She slammed the receiver onto what I knew to be the kitchen counter. "He didn't propose!"
"È una zitella gattara a vita," Nonna wailed in the background, as if on cue.
According to my nonna's proclamation, I'd apparently earned two new distinctions since turning thirty: the first was that I was now a zitella for life, and the second was that I was also officially a zitella gattara, or old maid cat lady, even though I was allergic to feline dander and had only ever owned dogs. "Um, what happened to Nonna's vow of silence?"
"She's been forgetting about that vow quite often today," my mother grumbled.
"Give-a me a break-a, woman," Nonna cried. "I'm old!"
"Like just now," my mother added through what sounded like clenched teeth.
"Dad's not around, is he?" I asked, trying to hide the hopeful desperation in my tone. "He hasn't wished me happy birthday yet." Not that it would do any good, but at least it would get my mom off the phone.
The receiver hit the counter. "Joe! Get on the other line! It's Francesca!"
A blissful silence ensued as we waited for my father to pick up.
Then I heard my nonna praying loudly for a Savior—not Jesus, mind you, but a husband for me.
"Maybe Dad didn't hear you?" I pressed, anxious to get back to my own private hell.
My mother sighed. "It must be that wax buildup in his ears. I bought him a kit to clean that out, but does he listen to me?" She slammed down the receiver. "Joe! Could you stop playing blackjack on that computer and come wish your damn daughter a happy belated birthday?"
There was another blessed moment of serenity while my mom once again waited and while I tried to figure out how I felt about my dad's wax-encrusted ears and that "damn daughter" comment.
"What is that man doing?" my mother exclaimed. "Give me a minute, Francesca. I'm going to have to go find him." The phone hit the counter and then crashed to the floor. "Joseph! Giuseppe!" she added, as though my dad might not have recognized the Anglicized version of his name.
Nonna stopped praying. "Madonna mia!" she cried. "San Giuseppe!"
I wasn't sure what was happening, but either my nonna had just had some sort of revelation, or she was invoking the assistance of the Virgin Mary and the patron saint of Italy and the Catholic Church on my behalf.
Someone picked up the receiver. "Franki," Nonna began, her voice not unlike the Godfather's when he made someone an offer they couldn't refuse, "we have-a some hope."
"We do?" This was truly news to me.
"I just-a remembered," she rasped. "La tavola di San Giuseppe."
"What about Saint Joseph's table?" I asked, mildly intrigued. It seemed like everyone was talking about that festival lately.
"You know, the limoni."
"I don't know anything about any lemons, Nonna." Except for the fact that life was giving them to me by the bushel these days.
"It's a tradition, Franki. A zitella take-a the lemon from-a San Giuseppe's table, and by the next-a year she have-a the husband. But no one can-a see, or it's-a no gonna work."
"Wait. You mean, steal a lemon from the altar? To land a husband?"
"Of course," she replied, as though everyone knew that was how hard-up Catholic gals got their grooms.
"Whatever happened to 'thou shalt not steal'?" I asked, scratching my neck uneasily. The good sisters at my Catholic Sunday school had worked hard to instill psychosomatic disorders in us kids at the mere suggestion of committing a sin, so this conversation was making me itchy.
"It's-a like-a we say in Italia. All is-a permitted in-a war and-a love."
"All is fair in love and war," I corrected. "We say that in the US too."
"You see? The whole-a world-a can't be wrong."
I didn't bother telling her that Italy and the United States were not the "whole-a world-a" because I honestly didn't think that she'd ever heard of any other countries. Instead, I got down to brass tacks. "So, let me get this straight. You want me to steal a lemon from a Catholic altar devoted to Jesus's father that's intended to feed the poor?"
"You got a problem with-a that?" she asked, now sounding more like De Niro than Brando.
Before I could reply, someone picked up another line.
"I found your father, dear," my mother announced. "He's sitting on the toilet."
To my horror, I heard her handing off the receiver.
"Happy birthday, Franki," my dad said in an animated voice. "Did you have a nice time last night?"
