Franki Amato Mysteries Box Set

by Traci Andrighetti

  Although I had a newfound appreciation and respect for my mother and nonna after they'd defended me from the deranged dentist, and I loved them more than words could express—English, Italian, or Sicilian—I was oh-so ready to see them go. Now that the case was over, I needed some rest and relaxation before getting back to the grind. And I wasn't going to get any of that by sleeping in my bedtub.

  I also needed some space to work out what had happened between Bradley and me. I'd planned to call him if he hadn't contacted me by Tuesday. But now that the day had arrived, I wasn't sure whether I wanted to talk to him. I understood that he'd been under attack at work, not to mention under orders to lay low, but I was hurt that he hadn't contacted me after I'd nearly been killed. Surely he'd seen the news, unlike Ruth?

  When I reached my front stoop, the door opened.

  "What are you doing home, Francesca?" my mother asked, swinging her purse onto her shoulder as she exited. "Aren't you feeling well?"

  "I'm fine, Mom." I wrapped my arms around her and considered asking her about what had happened at the bank, but I decided to leave it alone. After all, everything had ended as it should. "I just wanted to come and say goodbye."

  Her face was flushed as she reached up and brushed a strand of hair from my face. "Well, aren't you sweet."

  My nonna appeared in the threshold with her big, black weapon on her arm. "Bella mia!"

  "Ciao, Nonna." I hugged her hard, breathing in her garlicky aroma and wondering for the nth time what made her purse so heavy. I could've asked, but I decided to let that go too. Some things were better left a mystery.

  "I'm-a glad you're here," Nonna said while we walked arm-in-arm to the car. "There's-a something I forgot-a to tell you. Un piccolo dettaglio."

  I opened her passenger door while my mother climbed into the driver's seat. "Is this 'small detail' what you came to Dr. Lessler's office yesterday to talk to me about?"

  "Don't even speak-a his name, quel criminale." She waved her hand as though brushing away the doctor's memory and got into the car. "It's about-a the lemon." Her eyes darted to my front door. "And you need-a to know it-a now."

  My brow furrowed. Was it bad news about the bum lemon? And why did she look at my apartment? Was Bruno lying inside in wait?

  Nonna fastened her seat belt and then stared straight ahead through the windshield. "When-a you steal a lemon from-a the altar of San Giuseppe, there is another thing-a that can happen."

  I didn't have to know what this "thing-a" was to know that it wasn't good, especially because she wasn't looking at me. "O-kay…"

  She gripped the handle of her purse. "Instead of a husband, from-a time-a to time, you get a bambino."

  The Pyscho music screeched in my head.

  "But-a either way, it's-a win-a win-a, eh Franki?" She turned and winked at me, and for a split second, I could've sworn that she had cat pupils.

  My mother started the engine, shaking me from my shock.

  "I hope we see you before Christmas, dear," she said, getting in one last guilt trip before their car trip back to Houston. "I assume you still know our address."

  I rolled my eyes. "I'll be home this summer, Mom," I replied, resuming my usual defensive tone. "You guys drive safe."

  As she backed the Taurus out of the driveway, I thought back to my conversation with Theodora about Old New Orleans Traditional Witchcraft being a kind of everyday magic that great-great grandmothers used to do. And it occurred to me that the lemon tradition and all the other bizarre customs I'd grown up with could be considered a type of witchcraft that nonne do.

  But whatever. Since I was planning to break up with Bradley, the odds of my having a bambino out of wedlock were zilch.

  I turned toward the house and stumbled over something, hitting the ground with a thud. I looked back and saw Glenda's stripper garden gnome.

  The Virgin Mary.

  Jumping to my feet, I rushed inside to call Theodora about an anti-hex spell—just in case. But I was distracted by the aroma of Italian food. My apartment smelled like my mom and nonna had made some meals for me before they'd left. I walked into the kitchen to see what they'd prepared.

  There stood Bradley, holding a dozen yellow roses and a glass of Prosecco.

  Our eyes met as he handed me the glass, and I drank it all in—not the Prosecco, the romantic atmosphere. The curtains were drawn, and there were lit candles on the kitchen table, which had been set with fine china and crystal that definitely didn't belong to me. Napoleon was even wearing a bowtie. And although I was furious with Bradley, I had to admit that he looked handsome in his dark blue suit—so much so that I understood why my nonna had told me about the other lemon legend.

  He cleared his throat. "Can we talk?"

  "It depends on what you have to say." My tone was frosty, like my heart.

  He pulled out a chair. "Would you like to have a seat?"

  I swallowed a sip of Prosecco. "I'll stand."

  "Fair enough." A muscle worked in his jaw. "I'd like to start with how sorry I am that I let the pressure at work come between us."

  "That's a good place to start." I crossed my arms. "But skip ahead to why you didn't call me after you punched Detective Sullivan."

  "I wanted to, Franki. I really did." He tossed the flowers on the kitchen counter and ran a hand through his hair. "But Veronica insisted that I not contact you until I knew where I stood with the bank. My gut told me not to listen, but as my attorney and your best friend, I figured she knew what was right for both of us."

