I decided that I was going to have to kill Veronica for not telling me about the cemetery. And when I did, I knew exactly where I was going to bury her.
I parked in front of my new home. Before I could get out of the car, Veronica was already walking out her front door, smiling and waving with Hercules in tow in a turquoise fuzzy sweater that matched hers perfectly. Despite her Sicilian father, Veronica looked Swedish like her ex-ballerina mother, with long blonde hair, cornflower blue eyes, and pale skin.
"Franki!" Veronica yelled.
I bent over—at the waist—to hug her. I'd forgotten how tiny she was, and I wondered for at least the hundredth time how her internal organs could function in such a small frame.
She looked up at me and smiled. "How does it feel to be in New Orleans?"
I glanced over at the cemetery and then back at her. "At the moment, it feels fairly morbid."
"Oh, come on! You don't still have that weird cemetery issue, do you?"
"Yes, Veronica. And I can't believe you didn't tell me that there's one right across the street! You know, lots of people would find it disturbing to go to sleep at night with a cemetery basically in their front yard, especially a New Orleans cemetery."
Veronica shook her head in mock disgust as she grabbed a box from my back seat.
"Thank God there's a bar right next to it," I continued. "In case I need to drink myself to death from despair."
She smiled. "Well, if you do drink yourself to death, I wouldn't have to carry you very far for your burial."
I quickly made the customary scongiuri gesture that my nonna had taught me to do to ward off the threat of death, which Veronica had just so carelessly cast upon me. It looks like the University of Texas's hook 'em horns sign with the index and pinky fingers pointed up like horns, only you point the horns downward.
Veronica rolled her eyes. "Do you still do that silly scongiuri thing too? God, Franki, you make me so glad my nonna stayed in Sicily. You're so superstitious!"
"I do it just in case," I snapped. "I mean, you never know…"
Veronica walked up to my new front door, which was right next to hers, and pulled a key from the front right pocket of her AG jeans. "Glenda—our landlady—told me to let you in. She'll come downstairs to meet you in a few minutes."
With the box balanced on her left hip, Veronica unlocked my front door with her right hand. She gave the door a shove with her shoulder, and it swung open. She turned to me and bowed. "Welcome to your humble abode."
I excitedly entered the apartment with Napoleon at my heels. As I surveyed the living room, a number of adjectives came to mind, but humble was not one of them. The room could only be described as the home decor equivalent of Amsterdam's Red Light District. The walls were covered in fuzzy, blood-red wallpaper with shiny gold fleurs-de-lis, and hanging from the ceiling was a baroque red-and-black crystal chandelier. The couch was a rococo chaise lounge in velvet zebra print, and next to it was a lilac velour armchair with gold fringe that matched the drapery to perfection. On the opposite wall there was a mahogany wood fireplace with a hearth covered in white candles of various sizes and shapes. In front of the fireplace, a bearskin rug replete with a bear head covered the hardwood floors. The only thing that was missing was the red fluorescent light in the living room window announcing my availability for prospective clients.
I realized that my mouth was hanging open. "Wow. So…this Glenda…is she a prostitute?" I joked.
"Former stripper, actually," Veronica replied. "And she's really touchy about the difference, so don't use the word prostitute in front of her."
I gaped at my best friend. "You're serious?"
Veronica just blinked innocently, as if renting me an apartment from a former stripper across from a cemetery were perfectly normal. "You know, I was reading that the brothel look is really in right now. I believe it's called 'bordello chic.'" She began to pace back and forth as she tried to reconcile her unusually conflicted sense of fashion. "But now that I think about it, Lenny Kravitz redecorated his house here in New Orleans, and designers call his style 'bordello modern.'"
"Something tells me that Lenny didn't decorate this place. And I wouldn't exactly call this 'bordello modern.' It's more like 'bordello seventies.'"
"Well, at least you won't have to add any touches of color," Veronica said.
"I'll say. Speaking of color, any idea of the backstory on this furniture?" I eyed the chaise lounge nervously. "I mean, I know it's used. But do you have any idea where it was used?"
