Miles was standing at a table with his back to me and using an industrial-sized Shop-Vac to remove some pink powder from a clear plastic Tupperware container. When the last of the powder was gone, he turned to switch off the machine.
I couldn't see his mouth because he was wearing a white surgical mask, but I thought his brown eyes widened when he noticed me. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. My name is Franki, and I'm a PI investigating the suspicious death here at Oleander Place."
He removed his mask and began stripping off his elbow-length rubber gloves. "Where y'at?" he asked in a Brooklynesque accent.
I started to say, "Right here." But then I remembered that Y'at is a white, working-class dialect peculiar to the area around New Orleans' Irish Channel neighborhood, meaning How are you?, and I cleared my throat. "Fine. And you?"
"Awrite," he replied. "I was jus' cleanin' up some rat poison. Maybe we should step outside?"
I was all too happy to leave the mill. I could almost feel airborne rat poison entering my lungs, and I was a little leery of Miles. With his bushy reddish-brown brow, flattened boxer nose, and hulking frame, he looked like he could have been an Irish Mafia extra for the cast of The Departed.
When we got outside, Veronica was leaning over the next to largest of the kettles.
"Careful, now," Miles said. "You don' wanna fall into de flambeau."
Veronica blinked. "The what?"
"All dese kettles have a name. Dis big one here is de grande, den come de flambeau, de sirop an' de batterie."
"So they were used in sugar production?" I asked, running my hand over the smooth black surface of the grande.
"Yeah, to boil de sugar cane juice down 'til it crystalized. But dey also used 'em to make de meals for de plantation hands. And during de harvesting season, dey took de boiled cane juice from de flambeau and mixed it wit' French brandy to make hot punch." He rubbed his belly. "It's dee-licious."
I felt my mouth watering. Naturally, I'd been craving a mint julep since I stepped onto the plantation. But some condensed sugar juice and European brandy would do just fine. "Listen, my partner Veronica and I would like to ask you a few questions about the murder. Is now a good time?"
"F'sure," he said, crossing his arms against his solid chest.
"Great," I said, pulling a note pad and pen from my purse. "What time did you leave work last Friday?"
"I went home early dat day, at tree p.m."
Veronica crinkled her nose. "At three?"
He nodded. "Tha's right."
I jotted down the time. "Can anyone vouch for you?"
"How ya mean?"
"I mean, do you have an alibi?"
He looked down. "I stay by myself, and I was dere all night. Pahdon my French, but I had de fois."
I had a hard enough time deciphering proper French, so there was no way I could do Cajun. "The fwas?"
"I was in de battroom," he said, raising his eyebrows.
I looked at him blankly.
He gave a sheepish grin. "I ate a bad batch o' gumbo?"
"Got it," I said, holding up my hand in a stopping motion. I didn't need any of the gory gastric details. "What about Saturday? Did you come to work?"
"I got heuh at eight."
Veronica pulled a crime scene photo from her Furla tote. "Did you view the victim's body?"
"No ma'am. No one was allowed in de house dat day."
"Do you recognize this woman?" she asked, showing him a photo of Ivanna's body.
Miles stroked his unshaven chin and looked to one side. "Nevah seen her before."
I noted that he didn't flinch at the sight of her corpse. "Her name is Ivanna Jones. Does that ring a bell?"
He looked down at his worn brown work boots. "Cain't say it does."
"Thanks, Miles," I said slipping the pad and pen back into my bag. "That's it for me. Veronica?"
She shook her head.
"Looks like we're done for now," I said, extending my hand. "If we need anything else, we'll be in touch."
He grasped my hand in a powerful grip. "Y'all have a blessed day."
As Veronica and I headed back toward the plantation, I whispered, "Miles never once looked us in the eye when we asked him about Ivanna."
"I noticed that. Suspicious, huh?"
I was about to reply when I saw something move by the magnolia tree next to the back porch. I squinted and saw Scarlett peeking out from behind the massive trunk. "True to her Clue counterpart, Miss Scarlett is a spy."
