Franki Amato Mysteries Box Set

by Traci Andrighetti

  She turned and ripped a muslin strip from my bikini line without warning. "I do mustache and goatee too. Yes?"

  Glenda nodded, and I was in too much pain to protest.

  Nadezhda looked at my upper lip and curled hers. "I get more vax."

  As soon as she'd stepped out, I sat up and seethed. "FYI: I don't have facial hair—just a little peach fuzz. But we'll table that conversation for the time being, because we need to find out how the Wicked Witch of the Wax knows Eugene."

  Glenda blinked eyelashes that matched her boa. "He could be one of her clients."

  "How do you figure?" I whisper-shouted. "The guy's hairier than Tom Selleck in a gorilla suit."

  "Well, I wouldn't know." She gave a haughty hair flip. "Maybe he's into manscaping."

  "So, he tends the briar patch but leaves the weeds all over the rest of his body?" I asked in keeping with her gardening theme. "I doubt that."

  She crossed her arms, covering her clover. "Then what do you suggest we do?"

  "I don't want Nadezhda to think I'm questioning her, so when she comes back, get her talking about herself—you know, where she's from, what her hobbies are." I returned to my supine position. "Maybe she'll say something that'll help us connect her to Eugene."

  Glenda tapped an Irish-manicured finger to her cheek. "This calls for some old-fashioned flattery."

  Nadezhda entered with a block of wax and stole a sideways glance at Glenda and me as though she suspected that we'd been talking about her. She dropped the block into the warmer and began breaking it up with a wooden stick.

  "Did you ever do any modeling, Miss Nadezhda?" Glenda asked. "You have such a striking face."

  "Tank you." She gave a modest grin and touched her maroon spikes. "I was actress in Borscht Western."

  I pulled myself onto my elbows. "A what western?"

  Her grin turned to a grimace. "Like Spaghetti Western, only Russian."

  "How exciting!" Glenda exclaimed, shaking her shamrocks. "Which one were you in?"

  She did her signature sneer-smile as she turned up the heat dial on the warmer. "Caviar Cowboy."

  Glenda plopped down onto the waxing table, perching her pot of gold next to my face. "Did you have a speaking part?"

  "I play saloon girl." Nadezhda put her hand on her hip and struck what I presumed was a seductive pose. "Larissa Lockhart," she drawled. "From Texas."

  I tilted my head like Napoleon did when I said a word that sounded familiar to him. Only it wasn't a word that got me—it was Nadezhda's Texas accent. It wasn't good, but it wasn't bad either. In fact, unlike her English, it was pretty darn passable.

  As she smeared wax around my mouth, our eyes locked. And even though I couldn't tell whether she was the woman who'd called Dr. Lessler's office asking about Amber's account, there was one thing I could detect.

  Guilt.

  Nadezhda was involved in the Amber Brown case, and I would've bet my bottom lip that Eugene was too.

  17

  "What the—" I flinched at my reflection in the dressing room mirror at Madame Moiselle's. And it wasn't because of the tiger-striped Lycra costume, the purple-and-gold platform pumps emblazoned with the LSU tiger, or even the tiger ears and tail. It was because of the big red bumps around my mouth and thighs. "Someone please tell me that you can't get herpes from a waxing salon."

  Glenda squatted and scrutinized my crotch. "It's just a rash, Miss Franki."

  "Or an allergic reaction," Bit-O-Honey added as she pressed the costume snap closed at the nape of my neck.

  I bent over and examined my inflamed inner thighs. "No, it's a burn. I saw Nadezhda crank up the heat on that wax warmer, and she did it on purpose."

  Bit-O-Honey pulled up one of the black thigh-high fishnet stockings of her sexy saint costume. "Why would she do something so cruel?"

  "Because she knows I suspect her of being involved in the murders." I straightened and scowled at the redness around my mouth, which made me look a lot like a crazed clown. "Someone with a Texas accent called Dr. Lessler's office asking about Amber's bills, possibly this mother figure we've been hearing about, and it could've been her."

  Glenda sealed the Velcro closures at my hips. "But why would she tell you and Carnie about Amber's mother if it was her?"

  "Because Amber talked to the mystery mom on the phone in front of Maybe, too," I said, eyeing the Velcro with concern. "And if Nadezhda is this mom, she's probably trying to deflect suspicion from herself."

