I put her on speaker and placed the phone on the center console. "You still mad at me?"
There was no heavy breathing, just a series of choking noises.
"I'll take that as a yes." I popped four aspirin and started to chew. Now I had two reasons to need pain relief.
The gagging turned to gurgling.
"Maybe try saying just one word," I suggested as I gingerly laid my head against the headrest.
"Jeff," she gasped.
My head shot up, along with my pain level. "What about him?"
Silence.
"Speak, Ruth," I urged. "You can do it."
"Acting president," she said through clenched teeth.
I grabbed the phone. "Was Bradley fired? Spit it out, woman!"
"On leave."
More choking noises followed, but this time I was the one making them. Jeff might've gotten Bradley's job temporarily, but if he thought that he was going to keep it, he had another thing coming—from me.
Gripping the steering wheel, I ground out, "Get me Craig Burns's phone number ASAP."
After convincing Craig to meet Ruth and me at ten a.m. the next morning, I was on my way home to treat my head wound and wash my hair. Craig had been reluctant to agree, but luckily Ruth had told me that his favorite restaurant was Cochon Butcher on Tchoupitoulas Street. It had taken considerable coaxing—the promise of a Le Pig Mac and a Cajun Pork Dog as well as a vow of silence if his health-conscious wife ever got wind of the forbidden feast—but in the end his hankering belly had beaten out his hesitant brain.
I could understand why Craig wouldn't want to meet his banker's girlfriend and secretary for breakfast, but there was one thing that I couldn't wrap my hurt head around—he hadn't once reminded me about my lips blowing up like two blowfish at his crawdad boil. And if you knew Craig, then you knew that he was the guy who was going to jokingly remind you of that thing you'd rather forget every time you talked to him for the rest of your life. And his silence about that sensitive subject spoke volumes. Craig was upset with me.
But why? Did he think that I was a professional problem for Bradley too? If so, where would he have gotten such an idea? No matter how upset Bradley got with me, he would never talk about me behind my back. And Ruth wouldn't betray me, either—not because she was loyal to me, mind you, but because she wouldn't want to jeopardize her job. The obvious source was Jeff. But what could he have told Craig about me that would cause him to sever his friendship with Bradley and pull his money from Pontchartrain Bank? Was it about me breaking into the bank's security room the year before and those other minor incidents that Ruth mentioned? Or was it something else?
As I pondered this puzzle, my phone began to ring. To my relief, it wasn't Ruth. But it wasn't Bradley.
With a sigh, I pulled up to a stoplight near Tulane University and pressed answer. "Hey, David. Whaddya got for me?"
"An epic fail."
My gut tensed. David didn't use gaming terms lightly. "This isn't about the vassal and that sugar baby, is it?"
He took a couple of deep breaths, frat-boy-prepping-to-chug-a-forty style. "They hooked up at the martini mixer."
I slammed my fist on the dashboard. "I thought I told you to stop him from going?"
"I tried," he whined. "But he had, like, meta strength. I stood in front of his door to block him, but he picked me up and moved me out of the way."
My eyes almost popped from my head. The vassal was at least a foot shorter than David, and thanks to a lifetime of computer programming and video games, he had the muscles of a newborn babe. "Where is he now?"
"In his dorm room." He cleared his throat. "That's where I'm calling from."
The tension in my belly relaxed somewhat. "So what's the problem?"
"Yeah. About that." He paused. "He wants to clean out his college account to pay for the sugar baby's boob job."
My stomach bounced like a silicone breast implant on a strutting stripper. Not only was the vassal jeopardizing his own future, he was also laying Veronica's and mine on the line because his parents would surely sue. "This time you've got to stop him."
"Uh, I have," he said in an uncertain tone. "But I don't know how long it's gonna last."
That didn't sound good. "What have you done to the vassal, David?"
"Oh, uh, me and a couple of his dorm mates tied him to his Emperor Palpatine throne with a fifty-foot Ethernet cable."
The light turned green, and I hooked a U-turn. "I'll be right there."
