Veronica smirked and turned on her laptop.
"So, the way I see it," I said, kicking my legs over the side of the chair, "we have three possible scenarios. First, Ivanna was planning to poison someone with the lip gloss, but it backfired."
"How?" she asked as she twisted her hair into a knot.
"Maybe the person figured out what she was up to and killed her instead by making her swallow some of the lip gloss."
Veronica worked a pencil into her bun to hold it in place. "That's possible, I suppose."
I crossed my arms and sunk deeper into the chair. "The only problem with that is we don't know how much oleander it would take to kill a woman Ivanna's size. A little bit in some lip gloss may not be enough."
"Good point. I'll send David an email right now asking him to add that to his to-do list," she said, clicking the keys on her keyboard.
As she typed, I casually swiped a lone peppermint from the corner of her desk. I felt it was owed to me since she was delaying my lunch. "We also need to figure out where the poison came from."
Veronica looked up. "You don't think it came from Oleander Place?"
"It depends," I said, quietly unwrapping the peppermint out of view. "We know Ivanna was at the plantation before she was murdered, so maybe she took some oleander leaves. But—and this is my second theory—Adam could have added the oleander to the lip gloss with or without her knowledge. And if that's the case, it could've come from anywhere."
"Why would Adam poison the lip gloss?" she asked, cocking her head.
I discreetly popped the peppermint into my mouth and replied, "Either he was in on Ivanna's poisoning plan, or he wanted to poison Ivanna."
She folded her hands beneath her chin. "It sounds like it's time to have another face-to-face chat with Dr. Geyer."
I nodded, savoring the yummy peppermint flavor.
Veronica resumed typing. "What's your third theory?"
"That whoever killed Ivanna put the lip gloss in her hand to make a statement."
"Such as?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
I shrugged. "Maybe it's like Delta said about the flower Evangeline was holding. You know, that she was toxic or something."
"Or that her products were."
"I'm not so sure." I blatantly chewed the peppermint and wished it were a po' boy. "Remember, I looked at the ingredients Adam uses, and they're all harmless. Plus, the lip gloss tube didn't have the Lickalicious Lips label."
"So, what are you planning to do?"
"I'm finally going to track down Scarlett," I said, neglecting to mention that I'd be lunching at length first. "Then I'll pay a visit to Adam."
David cleared his throat in the doorway.
"Yes?" Veronica asked.
"The mail just came," he said, depositing several envelopes on her desk. "And I found out that acute oleander poisoning causes cardiac arrest."
I sat up in my chair. "What about respiratory failure?"
"Nope." He consulted the printout he was holding. "It affects the heart, the gastrointestinal system, and the nervous system."
Veronica and I exchanged a look.
"So," he continued, "it could make you puke, give you the runs—"
Veronica held up her hand. "Thank you, David."
"But it wouldn't cause the lungs to fail," I muttered.
"This is getting more and more interesting," Veronica said.
"You mean, confusing." I stared at the pink Post-It notes on Veronica's desk and thought of the diamond. "David, have you ever heard of a nineteenth-century pirate called Beau the Black?"
He scratched his forehead. "I think we studied him in, like, the seventh grade, but I don't remember anything about him."
"His real name was Beauregard Patterson, and he used to be a confederate army soldier. I need you to try to locate any of his descendants. Do you think you can do that?"
"Aye aye, captain," he said with a salute and then limped away like he had a peg leg.
I had to smile at his pirate persona.
Veronica tore open an envelope. "Why do you want to find Beau's relatives?"
"It's time to look into the legend of the pink diamond. Something is off about this case, starting with the cause of death."
"I think you're right." She pulled a card from the envelope and put her hand to her mouth. Then she looked up at me with fear in her eyes.
I glanced at the envelope lying on her desk. Noting the shiny purple of its interior flap, I froze in my chair. I had only one question, "What did Nonna do?"
"Now, stay calm," Veronica said, gripping the sides of the card as though hanging on for dear life. "It's a little thing, really."
