"How nice." Glenda smoothed her tablecloths.
"She say you bake-a the best-a man hands she's-a seen," Nonna said with an approving nod.
Mary put a hand on her bosom. "The detail! I don't know how you do it."
Oh, I did. Glenda had intimate knowledge of the male hand.
Mary turned to me, wide-eyed. "If you haven't seen her work, you really should take a look at it."
"Eh, she's-a no gotta time for that." Nonna shoved me toward the altar. "She's-a gotta get a lucky fava bean. Right, Franki?"
Of course, lucky fava bean was code for lemon. But, I figured I could use a fava bean too since it was supposed to give you good luck in the coming year. "Sure, Nonna." I sighed. "Whatever you say."
While they continued to talk man hands, I made my way around the altar looking for a bowl of the beans. I passed the pasta milanese topped with mudica, which was browned breadcrumbs representing Joseph's sawdust, the fried pignolatti pastries reminiscent of the pine cones that Jesus played with as a child, and, my favorite, the pupa cu l'ova bread baskets baked with dyed eggs inside as a reminder of the coming of Easter.
I found the fava beans next to the cucchidati fig cookies at the base of the life-sized statue of St. Joseph holding the baby Jesus, which was on the main tier of the altar. I pocketed a bean, hoping that it would undo the effects of the curse I'd been living under.
Thinking of the curse reminded me of the one allegedly on those who hunted for the missing Amber Room. Logic told me that the people who had died searching for the priceless treasure had probably been killed by accident or by the hands of greedy individuals, and not because of any curse. Was that what had happened to Amber and Curaçao? Had they been killed for the amber pendant? Or were their murders tied to a love gone horribly wrong, as the bottle of amaretto suggested?
And where was the pendant? I had a hunch that whoever had broken into Maybe's house had been looking for it. But was it there?
I gazed up at the statue of St. Joseph and the baby Jesus. As I looked to them for divine inspiration, something whizzed past me and knocked a statuette of the Virgin Mary to the floor. Startled, I looked down.
It was a lemon.
I looked back at St. Joseph as another lemon shot from between his feet and hit me hard on the arm.
Then I clenched my teeth. Either St. Joseph was trying to tell me that the answers to my questions lay in finding a husband, or Nonna had David and the vassal put an air cannon underneath the statue that she was now using to pelt me with lemons.
Clearly, it was the latter.
Crouching into my old softball outfielder stance, I caught the next lemon and slipped it into my pocket. Then I turned and looked around. Incredibly, no one seemed to have noticed.
Cursing my nonna all the while, I knelt to pick up the statuette and saw that it had broken. I was pretty sure that breaking an image of the Virgin Mary negated the effects of the lemon and the fava bean and ensured more years of bad luck than a broken mirror. But hey, I'd been living this way for thirty years. What was ten or so more?
The statuette had broken in half, and it was hollow. I fit Mary's upper and lower half together to see whether they could be glued, and I flashed back to another hollow figurine I'd seen.
A jolt went through me as though God were striking me down. And no, I hadn't been hit by another lemon. I'd been struck by a shocking realization.
I knew exactly where the amber pendant was hidden.
From my stool at the Madame Moiselle's bar, I rubbed my eyes and looked at the stripper pole clock. It was ten forty a.m., and I'd spent a sleepless night thinking about Bradley and the case. Now everyone I'd questioned was gathered near Amber's casket in front of the main stage—Carlos, Iris, Bit-O-Honey, Saddle, Maybe, Eugene, Nadezhda, Eve, King, and even Dr. Lessler. It felt like the culminating scene in an Agatha Christie novel. I just wished that Miss Marple or Hercule Poirot would show up and solve the murders.
Other guests included Detective Sullivan, who, like me, was keeping an eye on the situation. He was seated at a table in the middle with his men, as was Carnie with hers. My mother was sitting in the back with the nonne. She'd insisted on attending to show her support since Amber didn't have any immediate family. And the nonne had come because that's what little old Italian ladies did in their spare time.
