1 Limoncello Yellow

by Traci Andrighetti

  I nodded.

  "Would you like to join me? I just ordered a few minutes ago, so I'm sure there's still time to add your order." He winked at Charity to help smooth things over.

  "I would love to." I cast Charity a triumphant look. "But I'm not hungry," I lied, hoping he couldn't hear the growling—make that the roaring—of the mighty lion who had chosen that precise moment to take up residence in my stomach. "I was just going to have a glass of Pinot Grigio."

  "So, just the wine?" Charity asked.

  "Make that a cup of coffee," I said, remembering to my dismay that I was still on the clock—and on a diet. "Decaf."

  She looked me up and down skeptically, as though weighing me with her eyes, and then went to place my order.

  When she left, Bradley turned to me. "You've really got a way with the staff, don't you?"

  Okay, so maybe he wasn't the best choice for a date, I thought. Changing the subject to safer ground, I asked, "So, what have you been up to today?"

  "Errands mostly. And Trixi and I took a walk along the river."

  "Trixi?" I felt as though I'd just been kicked in the stomach by that ornery lion.

  "Yes, she's my devoted companion." His eyes were twinkling.

  "Oh," I said, taken aback by my own disappointment. After all, I wasn't really interested in this guy. I just needed a date to ward off my nonna, right?

  Bradley looked under the table. "There's my girl."

  I followed his gaze and saw a darling little cairn terrier with wheaten fur lying at his feet. Of course, cairns were my favorite breed, but I hadn't exactly pegged Bradley as a cute little dog guy. This was definitely a point in his favor.

  "She's adorable." I reached down to pet her.

  Without raising her head from the ground, Trixi lifted one side of her mouth and flashed her teeth at me.

  I recoiled in surprise. Trixi wasn't as sweet as she looked. But then again, maybe she was just timid and needed a little time to get to know to me. "I have a cairn too," I added, acting as though nothing had happened between his beloved canine companion and me. "His name is Napoleon because he's small in size but big in personality."

  "Cairns are great dogs, aren't they? I like them because they're spunky and independent. That's the way I like my women too." He shot me a wicked grin.

  Charming, I thought as I shifted in my chair. The sudden movement apparently angered Trixi, who took a silent snap at my shoe with the speed of a snake. I yanked my foot away. "You have to be careful with cairns, though."

  "Yeah, but not with my Trixi." Bradley reached down to stroke her lovingly. She rolled onto her back exposing her butterball belly. "She's an angel."

  I glared at her under the table. More like a con artist, I thought. "She's something all right."

  Charity the waitress returned to our table and gave Bradley his sandwich, which was an enormous po' boy filled with oysters that had been battered and deep-fried to a glistening golden color. Then she placed the cup of decaf in front of me.

  "Can I get you guys anything else?" Charity asked, looking straight at me. "Like, for example, a meal instead of a cheap cup of coffee?"

  "No, we're doing great," I replied, firmly meeting her gaze.

  "Awesome," she said caustically, loudly placing a plastic tray with the bill on the table and then walking away.

  I looked at the tray. Of course she'd left only one peppermint.

  "Wow, this sandwich is huge," Bradley said. "Would you like some?"

  "No thanks," I said, devouring the po' boy with my eyes. "I couldn't even think of food right now," I fibbed, pouring four Splenda packets into my coffee in hopes of adding some much-needed density.

  "Well, okay, then." He gave me a playful wink and then took a hearty bite out of the sandwich.

  I was starting to think that Bradley knew I was hungry and was rubbing it in. Trying to avoid watching him chew, I took a big, hungry sip of my decaf. It was much hotter that I realized, and it scalded my mouth. "Mmm!" I moaned, firmly tightening my lips to avoid spitting blistering hot coffee onto Bradley like an erupting volcano. I opened my mouth a crack to let some steam out. "Aawwhh."

  "Are you all right?"

  "Yeah," I said awkwardly, forcing the burning liquid down in one fiery gulp. "Iss juss so…goouh," I added, avoiding any contact been my tongue and the roof of my mouth.

  "Oh, okay. Listen, I was planning on calling you—"

  "You were?" I interrupted, instantly forgetting all about my scorched mouth.

