licking my lips?"
"Yeah." Veronica grinned. "That was the semester you sprained your tongue on Baileys Irish Cream Brown."
Delta curled her lips in disgust. "The victim made liquor-flavored lip gloss? No wonder someone up and killed her."
Veronica and I exchanged a look.
"Anyway," Delta continued, "that lip gloss is one of the things that makes me think this wasn't a suicide. If this Ivanna woman was just some nutcase who wanted to recreate Evangeline's deathbed look, then why in the world would she be holding a bottle of lip gloss instead of an oleander flower?""
I held up the picture of Ivanna. "Did the bottle match the shade of red she was wearing?"
"No, it was coral pink. Just like her dress."
I bit my lip. "That's odd."
"Indeed," Delta conceded.
"What about the cup of tea?" Veronica asked.
"There was no tea. But since there was no obvious cause of death, the coroner's office is testing for poison among other things."
Veronica flipped through the police report. "I don't see any interrogation records. Have the police questioned your employees?"
"They haven't bothered because they think it was suicide and because the plantation was closed at the time of death. But that's another thing that makes me think this was a murder. We have an alarm system at the plantation, and it was on the night this happened. Yet this woman got inside without setting it off."
I had to agree with Delta. Unless Ivanna had somehow managed to get a key to the plantation and the code to the alarm, then someone had let her in.
"Has anyone from Ivanna's family contacted you?" Veronica asked.
"Not so far. I don't even think the police have talked to them yet. From what I understand, her father is overseas."
"We'll need to talk to your employees," Veronica said. "When would be a good time for us to come to Oleander Place?"
"It'll have to be tomorrow." She glanced at a diamond-encrusted silver watch. "In about an hour we have to start setting up for a dinner. Fortunately, the charity hosting the event didn't cancel on us, but they did demand a discount, the cheap bastards. Anyhow, it's getting late, so I'd best be on my way."
As if on cue, David popped around the doorjamb with her fur coat.
She scowled at him as she rose to her feet and snatched the coat from his hand.
Seeing Delta's fur reminded me of something we'd forgotten to ask. "Wait. I have one more question."
"Make it quick," she snapped as she slipped on her coat.
"Did you find Ivanna's clothes at the scene?"
She blinked. "No, just her purse. Like I told you before."
"Thanks," I said, puzzled. That implied that Ivanna had arrived at Oleander Place already wearing the dress, which raised a lot more questions than it answered.
"Now, you girls can come to the plantation at one o'clock tomorrow," she said. Then she narrowed her eyes and pointed a bony finger at Veronica and me. "But come alone. And don't even think about talking to the press."
I watched in a mixture of awe and fear as she spun on her heels and exited the room, her fur flying behind her. The second I heard the lobby door slam shut I turned to David. "So, those dogs you saw in Delta's car…they weren't Dalmatians, were they?"
I tugged at the handle of my front door to make sure it was locked and then headed across the street to Thibodeaux's Tavern. As I walked, I averted my gaze to avoid seeing the spooky cemetery that was next to the bar. It might sound childish, but living by tombs, sarcophagi, obelisks, and gothic statues didn't exactly raise your spirits. In fact, some days it damn near drove me to drink. But for reasons I simply couldn't fathom, Veronica had no problem with it, which is why she arranged for me to live next door to her in Glenda's fourplex. If I'd known about the burial ground before I'd signed the lease, I would have told her to go straight to hell.
The sounds of Amy Winehouse's "Rehab" greeted me as I arrived at the bar and pulled open the heavy wooden door. Once inside, I scanned the dimly lit room for Veronica, but there was no sign of her. It was ten after six, and we'd agreed to meet at six o'clock for dinner. Unlike me, Veronica made it a habit to show up at least fifteen minutes early to an appointment. But for the past week or so, she'd been showing up late, and I was starting to wonder why.
"What can I get you, Franki?" the bartender, Phillip, asked in a monotone voice as he ran a wet dishrag over the stainless steel bar.
I slid onto a bar stool and placed my Gucci knockoff bag on the counter. "How about an Italian margarita?"
He nodded and reached across several rows of bottles for the Amaretto.
I studied his face as he poured the amber liqueur into a shaker. Veronica said he resembled a young Kurt Cobain, probably because he was in a grunge rock band, albeit an environmentally conscious one. But I thought he looked and sounded exactly like the stoner Jeff Spicoli in Fast Times at Ridgemont High.
"How's your music coming along?" I asked, tapping my knuckles on the bar to the beat.
Phillip shook his stringy dishwater blond bangs out of his eyes. "Aw, I quit Saving Pumpkins. Making it in the industry these days is such a long shot, man. I decided it was time to focus on something more secure."
"Smart move," I said, impressed. "What are you working on now?"
"My skateboarding career," he replied, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "I think it's finally gonna be an Olympic sport."
I stopped tapping. "Yeah, the Olympics are always a good fallback plan," I replied. But the irony was lost on him.
Philip handed me the margarita just as Veronica rushed into the bar.
"Sorry I'm late," she said, slipping her powder blue Prada bag off her shoulder. "How'd the research go today?"
"Well, I spent some time online going over the media accounts and some articles on the history of the plantation. I didn't find anything we don't already know, but I'm starting to think this case has something to do with obsession."
Veronica took a seat and grabbed the drink menu. "Why do you say that?"