"Open up!" I yelled as I stood outside the vassal's dorm room in Tulane's Monroe Hall. I was in a hurry to get inside—not so much because I was worried about the vassal, but because the hallway smelled like dirty socks.
The door opened to reveal a pasty-faced boy that I recognized from the first time I'd come to the dorm. Actually, it wasn't so much him that I recognized as his orthodontic headgear. "What's your name again?"
"Shorty." He was as solemn as a soldier as he stepped aside.
The room was so jam-packed with computer equipment and video consoles that it smelled like a Best Buy. But compared to the hallway, it was like perfume to my nose.
As I crossed the threshold, I spotted David sitting beside the vassal's Star Wars-themed throne. "Untie him this instant."
"But he'll try to escape," he protested as he rose to his feet.
I strode over to the throne and spun the vassal around to face me. Despite the stress of being bound, he still had his usual slack-jawed stare. "We can trust you to stay put, right Vassal?"
"Honestly," he began, "I'm probably going to make a break for it."
I bowed my aching head. Why were men so difficult?
"I know how to handle this," Shorty announced. He reached for the crystal-studded Godric Gryffindor sword hanging on the exposed brick wall above the gaming console.
"Slow down, Shorty." I pulled him away from the sword by the back of his Dumbledore's Army of Tulane t-shirt. "There's no need for weaponry. Now is there, Vassal?"
He shrugged. "Well, if I'm gonna run..."
I pursed my lips. By this point, I was pretty sure that I was getting a headache on top of my migraine.
David looked from the vassal to me. "What should we do?"
"Don't worry. I got this." Resting my hands on the throne armrests, I bent over and leaned into the vassal's face. "You can't throw away your college degree on this girl because you're going to need a lucrative career to keep her in breast lifts. Trust me when I tell you that those implants are eventually going to drop." I straightened and added, "Not that I would know anything about that."
His magnified eyes blinked behind his thick lenses. "You make a valid point."
"All righty, then." I patted him on the thigh. "David's going to untie you, and then we're going to have a chat about the martini mixer. And if you try to run, or if you blow your college money on breasts at any point after I leave here today, then I'm going to get that Ethernet cable, hog-tie you with it, skewer you with your sword, and roast you over a spit like we do in Texas. Sound good?"
His slack-jaw slackened, and Shorty slipped from the room.
David dropped to his knees and began untying the cable at the vassal's feet.
I took a seat on the vassal's twin bed and opened a pizza box. I hadn't eaten a thing since the pain perdu, and seeing the vassal tied up like a roast reminded me that it was well past lunchtime. "What's this girl's name, anyway?"
"Sugar Cherie." The vassal sighed. "She's really sweet."
"I'm sure." I bit into an ice-cold slice of pepperoni. "So," I began, covering my full mouth with my hand, "did this, uh, Cherie give you any more info about Amber's sugar daddy? Like a name or a description?"
He shook his head, which was the only part of his body that he could still move. "She never saw the guy because she wasn't at the sugar bowl party Amber went to. Cherie only heard about him after the fact when she ran into her at the mall."
"Crap." I gnawed off a piece of crust.
David began to
work a knot behind the vassal's knees. "Didn't she tell you that the guy turned out to be someone Amber already knew?"
The vassal started, as though coming out of a Sugar Cherie–induced stupor. "I almost forgot. Amber said that her sugar daddy was a man she'd known for a while. Apparently, she wasn't aware that he'd been in the market for a sugar baby."
It wasn't much of a lead given that Amber had regularly come into contact with men who spent money on her, but Shakey did come to my mind. "Did she tell you anything else about him? Any little detail?"
The vassal rubbed his freed knees. "Only that he rented her an expensive apartment."
So, the apartment was courtesy of the sugar daddy, and not the mystery mom. "Did you learn anything at all about how the business works?"
"Not really." He stood up so that David could untie the cable at his wrists. "You create an account, and then you can browse the sugar babies' profiles and exchange messages with them. Plus, they have the parties."
"Cherie invited you to the mixer today, right?" I popped a piece of pepperoni into my mouth.