  He flashed a mischievous smile. "Your ATM card finally arrived."

  "Of course. My ATM card. That's what I thought you'd be calling about." I feigned an intense interest in stirring my boiling hot coffee.

  "I could mail it to you, if you'd like." He took another bite of his delicious-looking sandwich.

  "Oh no!" I wanted to be sure I got that card in person. "What I mean is, I need it before that. I'll just drop by the bank and pick it up."

  "Well, the bank's actually open until six today, so you could make it over there in time if you leave right after you finish your coffee," he suggested with what I thought was a hint of teasing in his voice.

  I had the distinct feeling that Bradley thought I was interested in him, which was utterly ridiculous. My interest in him was strictly business—family business. "Oh, it can wait until Monday. What I mean is, I have lots to do today," I hurried to add.

  He looked amused. "Anything fun on the agenda?"

  "Well, after this I have to go to the voodoo store."

  Bradley stopped in mid-bite. "The voodoo store?"

  "Oh, it's for a case I'm investigating," I explained.

  "That's right, Corinne said you were a PI. So tell me," he began, cocking an eyebrow, "which Charlie's Angel are you most like?"

  I felt a flash of resentment. He was obviously insinuating that I was both a dilettante and a sex object, but I certainly wasn't play-acting at my job. "Well, if you must know I—",

  Bradley leaned forward and freed a strand of my hair that had gotten stuck on my lipgloss, his fingertips lightly grazing my check and then my neck.

  I felt a shiver run down my traitorous spine.

  "You were saying?" he prompted.

  "Um, what?" I had completely lost my train of thought.

  He flashed one of his fabulous smiles. "About your work?"

  "Oh, yeah. That." I shot him an annoyed look. "Well, not just anyone can be a PI, you know. It's a pretty dangerous job. For instance, I just wrapped up a dicey missing dog case, and now I'm investigating a murder."

  "Which one?"

  "The Jessica Evans murder," I replied with a solemn nod, for effect.

  Bradley grew serious and leaned back in his seat. "That was such a terrible thing. She was a client at the bank, you know."

  "She was?" I asked, surprised.

  "Yeah, but I didn't know her very well. She only came in once a month, and she was pretty reserved. "

  "Really? Just once a month?"

  "Uh-huh, to make a deposit," he replied.

  Before I could respond, Charity came barging up to the table. "Sorry to interrupt," she began, looking anything but regretful. "My shift actually ended at 5:00, so I'm on my way out." She stood awkwardly at the table as she waited for us to pay.

  The second she mentioned the time, Bradley looked at his watch. "I didn't realize how late it was. I've got a few more errands to run, so I'd better get going." He stood up from the table and pulled his wallet from his back pocket.

  "Yeah, I'd better be on my way too," I said. "I've got to get over to the voodoo store," I added with a pointed look at Charity.

  "Listen, Franki, I'd like to hear more about your work sometime." He handed Charity a twenty-dollar bill. "How about dinner?"

  A date! I'm saved! my inner voice cheered. But aloud I just said, "That would be wonderful."

  Charity made a disgusted snort and then turned on her heel and left, no doubt intending to keep the change.

  "Great! If you
like Cajun food, we could go to one of Emeril Lagasse's restaurants."

  "Perrrfect," I purred.

  “I’ll make reservations this week and call you,” he added.

  As I stood up from the table, Trixi lunged at my feet. I stumbled and lurched forward. Right into Bradley's arms.

  Trixi, who was undoubtedly lying in wait for any misstep on my part, jerked her head down in the direction of my shoe as though prepared to strike again.

  I gazed up at Bradley, realizing with a shiver just how tall he was.

  He gave a rakish grin, oblivious to Trixi's attack stance. "You didn't have to throw yourself at me, Amato. After all, I did just ask you out."

  "You don't think I did that on purpose?" I asked, outraged. But I didn't dare move, both because I liked being pressed against his muscular body and because I felt Trixi's hot breath on my foot. "I tripped over your d—"

  "Shh," he said, placing a finger gently on my lips. "I was just trying to get a rise out of you. You know, you're really hot when you get worked up," he said in a husky voice.

  My eyes went into autopilot, closing in anticipation of a kiss. But then, inexplicably, Bradley released me.