I squirmed at the memory of the skin-slougher and at the image of my father talking to me from the john.
"Bradley didn't pop-a the question," Nonna replied from the kitchen phone.
"Sorry to hear that you didn't get that proposal," my dad said as though referring to a lost job offer. "Better luck next time, eh?"
"She'll have-a the luck," Nonna said. "The luck of the lemon."
"What's she talking about, Franki?" he asked.
"I'll let Nonna explain, Dad. I've gotta run." Then I remembered the toilet and instantly regretted my choice of terms. "Love you and talk to you soon."
I pressed end before they could object and held the power button down. I had no intention of talking to anyone else today—not even Bradley. And honestly, if I could've foreseen how these calls were going to go, I would have let that witch keep my stupid phone.
I slid off the bed and headed for the kitchen. Suddenly, I was craving lemon. And as the old saying goes, when life gives you lemons and your nonna tells you to steal one from a Catholic altar to snag a husband, make lemonade—or better, limoncello.
And then drink it.
My phone was ringing.
I opened an eye, and sunlight scorched my brain. I was lying face up on Glenda's antique bearskin rug in front of the fireplace. The back of my head was resting on the top of the bear's, and his right paw was wrapped around a half-empty bottle of limoncello. Now I understood why I felt like I was coming out of hibernation.
I rolled onto my hands and knees and pulled my cell from the bear's other paw, desperate to stop the noise. The display was dark, so I pressed the power button. Only then did it occur to me that my phone had been turned off.
The ringing switched to knocking, and I realized that the sound I'd been hearing was my doorbell. I made my way to the door holding my phone in one hand and my head in the other.
Still using the one eye, I peered out the peephole and saw slicked back brown hair.
Bradley? I opened the door.
But it wasn't Bradley. The man who stood before me looked like a young Nicholas Cage. And even in my semi-drunk state, I could see that his police uniform was made of cheap fabric similar to the kind used for Halloween costumes.
Glenda!
Stripper Cop Cage cocked a low brow and pointed a finger intentionally close to my breast. "According to a call that came over my police radio, ma'am," he began in an Elvis impersonator-like voice, "you've been evading arrest."
"Actually, I haven't," I said clenching my fists at that "ma'am." "I got out of jail just this morning."
He froze for a moment, and then his shoulders relaxed. "Well, now I'm going to have to do a full body search," he announced with his lip curling like that of The King. He pulled out a plastic baton and gave a lascivious smile. "Up against the wall, and spread 'em."
I ripped the baton from his hands and whacked him over the head, exactly like I'd done to my brother Anthony with that light saber.
"Ow," he said, rubbing his head. "Was that really necessary? I'm just trying to do my job."
My phone began to ring. I looked at the display and pressed answer. "Glenda," I ground out, "if you don't call off your cop, you're gonna have a homicide on your hands."
Stripper Cop Cage's low brow lifted to the top of his forehead.
"That's what I'm calling about, sugar," Glenda said. "I already do."
"Wait," I said, massaging my temple. "How do you have a homicide?"
She exhaled what was probably a puff of smoke. "Ther
e's been a murder at Madame Moiselle's, Miss Franki. An ex-house stripper named Amber Brown."
I thought of the blonde I'd seen leaving the club. "Did you know Amber?"
"Not well, but I'm friends with her ex-landlord, Carnie. I called her a few minutes ago, and I think she's going to need your services."
"I'll be right there." I ended the call and checked the time. It was three p.m., which meant that I hadn't burned off the near half bottle of booze I'd drunk two hours before. I grabbed my bag and headed for the door, but Stripper Cop Cage blocked my way and leered at my rack.
"Show's over," I said, referring both to my boobs and his striptease.
"Don't you want me to dance?" He did a sample Saturday Night Fever-style spin and finished with a mimed hair-smoothing move.
"No, I want you to drive," I replied, pushing past him. "And if you even think about copping a feel in the car, stripper copper, the next place you do any spinning will be your grave."