  "Could be." Glenda stood up and checked to make sure that her apple-pastied breasts were still barely tucked inside her blue lace-up bustier.

  "Hey, uh, I know you're a slut," I prefaced to preempt any protest. "So why would you dress as Snow White for The Saints, Sinners, and Sluts Revue?"

  Her lips puckered into a playful pout. "She lived alone with seven men, sugar."

  Now that I thought about it, that was suspiciously slutty.

  "What do you think of your costume?" She stepped away from the mirror, and I got a full frontal of my tiger getup.

  My first reaction was to suck in my breath—then my belly. Glenda had reduced the halter to the size of a string bikini top, and the skirt barely covered the thong I had on underneath. Even worse, the fabric panel she'd added to cover my gut consisted of an upside down triangle that essentially functioned as a giant arrowhead pointing to my lady bits.

  "You call this 'a few adjustments'?" I asked, yanking my tail for emphasis.

  She smoothed her yellow skirt. "Well, I had to sexy it up."

  "Sexy it up?" I turned back to the mirror. "I look like a Mardi Gras tiger. With mange."

  Bit-O-Honey snapped her fingers. "I know what you need. Tiger balm!"

  I gave her a pre-pounce-on-the-prey gaze.

  "There's no time for that. She's on in thirty minutes." Glenda pointed to a makeup case on the counter. "Get me the Dermablend."

  I crossed my arms over my breasts. I didn't know what Dermablend was, but I already knew that I wasn't a fan of the spirit gum she'd used to glue on the pasties that the club required me to wear under my top.

  "Relax, sugar," she said as she took a cosmetic tube from Bit-O-Honey. "It's body concealer."

  "In that case, could you cover the spare tire I'm carrying around my stomach?" I leaned into her face. "Because that fabric panel isn't doing the trick."

  "Oh, it won't cover fat," Bit-O-Honey gushed. "Just your rash."

  I shot her a silent roar.

  "A-anything else I can do to help?" she asked, pushing open the door as she backed away from me.

  I caught a side view of myself in the mirror and winced. "Get me a stiff drink, will ya? And find out if Eugene is here yet."

  Eugene appeared in the doorway as though he'd been standing outside trying to eavesdrop. He leaned against the jamb, striking a pose in his black-and-white Adidas tracksuit. "What can I do for you?"

  "I need to speak to you privately." I tried to look him in the eyes, but they were otherwise occupied with checking out the exposed flesh in the room.

  "We can talk in my office," he said coolly.

  Glenda pointed the Dermablend tube at me. "You don't have time to talk, Miss Franki. You've got to be on that stage at nine o'clock sharp."

  "This won't take long." I turned to follow Eugene, but I hadn't practiced walking in the six-inch heels yet. So, instead of the stealthy stride of a tiger, I had the spastic step of a chicken. By the time I got to his office, he was already seated behind his cheap metal desk.

  "Guess I'm gonna get my wish," he said as he opened an Altoids tin.

  I crossed my arms and frowned. "What wish is that?"

  He dropped a mint onto his tongue. "To see a fiery Italian strip."

  I was fiery, all right—as in angry and, if you counted the burning bumps on my mouth and thighs, on fire. But Eugene hadn't noticed those because he was focusing on the bumps on my chest.

  "I gotta say…" His eyes traveled down my torso. "…based on what I know about your people, I'm s
urprised you didn't go for leopard."

  I chose to ignore the Italians-wear-animal-print stereotype. I was wearing tiger stripes. "While we're on the subject of animals, I'm trying to figure out whether you're a wolf in sheep's clothing." I glanced at his gold collar-style chain. "Make that dog's clothing."

  His breathing seemed to stop. "What are you getting at?"

  "Your relationship to Nadezhda Dmitriyeva." Now my eyes focused on his chest—specifically, on the hair tufting from his unzipped jacket. "And don't tell me you're one of her clients."

  "Okay. I won't." He placed his hands behind his head.

  I waited for an explanation, but one didn't come. "You might want to tell me how you know her, because right now it's looking like you two are accomplices."

  "Accomplices in what?" he asked, sitting forward in his chair.

  "Which one of you told the other about the amber necklace?" I shot back, trying to catch him off guard.

  Anger erupted in his eyes. "Just what the hell are you trying to say?"