"Yes, but I also got an email invite from the owner—some guy who goes by the name Peach."
I started choking on the pepperoni, and the vassal, whose hands were now free, whacked me on the back, knocking the food from my throat. Personally, I suspected that he was paying me back for my earlier threat, but I couldn't worry about that at the moment.
Because all I could think about was King and his favorite color.
Peach.
It was a long shot, but it wasn't out of the realm of possibility that the preacher was the owner of the sugaring service given his pimp past.
Was it?
20
"If you ask me, Craig escaped through the bathroom window," Ruth said, looking in the direction of the men's room at Cochon Butcher where Craig had gone a good fifteen minutes before.
"Well, I didn't ask you." I rested my elbows on the butcher-block table and massaged my temples. After doing some fleeing of my own—from my family—and spending the night on a couch at Private Chicks, my migraine was gone. But breakfast with Ruth was bringing it back.
She slurped through her straw and jabbed it in the ice. "You probably ran him off with the way you've been beating around the bush about the business at the bank."
I glared at her through my hands. "That's ridiculous, and you know it. He just overdid it with the meal."
The old-world market-style restaurant was a butcher shop, sandwich counter, and wine bar, and within forty-five minutes of arriving, Craig had taken liberal advantage of all three.
I glanced at Ruth's empty whiskey glass—the third of the morning. "That cherry bounce is alcoholic, you know."
"Oh, pshaw." She shooed me and swayed slightly on the tall metal stool. "It's made from cherries."
"Uh, and brandy." I widened my eyes for emphasis.
"And that's made from grapes, which makes this a fine fruit punch." She raised her glass in a salute. "It was one of George Washington's favorite drinks. He used to make it all the time."
"That explains the cherry tree—and the false teeth." I looked around the renovated warehouse and spotted Craig en route to our table.
I turned to Ruth. "Here he comes. Remember, I'm doing the talking."
"All right, but if you don't find out why he's closing his account in the next five minutes..." She made a slicing motion across her neck with one of her plastic cocktail swords.
I rubbed my sweaty palms on my jeans as Craig took his seat.
"I thank you ladies for the nice meal and the pleasant company." He pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his beige button-down and wiped sweat from his brow—courtesy of the pint of Covington Pontchartrain Pilsner and side of hot boudin sausage he'd had for dessert. "Now why don't you tell me what it is that you need my help with?"
"Actually…" I paused and licked my lips. "Bradley's the one who needs your help."
Craig looked from me to Ruth. "Are you sure this is about him?"
That was an odd question. "Of course I am." I hesitated as I weighed whether to mention Jeff, but then I decided that it was best to be vague in case he and Craig were friends. "Someone at the bank is intentionally sabotaging Bradley."
"And outside the bank too." Ruth pointed her sword at me.
I was tempted to kick her, but it was too much of a risk. She wasn't known for keeping her lips locked, especially when she was liquored up.
"Franki, I don't think anyone at the bank has it in for Bradley." Craig folded his hands. "If he's in trouble, he's either brought it on himself or…" His voice trailed off.
"Or what?" I pressed.
"Well, maybe Ms. Walker's right." His normally booming tone had grown subdued. "Bradley's troubles could be due to someone outside of work."
Ruth grinned behind her glass.
Of course, I suspected that he was referring to me, so I decided to turn the tables on him. "If you're referring to longtime clients like yourself taking their money elsewhere, then yes, his problems stem from the outside."
He pursed his lips. "That's not what I mean."
My eyes narrowed. "What exactly do you mean?"
Craig looked down at his empty plate. "A man in Bradley's position needs—"
He stopped short as the bald, bespectacled bartender hand-delivered Ruth's fourth cherry bounce.
When the bartender had left, I asked, "Needs what?"
"A good secretary behind him," Ruth replied, raising her glass and drinking to herself.
I snorted and rolled my eyes.
"You laugh," Craig said in an admonishing tone. "But Ms. Walker's onto something."
"Ain't that the truth, Ruth?" She cackled and drank to herself again.