"When I was at the police academy, we studied something called Obsessive Love Disorder. People who have it usually start out by idealizing someone. But then they feel jealousy and resentment when the object of their affection can't live up to their unrealistic expectations. That's when their so-called love can turn violent."
"Okay, but I don't see the connection between this disorder and Ivanna's death."
"Think about the way her body was neatly laid out on that bed. If she swallowed a bunch of sleeping pills, I think her arm or her head or something would have shifted. But instead it's like someone carefully arranged her hair, her dress, even her hands to make her look as beautiful as possible. Someone who put her on a pedestal."
"Or someone who wanted to make her look like Evangeline."
"Could be," I said, stirring my drink. "But why?"
"I don't know. That's what you're going to have to find out."
I froze in mid-stir. "Wait. Me?"
She smiled. "Yeah, I've decided to make you the lead on the case."
I stared at her, stunned. Veronica was so type A that even her blood type was A, so it was shocking to say the least that she was assigning me the case when I was still new to the company.
"I'm going to help you, of course," she continued. "But, I think you're ready. Plus, we've gotten busier, so I'm going to have to handle some of our smaller cases."
Phillip slid a bar napkin in front of Veronica. "What'll it be, Ronnie?"
She looked at the drink list. "Hm. One of the Italian sparkling wines…"
While Veronica pondered the Proseccos, I pondered my promotion. It just didn't make sense that she was turning down the lead on a case that involved a legendary diamond, and a pink one at that. If there was such a thing as Obsessive Love Disorder for diamonds, then Veronica had it. Her favorite song was "Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend," and one of the last vacations she took was to Crater of Diamonds State Park in Arkansas to dig for the dazzling gems.
"I'll have a glass of the Riondo, please."
Phillip nodded and turned to get her drink.
I took a long sip of my margarita. "Hey, so, is there anything you want to tell me?"
She twisted a lock of hair around her finger. "Why would you ask?"
"Because you've been really distracted lately. And because you've decided to let me handle a case that potentially involves a pink diamond."
"What's this about a pink diamond?" Glenda asked from behind me.
I turned to reply but stopped short. I wasn't prepared to find her wearing an ensemble that vaguely resembled exercise attire. Nor was I ready to discover that her red shorts were so short they were practically panties. Ignoring her question, I asked, "Have you started exercising?"
"Hell no, child," she said with a red cigarette holder between her teeth as she unzipped a sporty red hoodie—cropped directly beneath the breasts—to reveal a matching jog bra that was more like a sweatband. "I'm teaching a boot camp for strippers."
"How fun!" Veronica said, clapping her hands together. "I want to Strippercise."
Glenda placed the cigarette holder on the bar beside Veronica. "This is no strip aerobics class, Miss Ronnie. My old manager down at Madame Moiselle's on Bourbon Street asked me to whip some of his girls into shape. And it's a good thing he did, because I never saw a sadder bunch of strippers. Today one of the sorry fools went and slathered herself with lotion right before pole practice. So, when she cartwheeled into an upside down leg hold, she slid right down the pole and popped a damn breast implant on the stage."
I crossed my arms over my chest even though my boobs were real and, I
sincerely hoped, unpoppable.
Phillip placed the Prosecco in front of Veronica and turned to Glenda, keeping his eyes downcast. "What would you like, Miss Glenda?"
"A tall drink of water," she replied with a sultry wink.
A shade of red that matched Glenda's jog bra spread from his cheeks down to his neck.
Glenda leaned over the counter and looked at me. "Now tell me about this diamond."
"We've been contracted to investigate a suspicious death at Oleander Place," I replied.
"So you girls are talking about the Lacour diamond," Glenda said.
"How'd you know that?" I asked, surprised. Although I shouldn't have been. Where local legends were concerned, Glenda was a walking encyclopedia, probably because she was one herself. In the sixties and seventies, under the stage name Lorraine Lamour, she'd stripped for the biggest names in politics, show business, and organized crime.
"I make it my business to know about jewelry, sugar. And I'm sure the same was true for that woman they found at that plantation."
Veronica took a sip of her Prosecco. "What do you mean?"
"I mean I'll guaran-damn-tee you that pink diamond is why she was there. Diamonds are to women what hookers are to men."
I took a swig of my margarita. Glenda's analogies, while impressive, always left me speechless.
"What woman can resist a pink diamond?" she continued. Then she licked her lips with gusto. "And especially one from a lusty pirate."
I wrinkled my nose. Whenever I thought of pirates, lusty was not a word that came to mind. Crusty, yes.
"Like that pirate on TV," Glenda said.
"You mean, Captain Feathersword from The Wiggles?" I asked.
Glenda batted her red eyelashes. "What in heaven would I do with a pirate whose sword is made of a feather, sugar?"
"I think she means Captain Jack Sparrow," Veronica explained.
Glenda looked at Veronica. "Is he the one who wears the sexy black guyliner?"
She nodded.
"Well, he can shiver me timbers any day of the week," she said with a flip of her long platinum Cher hair. "Ooh, now I have a hankering for a pirate something awful." Balancing the six-inch heels of her stripper-style tennis shoes on the rungs of her bar stool, she rose up and waved her arm at Phillip. "Bring me a Salty Dog, sugar."
Franki Amato Mysteries Box Set Page 32