  Although I wouldn't have admitted it to Bradley, I had to agree that Veronica was usually the wiser one in a crisis. But still. "So, like Jeff, you thought I'd be a professional problem for you. Because I am, you know."

  He winced. "That's not true, Franki. My job is dependent on me, and me alone. And it wasn't Jeff or my job that I was worried about. It was you."

  My cold heart began to thaw, but just a little. "How so?"

  He turned as though he wanted to pace in the tiny kitchen. "I can go home to Boston and get a job any time I want, but I didn't think you'd want to go with me."

  "What?" I practically gasped the word. "This isn't about Detective Sullivan, is it?"

  "No, but that son—" He bowed his head for a moment and put his hand on his hip. "That detective got what he had coming to him after dangling your bra in front of me and putting a dollar bill in your G-string."

  "It was a five, but go on," I said, deadpan.

  "Look." He sighed. "Boston is a long way from New Orleans, and from Houston, for that matter. I didn't want to have to ask you to leave your family and friends or your work for me."

  My heart continued to defrost. It was considerate of him to take my needs into account, but something didn't add up. "If you were so worried about me and my wellbeing, why wouldn't you call me after I was almost killed?"

  His eyes looked anguished as he took a step forward. "I did call—over and over again."

  I bit my lower lip. My cell phone had been destroyed.

  He looked at me from under his lashes. "So, I came over to make sure you were okay."

  "You did?" I asked, taking a step forward myself.

  "I stayed here all night," he replied, his voice soft.

  My heart warmed but promptly sank. My nonna's enema bag. "You didn't sleep in the bathtub, did you?"

  He tilted his head. "No, I sat at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and talking to your nonna first, and then when she went to bed, to your mom."

  Now that was devotion.

  "I kissed you on the cheek before I left for the board meeting, but you didn't wake up." He shoved his hands in his pockets. "I wanted to skip the meeting, but your mom said that it was important that I go."

  My heart had not only risen back into my chest, it was practically bursting. I put my glass on the counter. "I swear to you, Bradley, I had no idea that they planned to crash the meeting, and I had nothing to do with those pictures."

  The corner of his mouth lifted. "I k
now. Your mom and nonna explained everything. They're quite a pair, those two."

  I snorted. "You can say that again."

  "Just like someone else I know." The smile faded from his face, and his gaze bore into mine. "Can you forgive me?"

  I nodded, and he crossed the distance between us. As he cupped my face in his hands as his lips pressed against my forehead, my eyelids, the tip of my nose, and finally, my mouth I knew that there was nothing in the world that could make me break up with him.

  My knees weakened, and I wrapped my arms around his neck.

  And I thought of that damn lemon.

  I stiffened and pulled away.

  Bradley gave me a searching look. "What is it?"

  Of course, I could hardly tell him about the lemon I'd lifted and the "small detail" my nonna had laid on me before she left. But I wasn't ready for this magical moment to end.

  My mind raced as I tried to conjure up a way to ward off the lemon's adverse effect. Obviously, I wasn't a great-grandma or grandma, but I was thirty, so I figured I had some witchcraft in me too. Making the sign of the scongiuri behind my back, I whispered, "Nothing. Everything is perfect."

  He flashed a dazzling, eye-twinkling smile. "Good, because I've been thinking about that tiger costume you wore at the club." His lips nuzzled my ear. "And I was hoping you'd show me some of your animal moves."

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  About the Author

  Traci Andrighetti is the USA TODAY bestselling author of the Franki Amato Mysteries and the Danger Cove Hair Salon Mysteries. In her previous life, she was an award-winning literary translator and a Lecturer of Italian at the University of Texas at Austin, where she earned a PhD in Applied Linguistics. But then she got wise and ditched that academic stuff for a life of crime—writing, that is. Her latest capers are teaching mystery for Savvy Authors and taking authors on writing retreats to Italy with LemonLit.

  To learn more about Traci, check out her websites: www.traciandrighetti.com

  www.lemonlit.com

  Also by Traci Andrighetti

  FRANKI AMATO MYSTERIES

  Books

  Limoncello Yellow

  Prosecco Pink

  Amaretto Amber

  Campari Crimson

  Short Stories

  Rosolio Red (holiday themed)

  Fragolino Fuchsia (FREE via my newsletter)

  Prugnolino Purple (spring themed)

  Cannellino Caramel (holiday themed)

  DANGER COVE HAIR SALON MYSTERIES

  Deadly Dye and a Soy Chai

  A Poison Manicure and Peach Liqueur

  Killer Eyeshadow and a Cold Espresso

  Sneak Peak

  If you liked these Franki Amato mysteries, read the first chapter of:

  CAMPARI CRIMSON

  Franki Amato Mysteries Book 4

  **2018 Mystery & Mayhem Award Finalist**

  by

  Traci Andrighetti

  CHAPTER 1

  “That vampire is staring at me.” I clenched my jaw and tipped my head at a fanged female standing among parade-goers at the gates of Jackson Square.