  As he and the Trixinator turned to leave, I stood as straight and still as a statue. I was numb all over, and it wasn't from fear of his killer cairn.

  * * *

  At six o'clock in the evening the throng of partiers on Bourbon Street was already astonishingly dense, and the sounds of blues and jazz were bursting out of the open doorways of the bars. As I weaved my way through the crowd toward Marie Laveau's House of Voodoo, I was practically walking on air from the excitement of being asked out by Bradley. In fact, I was so elated that I didn't even mind when a drunk girl wearing a pink boa, a black mini skirt, and a red-sequined halter top spilled strawberry daiquiri from her elongated plastic fleur-de-lis glass onto my arm. And I actually smiled when a shirtless and unshaven fifty-something-year-old man in a red-white-and-blue top hat looked at me and screamed the familiar Mardi Gras cry, "Show me your tits!" Yes, life was good.

  When I spotted the hand-painted black sign for Marie Laveau's at the corner of Bourbon and St. Ann, I made my way through the crowd and climbed the two small steps into the store. I stopped abruptly in the doorway and surveyed the ghoulish scene. The place was jam-packed with candles, voodoo dolls, severed chicken feet, alligator heads, and a creepy altar to Marie Laveau, which had unidentified dead things on it and signs in capital letters that said, "DO NOT PHOTOGRAPH" and "DO NOT TOUCH." Don't worry, I won't, I thought.

  "Can I help you?" a bored-looking cashier with a severe case of acne asked, stifling a yawn.

  "Yeah, do you have any beads like this one?" I pulled the skull bead from my purse and held it up for him.

  "In the back next to the shrunken heads." He nodded in the direction of the next room as he picked a cyst on his face.

  "Thanks," I said uncertainly and then walked toward the back of the store.

  Despite the dim lighting, I could see that the smaller, secondary room was for the more serious voodoo practitioner. There were books on voodoo, talismans of various shapes and sizes, and supplies for creating altars and spell kits. As soon as I entered, my eyes were immediately drawn to the "Speak No Evil Kit," which shows users how to drive coffin nails into a tongue to prevent someone from talking negatively about them. I shuddered briefly, wondering if the tongue included with the kit was real.

  "Did you come for a reading?" a deep voice asked from the semi-darkness. It sounded like James Earl Jones.

  I was startled to see an older, heavy-set man with an oversized rockabilly pompadour sitting behind a counter against the back wall of the room, next to a bizarre wooden statue of a seated woman.

  I briefly considered getting a reading to see what my future with Bradley held, but then I decided against it. I mean, voodoo isn't real, right? "No, I was looking for beads like this one," I said, walking over to the counter and showing him the skull bead.

  He glanced at the bead with bloodshot eyes. "It's from a Tibetan prayer mala. We sell them in necklaces and bracelets. They're right over there," he said, gesturing toward the wall on his left. I noticed he had a colorful tattoo of a decorative skull with his same rockabilly hairdo on his bicep.

  "What's a mala?"

  "It means 'garland,' but it refers to prayer beads. Buddhists use them like a rosary to keep track of time while they're meditating with mantras." He looked at the wooden statue out of the corner of his eyes.

  "Oh. I thought this bead was for voodoo since it's made of bone and carved like a skull." I mean, what else would anyone use a skull carved from bone for? Not decoration, surely.

  "Buddhists use skull beads made of bone or wood in prayer, and they often wear them around their wrists for protection and long life." He pulled a pack of Marlboro reds from his front pocket. "But devotees of Kurukulla, the Buddhist Goddess of witchcraft and enchantment, wear skull beads made from human and animal bone to—"

  "Wait a second," I interrupted. "This bead isn't made from a human bone is it?"

  "I really couldn't say." He shot a nervous look in the direction of the wooden statue.

  Although I was starting to think that this guy was a little off, I pressed, "So what does this Kunta Karulla do?"

  "Kurukulla," he corrected, extracting a cigarette from the pack and laying it on the counter. "She's a young goddess who uses her nudity and voluptuousness to seduce and bewitch others to bring them under her control." The subject of sex must have reminded him to groom himself, because he suddenly pulled a comb from his back pocket and ran it through his greased-back hair. Then he picked up the cigarette and carefully placed it behind his right ear.