I ripped the card from her hand. It was an invitation to a cocktail party celebrating my engagement to "Bradli Artman," the Italian phonetic spelling of "Bradley Hartmann" minus the h (which is always silent in the Italian language and never begins a word). My first thought was that maybe the name looked just different enough to convince Bradley that it wasn't actually him I was getting engaged to. But then it occurred to me that another man wouldn't make the outcome any better.
Fueled by a burst of rage that would rival that of Rocky Balboa on steroids, I marched into my office and grabbed my purse and cell phone. Then I pressed my parents' number and headed for the lobby.
"Franki!" Veronica called, her high heels clicking behind me. "What are you going to do?"
"What I do best—fight with my nonna and then stress-eat," I shouted as I stormed from the office. I ran down the stairs two at a time while the phone was ringing. When I got to the parking lot, the answering machine switched on. Certain that Nonna was dodging my call, I climbed into my car and pressed my parents' work number. I was about to start the engine when someone picked up.
"Amato's Deli," my mother responded in a shrill, singsong tone.
To avoid the delay of our usual name game, I blurted out, "Mom, this is Francesca."
"Well, of course it is," she said in an offended tone. "Are you suggesting that I don't know my own daughter's voice?"
So much for saving time. "Mom, I—"
"Well, what else am I supposed to think when you tell me your name, Francesca?"
I sighed and leaned my head against the window. I couldn't win where my family was concerned. "You're right. That was silly of me. Now, can I talk to Dad?"
"He's making Italian sausage, and he's up to his elbows in ground pork."
And I'm knee-deep in poop, I thought. "I need to talk to him about Nonna. It's urgent."
"It's not a good time, dear. Your nonna is here."
My radar went up. There were only three reasons my nonna would ever leave the house: Sunday mass, a papal visit, or a secret mission related to one of her meddling schemes. "What's she doing at the deli?"
"She said she wanted to help your father make the sausage," my mother whispered. "But between you and me, I think she really wanted to get out of the house. Right now she's holding court with Rosalie Artusi, Crispino DiRuggiero from the ceramics store, Agostino Fossati from that new chocolate shop—"
"Okay, Mom?" I interrupted. "I don't need the whole list. Just let me talk to Nonna."
"She's talking to Father Will and Father Roman. I'd hate to disturb them."
"Wait." I paused to collect my thoughts. "Did you say 'Father?'"
"Twice, dear. They're new priests at Holy Rosary Church, and they've become regulars at the deli. They said they've been assigned to teach the marriage preparation classes. Isn't that nice?"
I felt a stabbing sensation in my chest as the reality of what was going on came crashing down on me. Holy mother of God, Nonna's arranging my wedding.
"Francesca, are you all right? You sound like you're choking."
"Mom," I said through clenched teeth, "why the hell didn't you tell me Nonna was communing with clergy?"
"You said you didn't want the whole list," she replied, clueless to my priestly plight.
My heart was pounding out the rhythm of the tarantella.
"Never mind that. Just put her on the phone."
I heard the receiver crash down onto the counter.
"Carmela!" she shouted, even though the tables were all of five feet from the deli's phone. "It's Francesca!"
Next came the usual murmur of the customers, who, upon hearing my name, began asking what I knew to be prying questions about my personal life—questions to which my mother would respond in lavish detail.
"Pronto," Nonna responded with the customary Italian ready. And I could tell from her tone that she was indeed ready—for battle.
"Nonna," I rasped, breathless from stress, "I saw the invitation. How could you do this?"
"What's-a the big-a problem?"
I gasped. "The 'big-a problem' is that Bradley hasn't asked me to marry him. And if he sees that invitation, he never will."
"He will-a, he will-a," she reassured. "You leave everything-a to me."
I laughed in disbelief. "If I do that, I'll end up a zitella for sure. Now please tell me that you did not send him that invitation."
"Calmati, Franki," she reassured. "I only send it-a to Veronica."