It took me a second to figure out what he was getting at, but it soon became painfully clear. What Bradley needed wasn't a good secretary—it was a good woman. And, apparently, I wasn't one. "Why don't you just come out and say it, Craig?"
His ruddy complexion turned as red as Ruth's cherry bounce. "You know I've always liked you, Franki—"
"But what?" I interrupted as I crossed my arms.
He slid off his stool and pulled a manila envelope from the side pocket of his briefcase. "It's only right that you know. I got these pictures in two emails—the most recent came last night."
My hands were shaking as I took the envelope and pulled out the pictures. As I flipped through them, so many things began to make sense, starting with the reason I'd been followed. Based on the images, I gathered that the photographer could've also been the driver of the car that had almost clipped me and possibly even the man in black.
There were seven photos in all—me being released from Central Lockup, holding a pentagram at Erzulie's Authentic Voodoo, drinking booze from a bag in front of Vieux Carré Wine & Spirits, hanging out with a preacher who looked like a pimp on Bourbon Street, wrestling with a drag queen outside a drunk stripper's house, stripping with a snake at Madame Moiselle's, and, the coup de grace, lying unconscious in the arms of a wino.
With each picture, Ruth's breathing had grown heavier.
But I refused to look at her—or at Craig, for that matter. Instead, I took a minute to fight back the angry tears stinging my eyes. I couldn't imagine what I'd done to deserve such a hateful attack, or how I was going to undo the damage to Bradley. Because even though I could explain the pictures, they were still proof enough that I was a professional and personal problem that Bradley needed to wash his hands of if he wanted to save his job and salvage his career. It was time for me to walk away so that Bradley could make things right at work and move on.
When I finally had my emotions in check, I looked at Craig. "I'm assuming that the sender of those emails was Jeff Payne?"
He bowed his head in reply.
Ruth bowed her head too, but she wasn't mad. She was as juiced as a jackrabbit on a wheatgrass farm.
Glenda opened her apartment door strutting her stuff to the RuPaul song "Supermodel (You Better W
ork)." Even though it was past noon, she was still in her pajama pasties. "Hello, Miss Franki." She shook her Playboy bunny tail. "Do we have investigating to do?"
"It's St. Joseph's Day, so I'm calling it a mental health day," I replied, fully conscious of the fact that I had to carry out the lunatic act of stealing a lemon from a church that night. "But I was hoping to talk to Veronica. Is she around?"
"She went to lunch with Dirk, sugar." Her eyes narrowed as she scrutinized my face. "Why don't you come in so we can chat?"
I really wanted to vent to Veronica about what Jeff had done, but if I had to choose between talking to Glenda and the nonne, it was a no-brainer. "Okay, but are you having a party or something?"
"A few of the girls from Lucky Pierre's are here," she replied as I stepped inside. "And Miss Carnie's on her way."
That explained the music selection.
Glenda closed the door behind me. "We're cooking for Amber's funeral tomorrow. And between you and me," she said in a low voice, "those women are slave drivers. I've worked on my feet, knees, and hands for years, and I can barely keep up with them."
Probably because they're really men. "Hey, where's Maybe?"
"Still asleep." She gestured toward the giant champagne glass in the center of her all white living room, and I could make out Maybe curled up in faux fur blankets inside.
"Must be nice," I muttered, thinking about my bedtub and that blasted enema bag as I followed Glenda into the kitchen.
After days of seeing the nonne baking in black at my house, the scene at Glenda's was disorienting. With Céline in a sheer Cher-style number, Dolly in a crystal country costume, and Gaysia in a geisha-inspired gown, I felt like I was backstage at Cirque du Soleil—or The Grand Ole Opry—instead of in a kitchen. "Hey guys, er, gals. What're y'all making?"
"A chocolate-cherry piecaken," Dolly chirped as she stirred cherries in a saucepan. "It's a drag dessert."
I opened the cabinet and got a champagne flute—the only glassware Glenda kept in the house. "How is that drag?"
Céline cocked a silver-glittered brow as she kneaded dough. "Because it's a pie baked inside a cake."
Franki Amato Mysteries Box Set Page 74