  I bent over and rested my hand on his desk. "You knew about that necklace even though the police didn't make it public."

  He opened his arms, feigning innocence. "They told me about it at the station."

  "Not according to Detective Sullivan." I stood up and stared, waiting for his body language to betray him.

  His arms relaxed at his sides, but his hands gripped the chair. "Well, he's wrong."

  "I don't think so." I started to pace in my platform pumps but promptly abandoned that plan. "What I do think is that Amber told Nadezhda about the necklace, then Nadezhda told you. And the two of you decided to steal it."

  He exploded from his desk like a Molotov cocktail, and I leapt backwards, stumbling slightly in my stilettos.

  "Nadezhda was a friend of my mother's from the old country," he said through clenched teeth. "And since my mom died, she's been like a second mother to me."

  My ears pricked up at the mom mention. Had Nadezhda also been a second mom to Amber—one who betrayed her?

  Eugene and I faced off across the desk, and something told me to pursue the connection between Nadezhda and his mom. "Where, exactly, were they from?"

  "Some small town," he muttered. "I don't know the name."

  "You don't know where your own mother was from." I made it a statement rather than a question because I didn't buy it for all the vodka in Russia.

  He looked down, and it wasn't because he was embarrassed. It was to hide the fear that flashed across his face.

  And although Eugene claimed not to know the name, I had a feeling I did.

  Yantarny.

  Because anyone from the Russian amber-mining town would know about the Amber Room, its significance to the people of Russia, and, of course, its incalculable value on the black market.

  "No sign of Shakey yet," Glenda said as she peered at the crowd through the curtains around Madame Moiselle's main stage.

  "Welp, if he's not here, I guess there's no point in me dancing." I turned to go back to the dressing room—and I couldn't get there fast enough.

  She grabbed my shoulder and spun me around. "We don't know that Shakey had anything to do with these murders, Miss Franki, so the show must go on. Remember, your dancing could help us catch the killer." She let go of me and reached for my cell. "Now give me your phone."

  I pulled back and glanced at the display. Bradley had never responded to my text about meeting at ten o'clock, and I was worried that he'd had a change of heart about discussing the Detective Sullivan situation—just like I'd had a change of heart about the stripping situation. "Um, first I need to make a quick call."

  "It's too late for that." She wrested the phone from my grip. "We hired a top DJ for this event, and he's about to announce you."

  Bit-O-Honey bounced up and shoved a drink into my empty hand. "Carlos made you a tiger goddess."

  "Thanks." I didn't feel like a tiger or a goddess—more like a combination of a chicken and a monster. But I chugged the drink, hoping it would give me a confidence boost.

  It didn't.

  "I can't do this." I thrust the empty glass at Bit-O-Honey and turned tail and ran—well, plodded, thanks to my platform pumps.

  "You can, and you will." Glenda grabbed my arm and dragged me back. "Just remember your routine—crouch, roar, pre-pounce wiggle."

  My legs started trembling so hard that my tail shook, but somehow in my hysteria I thought of another reason that I couldn't strip. "Wait! My costume doesn't fit with The Saints, Sinners, and Sluts Revue theme. I'll ruin the whole show."

  "How silly of me," Glenda said in a blatantly false tone. "I forgot a key accessory."

  I cocked a glittered brow. "What accessory?"

  "One sec, sugar." She strutted to the prop room, and I seized the opportunity to peek through the curtains.

  Madame Moiselle's was a zoo, and I was a caged animal. The club was standing room only, and there were so many men in green that it seemed like half of Ireland had flown in for the show. I scanned the room looking for a Stetson, but I spotted a Sullivan instead. And the dastardly detective was making his way toward the stage.

  "Don't move," Glenda said from behind me. "I need to drape this over your shoulders."

  I assumed she was referring to her Irish flag boa, but the accessory was heavy—and cold and slick. I looked down and froze. It was definitely a boa, but of the live constrictor variety. My eyes darted from the snake to Glenda, because I was too afraid to move anything else. "Wha…wha…wha?"

  "St. Patrick drove the snakes from Ireland," she replied as though I'd formulated a complete question. "The idea is that the Irishmen in the crowd drive the snake—and the rest of your costume—from you."

  I stared at her, stricken. Snow White wasn't only a slut, she was a strega too.

  Morris Day and the Time's "Jungle Love" began to play, and my legs turned to jungle juice.