Veronica shrugged. "Glenda's a collector. She's always going on some trip or other to buy antique furniture. You'll have to ask her where she got it."
I considered Glenda's potential sources and then immediately resolved to get a new couch. And a new bed.
"She also collects stripper costumes. I guess you could say she's the Debbie Reynolds of the stripping world." Veronica took a seat on the lilac armchair.
"How do you mean?" I was dying to hear the rationale behind this fascinating analogy.
"She collects stripper costumes like Debbie collects Hollywood costumes. She's got an Anna Nicole Smith, a Dita Von Teese, and a Gypsy Rose Lee. You know, Glenda was quite the local celebrity back in the sixties and seventies. She stripped for all the famous singers, actors, and politicians. She even danced for President John F. Kennedy. She made a fortune and invested it all in real estate, antiques, and strip memorabilia."
"What did you say her last name was?" I was now determined to google her.
"O'Brien. But her stage name was Lorraine Lamour."
"Oh, good choice," I said, truly impressed.
"Do you want to go see the boudoir?"
"Okay. But first promise me that it doesn't have a heart-shaped bed or a mirrored ceiling," I replied, dead serious.
"Oh no. I don't go in for the tacky look," a raspy voice said from behind me.
I turned and saw standing in the doorway a short, wiry, sixty-something woman with a deeply lined face, platinum boob-length hair, and the longest false eyelashes I had ever seen. From the outfit she was wearing, I had no doubt whatsoever that it was Glenda. She was dressed in a sheer black robe with gold sequins, a ruffled leopard print corset with a matching ultra mini skirt, black satin high-heeled slippers with feathers, and a bright yellow boa. In her left hand, she held a Mae West–style cigarette holder, and in her right was a glass of champagne.
"You must be Miss Franki. I can see that you're Italian; you look like that actress from the 1960s, Claudia Cardinale. You've got her tits too." She sized up my chest as she took a drag from her cigarette. "My name is Glenda, but I also answer to Lorraine. Welcome to New Orleans, sugar."
"Thanks, uh, Miss Glenda," I replied, uncertain of proper Southern stripper forms of address and whether I was supposed to throw in a "honey" or a "doll." "It's a pleasure to meet you."
"Likewise, I'm sure," Glenda replied, inelegantly exhaling a puff of smoke.
"I see that Miss Ronnie here has shown you the place. In case she didn't mention it, the laundry room is downstairs in the basement. And if you need more storage space, there's a walk-in closet down there you're free to use. I used to keep my costumes in it, but after the post-Katrina floods I moved them to the apartment upstairs. I still have every costume I ever wore on stage, except one made of packing tape—they had to cut me out of that one, child!" She laughed with a hacking sound typical of smoker's cough. "Anyway, I dropped a wad of dough on those costumes, so I've gotta look after my investment."
"Of course," I said, empathetically.
"Now. I don't mind your furry friend here as long as he doesn't poop and pee on my chaise lounge. I had to search all over Louisiana to find one in faux zebra."
"Oh, he's house trained."
"One last thing: The Visitor Policy. I don't allow my female tenants to have more than two male friends spend the night at one time. I've got a reputation to protect, and I don't want people to think I rent to whores."
"Certainly not," I
replied with conviction.
"Let me know if you have any questions."
I started to ask Glenda about the origin of the furniture and then decided to keep my mouth shut. "No, I think it's all painfu-, er, very clear for now."
"All right then, you ladies have a good evening. And when you're all settled in, Miss Franki, I'll take you over to Thibodeaux's for a Harvey Wallbanger. Au revoir!"
I looked at Veronica. "What's a Harvey Wallbanger? Or is that a who?"
"Nooo. It's some drink from the seventies."
"That's funny. I'd sort of taken for her a Fuzzy Navel or Slippery Nipple drinker."
She laughed. "You know, Glenda's a little rough around the edges, but she's whip smart."
"An interesting choice of adjectives to describe her intelligence."