  Veronica Maggio stood on tiptoes and gazed over the crowd. “The one with the curls and blue dress?”

  “Uh-huh.” I pulled up the collar of my peacoat. “Every time I look at her, she’s ogling my throat.”

  She gave a get-a-grip gasp. “Franki, she’s barely twelve years old.”

  No matter how hard I tried, I could never convince my best friend and employer that danger was a daily concern. Sometimes it seemed like she clung to her perky-positive Elle Woods worldview to spite me, and the proof was in her Legally Blonde-inspired pink Playboy Bunny costume. “Go ahead—scoff. But she reminds me of Claudia, the blood-thirsty kid Kirsten Dunst played in Interview with a Vampire.”

  “Well, this little vampirette isn’t going to bite you, especially not at a Halloween parade.”

  I looked to the voodoo doll beside me for support, but she looked away. “How does that make any sense?”

  Veronica shot me the side-eye. “You’re one to talk about making sense. I don’t know why you’re always so suspicious of people.”

  “Uh…” I blinked, incredulous. “Because we’re private investigators, and we’re in New Orleans?”

  “We both know vampires aren’t real.” She turned toward Decatur Street, resuming her wait for the first float. “And no one comes to the Krewe of BOO! parade to bite anyone. They’re here to have fun.”

  Judging from the way the buzzed Betelgeuse to my right had been baring his teeth at me, I wasn’t so sure about the biting part. “Maybe, but as soon as Glenda gets here, I’m heading home.”

  She glanced at her phone. “It’s six-thirty, so I’m expecting them any minute.”

  If I hadn’t been sufficiently spooked by the vexing vampiress, the realization that my sixty-something ex-stripper landlady was bringing a companion did the trick. “Them? I thought it was her.”

  “Carnie’s coming too.”

  Dread filled my veins like a bad transfusion. As her stage name implied, Carnie Vaul was a carnival-clown-turned-drag-queen friend of Glenda’s who once hired me to investigate a homicide involving her priceless amber necklace. And even though I technically worked for Veronica’s PI firm, Private Chicks, Inc., Carnie had thrown her weight around—all three hundred fifty pounds of it. The worst part was that I’d solved the case six months before, but she was still hanging around like an albatross from my neck—or a big boobie-bib. “I would’ve appreciated a heads-up.”

  “You just got one.” She stood on her tiptoes and scoured the crowd. “Try not to pick a fight with her, okay?”

  “Me?” I said, shocked. “That devious diva has targeted me from day one.”

  “She’s difficult, I know. But you played right into her hand.”

  I snorted. “Maybe it’s because her hands are so huge.”

  The crowd gave a collective gasp followed by cheers, and Veronica and I strained to see the float.

  “Oh.” She covered her mouth. “It’s Count Dracula.”

  The old phrase, “I vant to suck your blood,” came to mind. With a grimace, I turned to eye my toothy little friend but came face-to-face with Glenda.

  “How do you like me, ladies?” She struck a pose in a floor-length black feather dress and matching cabaret shoulder collar. “Miss Carnie and I decided to go as each other this Halloween season.”

  “Local celebrities trade places,” Veronica said as Carnie waddled into view. “What a cute idea.”

  “Creepy” was a better term. Glenda looked like an old crow with clown hair, and Carnie, in a white, plus-sized halter-top and boy shorts, bore an unsettling resemblance to the New Orleans Pelicans’ King Cake Baby mascot in his giant bib and diaper—except for the platinum wig and cigarette holder.

  “You know me.” Glenda flapped her two-inch purple feather lashes. “I love an excuse to dress in costume.”

  I suppressed a smirk. Glenda O’B
rien, in art Lorraine Lamour, had worn a stripper costume every day since she’d started dancing some fifty years before. And everyone in The Crescent City was acutely aware of it.

  “Franki likes costumes too,” Carnie said in a fierce falsetto. “And hers is so realistic—a worn-out working girl who’s given up on her looks and her life.”

  A float of Chucky and his axe-wielding bride came into view, which was appropriate since I was feeling stabby.

  “I’m not wearing a costume because I was working.” I straightened my coat. “I had to finish my notes for an employee theft case.”

  Carnie’s eyes lit up like a jack-o’-lantern. “What did he steal? Your femininity?”

  That burned, especially coming from a queen.

  Glenda gave a raucous laugh. “If you need a costume, Miss Franki, you know I’ll do you right.”

  Wrong. Glenda was an avid stripper costume collector who’d provided me with outfits for a couple of cases. And thanks to her creations, I’d had wardrobe malfunctions that made Janet Jackson’s Super Bowl nip slip seem demure. “I don’t need a costume, thanks.” I hit Carnie with a direct stare. “But now I need a drink.”

  Veronica pulled some cash from her bunny suit. “I’ll buy us a round.”

  Before I could refuse, she took me by the arm and led me across the street. We walked along the gutter to bypass the partiers, and the Chucky float pulled up beside us.