One thing that struck me was the mood in the room. No one was sad, and everyone was tense. The dancers didn't know what to make of the cops being there, the cops didn't know what to make of the drag queens being there, and none of them knew what to make of the nonne being there. But the nonne didn't seem bothered by the odd assortment of people. They were too busy trying to cover all the exposed flesh with their shawls, and I, for one, was grateful that they'd bundled up Bit-O-Honey and her boobs good and tight.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Glenda coming downstairs from the dressing room in a black cage dress and a matching mourning hat with a veil. She paused and placed her hand on the closed casket and then strutted up to me. "Is Glinda the Good Witch here yet?"
"Pfff," I scoffed. "She's more like Elphaba with a healthy dose of Endora. And I left her a voice mail, but I haven't heard back from her."
Glenda slid onto a stool. "Well, I hope she flies in on her broom soon, because we have to start at eleven o'clock sharp. The jazz band has another funeral after this."
I took a sip of the obituary cocktail that Carlos had prepared for me. "What's the agenda?"
"We'll process with the hearse to the cemetery for the burial, and then we'll process back to the club for the food and stripperoke." She pulled a pair of black funeral gloves from her bag. "You know, a proper funeral."
I tilted my head to one side and then the other, unsure where to start. "What's stripperoke?"
"Karaoke with strippers," she replied as she pulled a glove onto her hand. "They strip to try to distract the singer."
By this point, I knew better than to question Glenda's logic, but I had to ask. "How is that proper at a funeral?"
She slipped on her other glove. "Amber was a stripper, sugar. And the mourners need some form of release."
Oh, they'll get it, I thought as I took another drink of my cocktail. "Any word from Shakey?"
"Not so far." She lit the cigarette in her Breakfast at Tiffany's-style holder and exhaled. "But he's still got fifteen minutes."
Someone tapped me on the back, and I turned to see Nonna and Santina armed with shawls.
"Ciao, Franki." Nonna turned to Glenda. "I see you got-a your face all-a covered up." Her gaze lowered to the straps that barely covered her body. "But it look-a like you forgot-a your dress again."
Santina shoved a shawl at Glenda. "Dai, prendilo!"
"She's telling you to take it," I explained in an apologetic tone.
"No ma'am." Glenda gestured to her cage dress with one hand while holding her cigarette with the other. "This is proper attire for strip clubs and jazz funerals. I draw the line at a habit."
Nonna raised her chin, and Santina lowered her lids.
Sensing a Sicilian storm on the horizon, I said, "They're not habits. They're mourning dresses."
Glenda forced a smile. "I'm not saying I don't like them. In fact, I think they're…well…convenient. You didn't even have to change for the funeral."
"You know us-a," Nonna said, pointing a thumb at herself and Santina. "At-a our age, we're always-a mourning something!" She chuckled as though enjoying her grieving status. And from the way she talked about my late nonnu, I was pretty sure that she was.
Santina nudged my nonna. "Il limone."
"Oh, that's-a right!" Nonna turned to me. "Show us the lemon that you stole-a last night."
Refraining from an eye roll, I fished the fruit from my purse and noticed that it was bruised.
Nonna planted her hands on her cheeks with a smack. "Oddio! You stole a lemon lemon?"
A bitter taste filled my mouth like I'd just bitten into the bad lemon. "Is that a problem?"
"Sorry to interrupt," Carnie boomed as she bounced up in a black Elizabethan bustle dress and a hat with a bulky black bow. "But we need to chat."
I glanced at my nonna, anxious for her reply. With my luck, the bum lemon meant that Bruno would be the one to propose to me instead of Bradley.
"Pronto," Carnie pressed, yanking me from my seat to the end of the bar.
Prying my arm from her manly grip, I huffed, "What's the matter with you?"
She crossed her big biceps over her bigger bosom. "Glenda says you know where the pendant is, so I'm wondering why I don't have it. Are you trying to squeeze a few extra paychecks out of me or something?"
"No one wants to squeeze you." Least of all me. "When you hired me for this case, you said you wouldn't feel right if you didn't try to find Amber's killer. I think I have a way to do that."
The muscles in her jaw relaxed. "I'm listening."