Veronica leaned over to pick up Hercules, who, despite his mighty name, had been having a tough time fending off Napoleon's skillful battle techniques. "So, what do you say, Franki?"
"I say that people think Austin is weird, but it's got absolutely nothing on Nola!"
"Are you ready to start work tomorrow?" She adjusted Hercules' sweater.
I took a seat on the chaise lounge. "After today, I'm ready for anything."
* * *
Napoleon and I were just settling down to sleep in our black French bordello-style bed with the hot pink velvet duvet and matching canopy, when my phone started ringing. I figured that it was my mom or my nonna calling to make sure that I'd encased the mattress in plastic, which I had seriously considered doing, so I prudently ignored it. But then a minute later the phone rang again. I looked at the display and saw that it was Vince.
Vince had called me every day since I'd caught him in bed with the wrathful wrestler, but I had never answered the phone. I had also promptly deleted all of the messages he'd left for me without listening to a single one of them. Deep down I was thinking that if I just avoided him, I wouldn't really have to face the fact that it was over, that I was alone yet again. But tonight I knew that the time had come to hear him out and then tell him in no uncertain terms that we were through. Otherwise, I was never really going to be able to reassemble the shattered pieces of my life—not to mention my pride—and move on.
"What do you want, Vince?"
"Franki! Finally! Why haven't you returned any of my calls? I've missed you, babe."
"Oh, I'm sure you haven't missed me that much. You seem to be perfectly capable of finding other women to keep you company when I'm not around."
"Babe, listen. That…it was all a misunderstanding."
"Oh, really? So, you're telling me that I didn't see the Munich Maniac's legs wrapped around your waist? Or, maybe I did, but she was just giving you private wrestling lessons? Is that it?"
"Look, Franki, the guys dragged me to one of those nude oil wrestling joints—"
"Spare me the sordid details, Vince!" I interrupted. "I don't care anymore."
He sighed. "Okay, I made a mistake. I admit it. Haven't you ever made a mistake?"
"Yeah. I have. The day I decided to trust a cheat like you. And while we're on the subject of mistakes, did you happen to notice that Petra looked a lot like a Peter?"
"Damn it, Franki! Why are you being so harsh? Lots of couples deal with cheating, and they come through it stronger, babe."
I snorted a laugh. "First of all, stop calling me 'babe.' And second, don't try to make it sound like cheating is a normal part of a relationship. I don't have to accept womanizing, and I'm not going to."
"Yeah, because you're so damned perfect, aren't you? It's time to grow up and deal with reality instead of running away from your problems to New Orleans like a child."
"Wait. How the hell did you know I left Austin? Have you been spying on me or something?"
"Of course not! When you wouldn't answer my calls I got worried, so I called nonna Carmela. She told me you'd moved."
I'm sure she also told you to remind me that I wasn't getting any younger and that zitelle couldn't be choosers, I thought. "Vince, please leave my family out of this. This is between you and me—at least it was. There's no you and me anymore. Not now, not ever."
"So, you're going to throw away everything we had over a few indiscretions?"
"We're not talking about little indiscretions. They're huge betrayals. And yes, I most certainly am," I said, immensely proud of myself for holding my ground. I had a bad history of looking the other way where men were concerned. But not this time.
"Okay. If that's what you want, you've got it. You won't hear from me again. But let me make something real clear: If you're waiting for Prince Charming or for a knight in shining armor, he ain't gonna come. Especially not at your age. So you'd best think about that long and hard, principessa, or you're gonna end up old and alone."
Before I could respond, Vince hung up. I lay there in bed with the phone frozen to my ear. Not even a minute before I'd been so proud of myself, thinking that I'd come a long way from the insecure woman who would forgive a man practically anything. Then in ten seconds flat Vince had reduced me to a stubborn, old-fashioned zitella with one foot in the grave—make that the cemetery across the street. And suddenly, all of my insecurities came rushing back.
I tossed and turned for the rest of the night thinking about that phone call. I certainly didn't think I was waiting for a fairy-tale guy. I mean, I'd dated Vince, right? But the hard truth was that every relationship I'd ever been in had ended in disaster. And after spending roughly half my life dating unsuccessfully, it was sure starting to look like I might have some sort of problem. The question was, did I come to New Orleans to solve my problem or run away from it?