As I tramped toward his tricked-out Trans Am, I had a bad feeling in my gut (related in part to the limoncello). I don't know why, but something was telling me to turn around—to go back inside my apartment and lock the door. But I didn't listen.
Because I was probably cursed, right?
4
My stripper chauffer skidded the Trans Am to a stop in front of Madame Moiselle's, and then he skidded to a stop and stared slack-jawed through the windshield at some skimpily dressed strippers gathered on the second-floor balcony. "Uh…you need an escort inside?"
"Nah," I said as I climbed from the car. Maybe it was the lingering effects of the limoncello, but just for kicks I bent down and added, "I'm really only here to see a dead body."
His slack jaw became even slacker, and then he peeled out with the passenger door still wide open.
I smirked and approached a blond police officer who looked like he was barely old enough to drink, standing guard at Madame Moiselle's red double-door entrance.
"The club is closed for the day, ma'am," he announced.
I processed that "ma'am" in disbelief. Did a citywide press release go out about my birthday or something?
Glenda leaned over the rail, her hair and breasts hanging down. "She's one of us, Officer, baby."
He looked me up and down and then narrowed his ice blue eyes like a poker player reading his opponent.
I matched his half-lidded gaze and gave him a how-dare-you glare. Not that I wanted to be taken for a stripper, but I sure as heck didn't want some cop who was practically a kid acting like I couldn't be one. After all, us thirty-year-olds could strip too.
"Wait on the second floor with the others," he said, stepping aside.
I mentally thanked Glenda for intervening on my behalf because the police were notorious for not wanting PIs puttering around their crime scenes. Before the officer could change his mind, I hurried inside.
And I experienced an immediate assault on my semi-drunk senses. Madame Moiselle's deep red décor and pink neon signage scorched my eyes, and the stench singed my nostrils. As a rookie cop I'd responded to calls at more than a few strip clubs, and they'd always looked and smelled the same—like sleazy cabarets that stunk of baby powder, stale sweat, spilled drinks, dirty money, and something male, possibly testosterone. This time, however, there was also a sweet, acrid odor that I couldn't put my finger on.
After my eyes adjusted to the redness, I scanned the rectangular room for the scene of the crime. To my left, five officers were gathered around a command post that had been set up at one of two small stages, which, except for the poles running through the center, looked oddly like dining room suites for twenty. Behind the stages, along the far-left wall, there were two men in suits, probably plainclothes detectives, who were conversing on a red, quilted, plush velvet couch that I wouldn't have touched with a ten-foot stripper pole.
I looked to my right and saw several crime scene investigators in white coveralls and Latex gloves standing on a much larger stage next to a full bar. I figured that's where I'd find the victim.
As I took a step forward, a hand gripped my shoulder and pulled me back. I turned expecting to see the boy cop, but instead I came face-to-face with the bastard cop who'd kicked me to the cooler, to use Ruth's term. But this time he wasn't wearing an ill-fitting uniform—he was wearing a form-fitting suit. "What are you doing here?"
He crossed his arms. "I believe that's my line, Ms. Amato."
Sadly, the cop had a good memory. And as much as it pained me, I needed to get on his good side to have a shot at viewing the crime scene. So, I opted for the cooperative route. "I'm a private investigator, and I'm here on behalf of a prospective client."
He snorted and bowed his head. "A buddy of mine down at the station told me that your attorney friend said you were a PI." He grinned and shook his head. "He said you were an ex-cop too. But he was just pulling my leg, right?"
Well, I certainly didn't want to answer that question now. So, I turned the tables on him. "What's with the suit?" I forced a half-smile. "Don't tell me you just came from church."
The mocking grin disappeared from his face as he flashed his badge. "Detective Wesley Sullivan. Homicide."
"You're a homicide detective?" Okay, the compliant act was off. "Then what were you doing in uniform in the French Quarter yesterday arresting innocent people?"