"Interesting," Veronica said. "Let's go to talk to her and find out what's going on."
I cupped my hands around my mouth. "Scarlett!"
She glanced in our direction, and then she put her head down and hurried toward the parking lot.
Veronica looked at me. "What's she doing?"
Scarlett climbed into a beat up, red Ford pickup and started the engine.
"Leaving," I replied as I watched her back up and speed away.
"That's the second time today she's run away from us," Veronica said.
"And both times it was right after she'd seen Miles." Now I was positive that Miles was hiding something, but what? And what about Scarlett? It seemed like she was afraid of Miles. If she was, I had no idea whether it was because of something he knew about her or because of something she knew he'd done. Either way, I needed to talk to Scarlett. And soon.
7
"Okay, message delivered." I pressed end on my phone and dropped it in the cup holder beside the passenger seat of Veronica's Audi. "Now we just have to hope Scarlett calls us back."
"She will," Veronica said, frowning at the old tan Lincoln Town Car puttering along in front of us on the single-lane highway. "Otherwise, she'll have Delta breathing down her neck."
"Surely she’d want to avoid that," I replied. Although I wasn't convinced she'd call. Scarlett had seemed scared, and fear was a powerful motivator to keep your mouth shut, even when you were mouthy by nature.
Veronica fidgeted in her seat and tightened her grip on the steering wheel. "How could anyone stand to drive so slowly? They're doing 40 miles per hour."
"I think it's an older couple," I said in an attempt to stave off any impending reckless driving on Veronica's part. Ever since she'd driven the Ferrari racetrack in Italy, she thought she was a Formula One driver. And trust me when I say she wasn't. For starters, she could barely see over the steering wheel, and she had to drive in high heels so she could reach the pedals.
"Sunday drivers," she muttered as she craned her neck looking for oncoming traffic. "Don't they know it's Tuesday?"
"You can't pass here," I said. "There's a double yellow line."
Flagrantly ignoring both my comment and the law, she flipped on her turn signal and floored the gas pedal as she steered into the next lane.
I braced myself against the seat and pressed my feet on the floorboard as though that would protect me in the event of a fiery crash. When we'd safely made it around the startled-looking elderly driver and his equally startled-looking passenger, I relaxed a little and glanced at the odometer—85 mph. "Okay, we've passed them. Do you think maybe you could slow down now?"
She gave me a sideways look. "You're such a backseat driver."
"Actually, I'm in the front seat, so I can see that you're speeding. And it's not like we have to be back at the office. It's almost six o'clock."
"I have something I need to do," she said as she eased off the gas.
I wondered whether this "something" was why she'd been acting so weird lately. "What? A date?"
"Just…an errand," she said, tilting her head to the side and running her fingers through her hair.
I recognized that head-hair gesture. Veronica only did it when she was lying.
"Hey," she began in a suspiciously perky tone, "what time did you want to make our surprise appearance at Lickalicious Lips tomorrow?"
A clear diversion tactic. I narrowed my eyes and replied, "First thing in the morning, I guess."
She nodded and
looked out the driver side window.
Before I could start systematically prying into her personal life, I was interrupted by the sound of my phone. I looked at the display and saw the main number of Pontchartrain Bank. My heart skipped a beat as I pressed answer. "Hey, babe."
"Do you always answer the phone that way?" the voice of Pauline asked with an audible sneer.
I felt a slow burn ignite in my gut. But I reminded myself that Bradley had asked me to try to get along with her, so I kept my cool. "Only when I think it's my boyfriend calling."
"Classy," she hissed.
Okay, to hell with Bradley's request. "How'd you get this number, Pauline?" I asked with attitude. "My office phone is the only one I have on file at the bank."
"Ancient Chinese secret," she intoned.
"I think you mean 'ancient Chinese snooping through Bradley's personal contact information,'" I snapped.
She gave a haughty laugh. "I don't need to resort to your little tricks. He doesn't keep anything from me."