CHAPTER THREE
At 8:30 the next morning, I was feeling both excited and anxious as I got ready to leave for my first day on the job. Most of all, I couldn't wait to see my new office. Before establishing Private Chicks, Inc. two years ago, Veronica had settled a personal injury case fresh out of Tulane Law School that netted her a cool one point five million after taxes. Calling that payout her "ticket out of law," she had paid off her student loans, maxed out her 401K, bought the Audi, and put a huge down payment on an old office building at 1200 Decatur Street. For me, the thought of sitting at a desk in that building in the French Quarter next to my best friend—as opposed to sitting in a smelly squad car with Stan—was exhilarating. But I was also nervous because I wasn't sure how I was going to handle the freedom of working as a PI after the rigid schedule and structure of police work. Would I actually get any work done? Or would I just sit at the nearby Cafè du Monde drinking chicory coffee and stuffing my face full of beignets?
As I fantasized about becoming thin enough from all of my investigative legwork to eat a half-dozen or so of the yummy little pastries—with extra powdered sugar—on a daily basis, I was rudely interrupted by a knock at my door.
"Ready?" Veronica sauntered into my apartment. She was wearing a pink and black Chanel suit with a vintage black Chanel handbag. "Today's a big day for us. I just got a call from a new client. He's going to meet us at four o'clock."
"Who is he?"
"A financial advisor named Ryan Hunter. He's the primary suspect in the murder of his ex-girlfriend, Jessica Evans. She was found strangled to death at the LaMarca store she managed on Canal Street. The poor woman was only twenty-six."
"There's a LaMarca here? I love that store." I thought back to a trip to Italy I'd taken several years before and the fabulous black leather handbag I'd splurged on at the original LaMarca on Rome's chic Via Condotti. "You know, I think I might have heard something about that on the radio when I was coming into town."
"Yeah, it's been all over the local media for weeks. Come on. I'll tell you about it on the way to the office."
After assuring Napoleon that I would be back soon, I locked my apartment door and then got into Veronica's waiting white Audi convertible.
"So, here's what I know." Veronica started the engine of her car and then backed out of the driveway. "Keep in m
ind that I haven't seen the police report yet. But from what Ryan told me, and from what I've heard on the news, a salesgirl found Jessica's body when she came to work on the morning of December 13th. She said the back door was unlocked, and Jessica was lying on the floor in the middle of some racks of scarves. Nothing had been taken from the store."
"You said she was strangled, right?"
"Yeah, with a scarf."
"Was she killed that morning? Or the day before?"
Veronica took a left turn. "Sometime the night before. Apparently, she'd stayed late after the store closed. The police didn't release the information about the murder weapon being a scarf, by the way. Someone leaked that to the press. Anyway, Franki, this is big. If we can help clear this guy or even solve the case, we're golden. Private Chicks, Inc. will be a household name in Nola."
"That would be amazing," I said, trying to hide my concern. Solving a high-profile murder in The Big Easy could be a hard job to accomplish.
* * *
A half an hour later we arrived at the office, and my jaw practically dropped to the street. Veronica had neglected to mention that it was located in her three-story, brown brick building. She had also failed to mention that an Italian restaurant and bar called Nizza was occupying the first two stories of her building, which had freshly painted white doors and windows bordered with charming bright-green shutters and a fabulous second-floor balcony—the wrap-around-the-building kind that people threw bead necklaces off of during Mardi Gras. This was classic Veronica: Her mind was always so focused on work that she would forget to tell you about all of the pertinent details of her life, no matter how momentous these may be.
After I recovered from my initial shock, Veronica took me upstairs to our office space, which consisted of two separate apartments on the third floor. One was for our personal offices, and the other was for private meetings with clients. I spent the rest of the day organizing my office, which was in what used to be one of two bedrooms, and learning how to use the case management software for private investigators that Veronica had given to me.
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