  "Coming to the stage," the DJ intoned into a microphone, "Tiger Eye, the late, great Amber's Irish-Italian porn star cousin."

  Porn star?

  The crowd roared, and before I could strangle stripper Snow White with the snake, she shoved me onstage.

  The lights were blinding, so I couldn't see the steps to exit. I couldn't faint, either, because I was too afraid of what the snake would do to me if I fell on it. So, I stood still and made like a jungle tree.

  "Woo-hoo!" A man yelled. "Look at her shake that money-maker!"

  Bewildered, I looked down and discovered that I was vibrating like Tina Turner on a treadmill.

  "Come on, guys," the DJ boomed. "Make it rain for Tiger Eye—like in a rain forest."

  "Crouch, sugar! Crouch!" Glenda yelled.

  I inched sideways toward the sound of her voice, and then someone pulled my tail. My costume constricted, and a rush of air whooshed over my skin as the audience hooted and hollered.

  Now I knew the reason for the Velcro and the snaps—Glenda had made me a tear-away tiger costume, and she'd just torn it off me.

  "Reeeeemember, fellas," the DJ bellowed, "tip when they strip. If you want to see her flashin', you've gotta slide some cash in."

  The snake, probably as annoyed by the damn DJ as I was, reared its horrifying head.

  Terrified, I recoiled and fell backwards onto my hands, and the cheering turned to jeering.

  "What the hell kind of move is that?" a man shouted.

  "A crab walk?" another offered.

  Ignoring the catcalls, I focused on the tasks at hand—getting myself off the stage and the boa off my boobs. Fortunately, in my crustacean position I was out of the glare of the lights. I glanced around for the exit and came face-to-face with another snake—Detective Sullivan.

  He grinned and held up a five-dollar bill. "You might want to put this in the bank," he said as he slid the money into my thong. "Because it looks like your stripper career is going belly up, pardon the pun, just like your PI career."

  A camera flash went off in my face, and when the light spots cl
eared my tiger's blood ran cold.

  Bradley was making his way to the stage, and his eyes were darker than Iris's tattooed scleras.

  I scuttled toward Glenda, but I slipped and collapsed. I watched in alarm as the snake slithered to the stage and as Bradley took a swing at Detective Sullivan.

  The crowd went wild. Within seconds, green beer and top hats began to fly as a bar brawl broke out.

  Iris swooped down and scooped up the snake and me and whisked us off the stage, depositing us in front of Glenda.

  She crossed her arms and tapped a yellow-bowed stiletto. "Caught a tiger by the tail, didn't you, sugar? Too bad it wasn't the killer."

  "They don't call us the Fighting Irish for nothing, eh, Sullivan?" A ginger officer joked as he loaded three handcuffed club patrons in shamrock suits into a paddy wagon outside Madame Moiselle's.

  The detective laughed. "Ain't that the truth, Sean?"

  I clutched my coat lapel to stop myself from going all Raging Bull on them and kept my eyes trained on the squad car that they'd loaded Bradley into fifteen minutes before. I hadn't spoken to anyone since he'd been arrested—not even to Bradley. And like the Irishmen in the club, I was fighting mad—at Glenda for suggesting that I strip, at myself for agreeing to the stupid scheme, at Bradley for coming to the club after I'd told him I had a "stakeout," and at Detective Sullivan for arresting him.

  Sensing my animosity, the detective strode over to me. "Speaking of the Irish, you must have some of our luck. Otherwise, you'd be sitting in the back of that squad car with your boyfriend."

  "This isn't about luck," I seethed as I rubbed my right fist, which was aching to punch him. "I didn't do anything wrong, and neither did he. You provoked him when you put that bill in my…uh…thong."

  A corner of his mouth lifted. "Well, he's going to have to get used to that sort of thing now that you've taken up stripping. Fortunately for him, your business partner's an attorney, because he's going to need one." He paused and gave me a penetrating stare. "And you will too if you interfere in my investigation again."

  He spun on his heel and climbed into the passenger seat of the squad car. Moments later, the engine roared to life. As the car pulled away, I watched numbly as Bradley disappeared into the night and, I feared, from my life. We'd been through a lot, but I wasn't sure how we'd survive this. Because when the bank got word of his arrest, heads were going to roll—his first and then mine. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that it might be in his best interest if I rolled right out of his life.