I bowed my head on the steering wheel and silently thanked God, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph for their divine intervention. But then curiosity got the best of me. "Why did you only send it to her?"
"Because it's-a just a sample, and I want-a her opinion."
"Why her opinion?" I asked, admittedly a little put out. After all, it was an invitation to my engagement party.
"It's-a simple," she said matter-of-factly. "Veronica's got-a class."
The woman sends out clandestine purple invitations to my non-engagement with the name of my non-fiancé misspelled, and she implies that I'm the one who's unrefined? "Class or no class," I hissed, "there is no engagement. So do not send out any more invitations, capito?"
"I can't-a make-a you no guarantees," she replied without missing a beat.
I wanted to scream, but I remained calm because I knew I had Catholicism on my side, er, sort of. "Nonna, even if Bradley and I do decide to get married one day, we can't have a church wedding because he's divorced. If you have any questions about that, I'm sure Father Will and Father Roman would be more than happy to explain the Church's policy regarding divorcees."
She chuckled softly. "It's a like-a we say in Italy, Franki, 'rules are just-a suggestions.'" Then the line went dead.
"As God is my witness, I'll never be hungry again," I vowed à la Scarlett O'Hara before I popped the last bite of po' boy into my mouth and pulled into the parking lot of Oleander Place. I cut the engine and climbed out of my car, slamming the door as I mentally cursed my nonna. Thanks to her Machiavellian machinations, I'd eaten not one but two po' boys and a whole bag of Spicy Cajun Crawtators—the family size, not the individual serving. But what did it matter? It wasn't like I was watching my figure because that was a full-time job, and I was far too busy for that. And besides, with Nonna in my life, I was destined to grow old alone, anyway.
Speaking of being a zitella, I thought as I walked up the path to the back porch, I could really go for some baked ziti. I climbed the steps to the porch and pulled my second-hand Burberry scarf tightly around my neck. The sky was still overcast, and the temperature had dropped by at least twenty degrees. I approached the back door, and the magnolia tree quaked violently in the wind as though warning me not to enter. Shaken from my nonna ruminations, I suddenly realized that the plantation appeared to be deserted. I glanced at the time on my phone. It was only two thirty. But since there was no "closed" sign on the door, I turned the handle and went inside.
"Delta?" I called. I peered into her office, but it was empty.
A pall of silence hung in the air. And for the first time, it occurred to me that the plantation home was actually kind of spooky. Because of the cloudy day, it was particularly gloomy inside. The house smelled of must and decay, and the antique furniture and old family portraits seemed to cast dark, deathly shadows on those who entered, i.e., me.
As I crept down the hallway toward the parlor, I considered going back to the car to retrieve my gun. After all, someone had warned me to stay away from Oleander Place, and that someone might be a plantation employee. But then I told myself to get a grip. I was fairly certain that the noises I was hearing had something to do with Delta or Scarlett, and I definitely didn't believe that the infamous plantation ghosts were responsible. And even if I did, my gun certainly wouldn't stop them.
When I entered the parlor, I gave a start. Beneath the painting of Evangeline, the courter's candle was flickering. Was this a sign that Evangeline was alive and waiting for her flame? I shook the thought from my head. No, a spirit hadn't lit that candle, a real live person had. And it looked like they'd done so recently because it was barely burned.
Now that I thought about it, Delta had complained that Scarlett was always lighting the candle. So I assumed that she was in the house somewhere, avoiding me. "Scarlett? It's me, Franki. I have a quick question for you."
I waited for her to reply and heard a loud thump from above. Something had fallen, like a piece of furniture—or a body. Thinking that Scarlett might be hurt, I rushed up the stairs to the second floor. "Scarlett? Are you okay?"
When I reached the landing, there was another thump followed by a scraping noise. It sounded like something was being dragged across the floor above. Or was it "someone?" I swallowed nervously as I tried to decide whether to proceed without my weapon. But then I remembered that the third floor was a storage area. Relief flooded through my body when I realized that Delta was probably up there moving things around.