  "So, if you wear the beads, you could use them to try to make others do what you want?"

  "That's right. Kurukulla's followers wear them to overpower spirits and humans who get in their way," he said, glancing furtively at the statue and then back at me.

  "Are these beads used to try to win court cases, by any chance?" I asked, thinking of Saint Expedite, the pound cake, and even the potion.

  He nodded. "Yeah, we have a lot of customers who buy them for court."

  "Dem beads don' madda none to Baron Kriminel," a deep female voice said from the darkness.

  I jumped backward at least a foot. The wooden statue wasn't a statue at all—it was a real live woman with graying black dreadlocks, cappuccino-colored skin and dark brown freckles on her sunken cheeks. And she was walking slowly toward me.

  "He goin' ta git dem who profit from death." As she came closer, I could see the nostrils of her wide, flat nose flaring as she spoke.

  "A-are y-you talking t-to me?" I stuttered. "I-I'm working a m-murder case, but I'm t-trying to help."

  "Ya not from 'round heuh," the woman said, looking straight through me with piercing amber eyes.

  "N-no, I'm new to town," I explained, hoping that this would release me from the impending clutches of Baron Kriminel, whoever he was.

  "Baron Kriminel come from de grave to seek justice agains' de guilty."

  "But I'm not guilty!"

  Ignoring my objection, she continued, "Dat girl, she know what dat boy do."

  Wait. Who's 'dat girl'? My mind was racing, but in my panicked state the only person I could think of was Marlo Thomas. And 'dat boy'? "I'm sorry, but I don't understand."

  "I cain't tell ya what ya don' see, chile. But Odette see. She see." She had a far away look in her eyes as she walked past me toward the door.

  "Odette?" I turned to watch her leave, more confused than ever.

  "Dat boy, he done put a spell on her," she spat, turning back to look at me. But then her faced softened. "Ya got a man. A good man. But ya goin' ta have ta work ta keep him."

  I've got a man? Is she talking about Bradley? "What do you mean, work?" If she was talking about Bradley, then this was one question I was determined to get an answer to.

  "But don' let 'im take ya down ta de bayou. Ya bes' stay far from de b
ayou, chile, and everythang in it." And then she turned and shuffled out.

  I stood there staring after her, speechless and desperately trying to decipher her cryptic messages.

  The aging rockabilly broke the silence. "That's Odette Malveaux. She's a mambo."

  I turned to face him. "A what?"

  "A voodoo priestess." He pulled the cigarette from behind his ear. "Some say she's a descendent of Marie Laveau, which is why she comes to the store from time to time. To keep an eye on things."

  "Do you know who she was talking about?" I asked as stood there in a kind of shock.

  "No, but if I were you, lady, I'd figure it out," he said with a pointed look. "Baron Kriminel is an evil voodoo god. If he's after you, you're a goner. And it won't be pretty," he added as he quickly put the cigarette into his mouth and rushed out of the room.

  As I left the store and exited onto Bourbon Street, I realized that the excitement I'd felt when I first arrived was long gone. Now all I felt was apprehension. I was starting to think that Odette knew things about the Evans case and about Bradley too. Things that I couldn't see. I pondered this thought as I headed down St. Ann Street in the direction of the office to get Napoleon.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  At 8:30 the next morning, I was rudely awakened by the ringing of my phone. Why hadn't I remembered to set it to silent? Lying on my stomach, I reached for my pillow so that I could put it over my head to muffle the sound, but I couldn't find it. I opened my eyes, peered over the side of my bed, and saw that it was on the floor. Thankfully, the phone had stopped ringing by then, so I closed my eyes.

  Less than a minute later, the phone began to ring again. It might be important, I thought. I pulled myself awkwardly into a sitting position, but my head began spinning so violently that I immediately lay back down again. Whoever was calling could wait.

  When the phone finally stopped ringing, I wracked my aching brain to figure out what was wrong with me. Was it a sinus headache? Or the flu? Then I remembered. It was the half bottle or so of Limoncello that I'd tossed back on an empty stomach after my heebie jeebie–inducing encounter with Odette Malveaux.