Even though she seemed calm, I took a few steps back to keep a safe distance between us. "Since the funeral is closed casket, you start the rumor that your amber pendant has been found, and you say that given the tragedy now associated with it, you've decided to let Amber be buried in the necklace. Then we wait and see who tries to open the casket before it goes into the ground, and we have our killer."
"It's morbid, but I like it." She put her hands on her hips. "Is there someone specific you want me to tell?"
"The queens," I replied without missing a beat.
Her blue lids dropped like metal shutters. "Are you implying that we're gossips?"
"Yes, I am."
She nodded, and the bow on her hat did too. "Fair enough."
I exhaled as she turned and bustled back to her table.
When I returned to my stool, a tiny, forty-something man dressed in a dark green suit, black boots, and a black Stetson entered the club.
I patted Glenda's shoulder. "Is that western-style leprechaun Shakey?"
She turned and lifted her veil. "Sure is, sugar. I've never met him, but I've seen him around."
Shakey's spurs jangled as he approached the bar. "Miss Glenda O'Brien?"
"The one and only." She extended a gloved hand, and he didn't have to bow to kiss it.
"Pleased to make your acquaintance," he drawled in a high-pitched voice. "Milton Presacco, but my friends call me Shakey."
Glenda gave a sly smile. "As in, The Shakiest Gun in the West?"
"With all due respect, ma'am," he replied, removing his hat, "there's nothing shaky about my gun."
She cocked a brow. "Duly noted, cowboy."
"Um," I interjected to break the awkward sexual-weapon vibe, "why do they call you Shakey?"
He placed his Stetson on the bar counter, which was as tall as he was. "Because I used to own a chain of Shakey's Pizza Parlors. Now I'm in olive oil. Got a grove outside o' Austin."
Texas oil baron, my eye. "Well, my name is Franki Amato, and I was contracted to investigate Amber's murder with Glenda."
He ran a hand through his reddish wisps of hair. "I heard through the grapevine that Miss O'Brien was working with a PI, so I wanted to tell y'all what I told the police."
"You have information about the case?" I asked as I reached into my bag for a pad and pen.
"Indeed I do, ma'am." He straightened his bolo tie. "Like I told that detective, Amber got mixed up in some bad business on account o' her mama—not her real mama, mind you, but kinda like a stepmama."
I glanced at Glenda. "What kind of bad business?"
"She went and got herself a sugar daddy," he said in a low tone.
Glenda crossed her legs. "We know all about that, Shakey."
"Hang on, though," I said, holding up my hand. "What does her mother have to do with the sugar daddy?"
He tucked a thumb inside his silver-buckled belt. "She had a rough view of relationships. Told Amber that all women exchanged their bodies for money, even wives with their husbands. Said she might as well get a man to pay her bills and keep her freedom."
Precisely the kind of thing I could imagine Nadezhda saying. "Do you know anything about her mother or her sugar daddy?"
Shakey scratched his clean-shaven cheek. "I can't say I know anything about the man, but her mama goes by the name o' Peach."
I sunk onto my stool.
Amber's mother owned the sugaring company.
22
"Did you see that?" Gaysia shrieked as she stood in the cemetery with her hands pressed to her wig cap. "That hoochie mama ho pulled off my hair!"
The jazz band abruptly halted their rendition of "The Stripper" as Saddle waved Gaysia's black-and-blonde wig like a handkerchief.
"Your hair?" Saddle laughed like a coyote. "You got this fur piece off a German Shepherd."
Gaysia gasped and swiped at Saddle with panda-adorned claws.
A scuffle broke out between the queens and the dancers. And as Detective Sullivan and his men set about breaking up the brawl, feathers and sequins began to fly.
"So much for a 'proper' funeral," I said under my breath, although nothing about it had been proper. Before the procession had gotten underway, the dancers announced that they would be the "first line," traditionally reserved for family, and that the queens would be the "second line," reserved for friends and passersby. A catfight ensued, and rather than "processing" to the cemetery, the strippers and queens had scratched, slapped, and shoved each other the entire way—that is, when they weren't voguing and vamping for onlookers.