The slow burn burst into a full-blown flame.
"But while we're on the subject of secrets," Pauline continued, "I thought you'd be interested to know that I just got a call from a fascinating woman named Carmela Montalbano?"
Nonna. The angry fire in my stomach was abruptly extinguished by anxious fear. I started mentally running through all the possible ammunition she could have provided to Pauline.
"She said she was your nonna, and she was calling to talk to Bradley about the pranzo ufficiale."
I cringed at her perfect Italian pronunciation and whispered a silent prayer that she'd only dabbled in the language, say, in high school or in preparation for a trip. "Yeah, that's an Italian family thing where the parents meet the boyfriend."
"A fine attempt at understatement," she said in a snide tone. "But my maternal grandmother is from Italy, so I know the score."
Wait. Chinese-French Pauline had a nonna? How multi-ethnic could her freakin' family be? I swallowed hard and squeaked, "Sicilian?"
"No, calabrese."
O. mio. Dio. Calabria is the region right next to Sicily at the toe of the Italian boot, which meant that Pauline, for all intents and purposes, had a Sicilian grandmother too.
"So, just out of curiosity," she said, "does Bradley have any idea that you and your nonna are planning his engagement to you?"
Beads of sweat began sprouting on my upper lip like mustache hairs on an old Italian woman. If Bradley found out what my nonna was doing, he might think I was in on her scheme. And even if he didn't suspect my involvement, it was way too early for him to find out how crazy-invasive my nonna was. I mean, he'd barely had enough time to get used to my teensy little idiosyncrasies, much less the masterful meddling methods of my nonna. As distasteful as it was, I was going to have to try to reason with Pauline.
"Um, hello?" she pressed.
I took a deep breath and said, "Look, you have an Italian grandma, so you know how incredibly intrusive they can be. I assure you that I had nothing whatsoever to do with this."
"Riiiight. Just like you didn't have anything to do with spying on Bradley and me last Sunday."
Okay, screw reasoning—it was time to beg. "Pauline, I'm asking you woman-to-woman not to give that message to Bradley."
I could practically hear her lips curling into a satisfied smile.
"Why, Franki," she exclaimed in mock outrage, "I'm his executive assistant. It wouldn't be right not to give my boss his messages."
"Oh, really?" I huffed. "Because you didn't give him my message the other day."
"Did you call?" she asked innocently.
"No. I came—"
"Precisely," she said, and she slammed down the receiver.
I stared at the phone in shock. And then in a fit of rage clearly influenced by my recent plantation visit, I raised my phone in my fist and vowed, "As God is my witness, as God is my witness, she's not going to lick me."
"Wow," Veronica said. "Did you just lose everything but Tara in the Civil War?"
I looked at her, expressionless. "Pauline's going to tell Bradley that nonna is already planning our engagement party."
"She's what?" she shouted as the Audi swerved to the right. "Franki, you're going to have to find a way to rein your nonna in."
After checking to make sure my seat belt was still fastened, I shot her an annoyed look. "Can you really put a harness on a tornado, a hurricane, or a tsunami? Because that's the kind of force I'm dealing with here."
She sighed. "I know, but what about your dad? She's his mother. Can't he help you get her under control?"
"Are you kidding? You know my family's like a bad 1950s sitcom. Only, instead of Father Knows Best it's more like Nonna Knows Best. Whenever I complain about her to my dad, he says she's looking out for my best interests, which would be true if I had dreams of being a stay-at-home mom of ten in Fascist Italy."
"Well, you're going to have to do something. Otherwise, you'll end up a zitella, which is exactly what your nonna doesn't want.
I put my head in my hands and tried to think. Veronica was right. If I wanted to save my relationship with Bradley, I was going to have to take on my nonna. But she was a formidable foe, so I needed backup. I grabbed my phone from the floor where it had landed during the near accident and pressed my parents' number.
"Hello?" my mother responded shrilly on the first ring.
"Hi, Mom."
"Is that you, Francesca?"