"Delta. I'm here to question Scarlett," I called as I climbed the stairs.
It was noticeably darker on the top floor, but there was a light shining from the doorway on my right. As I approached, I caught a glimpse of a shadow on the wall to my left. It took a moment for my eyes to make out the shape, but when they did, my heart skipped a beat—or several. The shape was that of a man wearing a long coat and a tricorne, the triangular-shaped hat worn by eighteenth-century soldiers and pirates. My mind flashed, terrified, to Beau the Black.
This time, instead of thumping or dragging, I heard the unmistakable metallic sound of a sword being drawn from its sheath.
I took a step backward. Was it? Could it be?
"Avast!" a craggy male voice cried. "Or I'll cleave ye to the brisket, I will!"
As a Texas girl, I knew darn good and well what a brisket was. I shielded my chest with my arms and screamed bloody murder.
12
The sword clattered to the floor as the pirate ghost let out a distinctly unpirate-like—and unghost-like—shriek. I cut my screaming short and peered through the crack between the door and the doorjamb. I saw a nice-looking guy, around twenty-six or so, with sandy blond hair and twinkling blue eyes. Beau the Black he was not.
He stepped into the hallway with his hat in his hands. "Sorry about all of that. I was goofing around with the clothes, and I didn't realize anyone else was in the house." He grinned sheepishly. "We're all kind of jumpy around here these days."
I laughed. "I can understand why. I'm Franki Amato, the PI Delta hired to investigate the murder of Ivanna Jones."
"Troy Wilson," he said as we shook hands. "I'm the Oleander Place historian."
"Great! You're the last staff member I need to interview."
He looked thoughtfully at me. "You know, Delta said she'd hired a private investigator, but…"
"Is something wrong?" I asked.
His face flushed with embarrassment. "It's just that she described you a little differently."
Now my face flushed—with anger. I was sure that Delta's description of me had been less than flattering. "Oh she did, did she? Care to elaborate?"
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his khaki-colored Dockers. "Uh, she made it sound like you were a lot taller." He paused. "And dark."
My lips curled. I was fair-skinned, but because I was Italian, Delta was stereotyping me. "You mean swarthy
?"
He smiled. "Delta isn't all bad. She's just a little high strung, as we say down here in the South."
"That's one way to describe her," I said through gritted teeth.
"Do you mind if I put these clothes away?" he asked, gesturing toward the storage room.
"Not at all," I replied. I followed him to the doorway and shivered when I looked inside. It was straight out of a haunted house, with dusty antiques, boxes, clothing dress forms, and porcelain dolls strewn about.
Troy knelt and placed the tricorne into a hatbox inside an old trunk. "So, are you Italian on both sides of your family?"
"Yeah, my mom's maiden name was Pavan."
He rose to his feet and dusted off his pants. "That's from the Veneto region, right?"
I nodded, impressed. Unlike other Italian surnames, those from the Veneto were often missing a final vowel. "How'd you know?"
"I specialized in the Italian Renaissance for my Masters, so I had to study the Venetian Republic. But then I switched to American history."
"What made you change from the Venetian Republic to the Early American Republic?"
He smirked. "The language requirement. To study European History, you have to know two foreign languages, and I only know Greek."
"Greek?" I repeated, surprised. "I thought you'd say Italian."
"My mother is from Greece. Can't you tell?" he asked, shaking his blond hair.
"Honestly, I would have said you were a California beach boy, except for your pirate clothes. Do you always wear a waistcoat?"
"This old thing?" Troy joked as he removed the coat. "It's just a little something I threw on."
I laughed. It was nice to finally meet someone at Oleander Place I could relate to—except for the part about the graduate degree in history, of course.
He wrapped the waistcoat in tissue paper and placed it into the trunk with the hat. "Seriously, though," he continued, "I was doing research for my dissertation."
"Delta said I should ask you about that." I leaned against the doorjamb and crossed my arms. "What are you studying?"
Franki Amato Mysteries Box Set Page 40