"The only person I arrested was guilty," he said with a sardonic stare. "And we like to build up our police presence in the Quarter when the Irish and Italians have simultaneous street parties." His gaze bored into my eyes like a drill. "Because the Italians have been known to pick fights with the Irish."
I bristled at his comment. That was no stereotype—that was a veiled accusation. Now the gloves were off. "Spoken like a true Irishman, Detective." I grasped my chin in a pretend pensive pose. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't the Irish the ones who are typically stereotyped as the fighters?"
He feigned a posture of his own, putting his finger on the cleft in his chin. "Oh, that's right. The Italians are the drinkers. And while we're on the subject, is that alcohol I smell on your breath?"
Crap. I guess I should've taken an extra two minutes to brush my teeth before leaving the house. "That's my lemon mint breath spray?"
He pointed toward the door. "Out."
I blinked. "But I need to see the scene of the murder."
His pointed finger moved from the door to my face. "Do you really think I'm going to let a half-drunk PI with a flagrant disrespect for the law around my crime scene?"
The detective had a point. "Would it help if I told you that I was leaning more toward hungover than half-drunk?"
He put his hands on his hips, pulling back his suit coat in the process and revealing a set of handcuffs. "Would it help if I told you that I was leaning toward arresting you for disobeying an officer?"
"Given your track record? You bet." I spun on my heels and headed for the door. And to add insult to injury, my tooth started to hurt again.
Now the alcohol decides to wear off.
I exited the club and saw the officer on guard talking to a couple of scantily clad young women.
"You need to go straight to the second floor and wait with the other dancers," he said, gesturing toward the balcony. "An officer will question you shortly."
Seizing the opportunity, I waited for the dancers to enter Madame Moiselle's. Then I fell into step behind their six-inch heels and followed them to the pink neon "VIP Champagne Rooms" sign in the far-left corner of the club. They powered up the stairs in their platforms while I plodded along in my two-inch-heeled boots. Of course, I could've kept up with them if I exercised for a living like they did. Possibly.
"Is that you, Miss Franki?" Glenda called.
"In the flesh," I quipped, smiling to myself since I was the only fully clothed female in the joint. The smile faded when I caught sight of Glenda at the top of the stairs in an outfit that made me want to turn around and go back down. She was wearing red, cross-shaped pasties, a white ruff
le that was failing miserably at passing for a skirt, a tiny red thong, and red fishnet thigh-high stockings with white go-go boots—naughty stripper–style, not Nancy Sinatra–style. All she needed was a nursing cap, and she'd look like a slutty go-go dancer for the Red Cross.
I reached the landing and shifted my gaze from Glenda to the décor. Everything was red—the walls, the ceiling, the woodwork, the couches, even the bar.
"Let's go into a VIP Room so we can talk in private." Glenda opened the nearest door, and I was instantly taken aback.
"Are they all glowing pink like this?" I asked, shielding my eyes from the neon Veni, vidi, veni sign.
"Sure are," she said, flopping onto a love seat. "The idea is that you go from the deep red outside to the vibrant pink inside to evoke lips opening into a mouth or labia opening into a vagina. That's why I decorated your living room in red and your bedroom in pink."
Great. Now in addition to thinking of my apartment as a whorehouse and a funeral parlor, I would forever envision it as a giant orifice.
"But forget the design scheme." She patted the seat next to her. "Come sit beside Miss Glenda so we can discuss the murder."
It didn't take an epidemiologist to know that there wasn't a sanitary surface in the place. "I'd rather stand, thanks."
"Suit yourself, sugar," she said with a shrug. "Now, did you notice anything unusual about the crime scene?"
"Oddly enough," I began, putting my hand on my hip, "I didn't get to see it because the detective who arrested me last night—the one I mistook for the stripper cop you sent me?—he just kicked me out of the club."
She crossed her arms above her red-crossed breasts and looked at me like I was some kind of reprobate. "I can't imagine why."
I wanted to clench my jaw, but I had to protect my tooth.
Franki Amato Mysteries Box Set Page 57