I sighed. "Mom, you have two sons and one daughter. What other woman would be calling you 'Mom?'"
"Well, I see you're in a mood," she replied.
"Yes, I am. Nonna is up to her usual antics, and she's gone too far this time. She actually called Bradley at the bank to talk about having a pranzo ufficiale."
"I know she comes on a little strong, dear, but she just wants to see you settled down."
"A little strong, Mom? Seriously? To quote an Italian expression, she's like an elephant in a glass shop—after it's had a few gallons of espresso. It's bad enough that she's always trying to run my life, but now she's orchestrating Bradley's too. We have to—"
"Rosemary and I were just talking about the two of you at the deli today," she interrupted in a cheerful tone.
I instantly felt my hackles rise. I'd asked my parents not to talk about my personal life with the deli customers at least a thousand times, but they recognized that request about as often as my Mom recognized me when I called.
"And she wanted me to be sure to tell you the main benefit of marrying early," she continued.
"Oh?" I asked, making sure to sound as disinterested as possible.
"Yes, dear. You have your kids while you're young so that they're out of the house before you go through 'The Change.' That way, you and your hubby have time to recharge your sex life before the hot flashes hit."
"Mm," I said noncommittally. Where my Mom was concerned, I made it a point never to encourage womanly conversations that centered on changing or recharging.
"Take your father and me."
Dear God, no, I thought.
"When you left for college, we made love on the kitchen table for the first time in twenty-five years."
My stomach crawled into my throat, no doubt remembering with horror all the times it had eaten at that table. "Mom, can you please put Dad on the phone?" I asked, before she could drop any other sex bombs. "This is important."
"Well, all right, dear," she said, her voice dripping with disappointment from the sex-talk shut down. "Let me see if I can find him."
I heard the receiver crash onto the kitchen counter.
"Joe!" she shouted. "It's Francesca calling from New Orleans! Get on the phone!"
I looked at Veronica and shook my head in frustration.
She smirk-smiled at me and then shifted her gaze back to the road.
"How's the job going, Franki?" my father's voice boomed. "Are you chasing any cheating spouses?"
"Not right now," I replied, holding the phone a
way from my ear. "We're working on a murder case."
"Again? This PI business is starting to sound just as dangerous as your work on the police force," he said with a note of irritated worry. "I thought you wanted to get away from all that."
My dad and I had been around and around about my suitability, both as a woman and as an individual, for fighting crime. And even though we'd made some progress on that front, the battle was far from won. "Dad, being a PI is a lot less dangerous than being a cop. Besides, I've told you before that it wasn't the job I wanted to get away from as much as the partner requirement. I mean, my ex-partner, Stan, was about as nurturing as an absentee father."
Veronica glanced at me, her brow furrowed.
"Well, if you're sure about that…" he said.
"I am, Dad," I asserted firmly. "Anyway, that's not why I'm calling. I need to talk to you about nonna."
"Nonna? What's she got to do with your job?"
"Not my job. My life."
He gave an exasperated sigh. "How many times are we going to have to go over this? Your nonna loves you, and she wants to see you happy. That's all."
"Well, if that's what she wants, then all she has to do is stop meddling in my relationships, and I'll be ecstatic."
"Franki," he began in a gruff tone, "your nonna is a lonely old woman who just wants to be involved in your life."
I felt my guilt level shoot straight from five—the amount Catholic girls, good or bad, were taught to carry at all times—to ten.
"Maybe if you shared things with her from time to time," he said, "she wouldn't feel like she had to meddle."
Now my guilt was at eleven. He had a point. I hadn't confided in my nonna in years, but it wasn't entirely my fault. I mean, the minute I reached the dating age she went from a gracious grandmother to a Machiavellian matchmaker.
"Are we clear on that?" he asked in a tone that indicated this call was over.
"Yeah, Dad," I said, resigned. "Talk to you soon."
"Well?" Veronica asked.
Franki Amato Mysteries Box Set Page 35