"I've had enough of this nonsense," Glenda huffed as she high-stepped onto a tomb in black stripper shoes that said Pay Your Respects. "Ladies! Where are your manners? We're in a place of rest."
The scuffling ceased.
Gaysia retrieved her wig from the ground and arranged it on her head. "I know Amber was a stripper, Miss Glenda, but we queens feel that the strippers should walk in the second line on the way back to the club." She smoothed her mofuku kimono. "We belong in the first line because we have style." She turned to Carnie. "Except for you, Lady-boy Macbeth. With those garage doors, you belong in the second line."
"Garage doors?" Carnie's face turned purple. "This blue on my eyelids is a blend, not a single shade."
King stepped between the querulous queens. "There's no need ta fight, ladies…" He turned to Carnie and her crew. "…and gentlemen. Cuz, like our Lawd and savior hisself, King Nation is here ta save the occasion." He grasped the zebra-striped lapels of his black velvet suit. "If it's style y'all want, then I'll lead the procession back ta the club."
I halfway agreed with him. He was wearing red leather shoes reminiscent of a previous pope—but his were crocodile, not cow.
"You and I need to talk," Detective Sullivan growled over my shoulder. "Now."
Although I had no intention of speaking to the detestable detective, I followed him down a path, away from the gossip-prone guests. "Until you drop the charges against Bradley, I've got nothing to say to you."
"Well, I have something to say to you." He placed a hand above his holster. "There's a rumor circulating that the missing pendant is on the body. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"
As a former cop, I knew that he would be obliged to open Amber's casket if I didn't tell him the truth, and I didn't want it to come to that. "I started the rumor to flush out the killer."
His ice blue eyes turned stone cold. "And you have no idea where the amber is."
I hesitated, and he stepped forward.
"Save your breath," I said, holding up my hands. "I'll tell you where the pendant is when the funeral's over."
Glenda strutted down the pathway with her cigarette holder. Scowling at the detective, she flicked her ash and turned to me. "The service has started, Miss Franki."
"We'll resume this discussion at the end of the ceremony, Amato." He straightened his tie and stalked off toward the gravesite.
She thrust out a hip. "You all right, sugar?"
"Yeah, thanks for coming to get me," I said as we headed back. It wasn't that I didn't want to deal w
ith the detective—I just didn't want to miss the eulogy. Bit-O-Honey had obtained ministry credentials online for Amber's funeral, and it wasn't every day that you got to see an ordained stripper minister.
As we made our way back, Theodora emerged from a burial vault like a zombie from a grave.
I swallowed a scream to avoid causing a scene.
Glenda gave her the onceover. "You must be the witch."
"My name's Theodora." She brushed dirt from her black caftan. "It means God given, which is kind of ironic, don't you think?"
On a couple of levels. I cleared my throat. "Uh, we need to get back to the service. Theodora, I'll point out the two women I left you the message about."
"Sounds like a plan." She extracted a root protruding from a broken crypt and took a bite.
My belly began to bubble like a cauldron. "Do you have to eat here?"
"Yes, we're serving pigs in a blanket and piecaken after the service," Glenda said in a helpful tone.
Theodora spat, and it was red from the root—at least I hoped that's what it was from. "I can't come to the club." She wiped her mouth with her wing-like sleeve. "Tonight's a full moon."
Not wanting any details of her lunar exploits, I hurried toward the attendees and started scouring the seating area by the casket for Nadezhda.
The first two rows of folding chairs were occupied by my mom and the nonne, who'd convinced Shakey to sit with them not only because he was their same size but also because he was now their olive oil contact in the "new country." The strippers were in the last two rows, and King had planted himself among them since they comprised a whole new crop of women that he could help to "find Gawd." The queens stood behind the seating area, this time voluntarily taking a backseat to the strippers, because it meant they were with all the men.
I spotted Nadezhda near the queens, leaning on a mausoleum topped with a stone cross. And I was surprised to see that she was deep in conversation with Drag Dolly, who was presumably spreading the necklace rumor. "That's one of the women right there."
Theodora lowered her sunglasses and fixed her feline eyes on Nadezhda.
Unaware that she was being watched, Nadezhda sidled up to Eugene and whispered something in his ear.
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