1 Limoncello Yellow

by Traci Andrighetti

  The phone began to ring for a third time. Lying flat on my back, I felt around for the evil device on the nightstand with my right hand. When I finally found it, I picked it up and looked at the display warily with one eye: "Unknown." Who would be calling so early on a Sunday morning? Reluctantly, I answered.

  "Hello?" There was so much phlegm in my throat that I sounded like Louis Armstrong.

  The male voice that responded was surprisingly high pitched—kind of like Mike Tyson's but without the lisp. "May I speak to Francesca Amato?"

  "This is she," I replied tersely, assuming that it was a salesperson calling way too early in the morning.

  "Oh," the voice squeaked. Silence followed.

  For a moment I wondered if the line had dropped. "Hello?"

  "I thought you were your father," the caller explained.

  Slightly embarrassed, I cleared my throat. "Um, who is this?"

  "Pio. Pio Principato," he replied expectantly, as though I would definitely know his name. Sadly, I did indeed.

  "Oh, right." I mentally cursed my interfering nonna—in English and Italian—for giving out my phone number. "Listen, Pio, you've kind of caught me at a bad time."

  "But your nonna Carmela said you'd be expecting my call," he objected with a hint of irritation in his shrill voice.

  I could tell that Pio and I were going to get along famously. "Well, yes," I began, matching his irritation, "but not quite so early in the morning."

  "But I was calling to invite you to mass at noon."

  Mass? On a first date? "I'm afraid I can't. This is awfully short notice, and I have a lot to do today."

  He snorted in frustration. "Well, how about tomorrow then?"

  "I'm sorry," I began, even though I wasn't feeling the least bit apologetic in light of his obvious rudeness, "but the truth is that I'm expecting a call from another man." There. The proper thing to do was to tell him about Bradley and end the call. Honesty is the best policy, right?

  "Wow. I didn't know you were that kind of a woman."

  Stunned by his presumptuousness, I asked, "What kind of a woman is that, exactly?"

  "A two-timer," he replied matter-of-factly.

  "A what?" I shouted. To hell with my aching head—my pride was more important.

  "Well, apparently you like to date around."

  Who did this guy think he was? I knew that I should just end the call right then and there, but at this point I was too mad to let it go. "In the first place, Pio, you and I are not dating," I huffed. "And second, I haven't even gone out with the other guy yet. All I said was that I was expecting his call. I hardly think that makes me a two-timer."

  There was a long pause. "I'm sorry, but I just don't think this is going to work out."

  Un.Be.Lievable. "I agree," I said through clenched teeth.

  "This is goodbye, then, Francesca," he said in a warning tone, as though giving me one last chance to beg him to change his mind.

  Urging myself to remain calm I replied, "Goodbye, Pio. And good riddance!" Then I pressed end dramatically on my phone. Sometimes I really missed the good old days of landlines when you could slam down the receiver.

  I lay there in bed, livid. I wondered if Marie Laveau's sold a potion or a spell that could make arrogant men like Pio disappear. Or better yet, one that could make Sicilian grandmothers stop meddling in their long-suffering granddaughters' love lives. No, not likely, I thought. Not even all the voodoo priestesses in Louisiana could conjure up a spell that powerful.

  Thanks to Pio's phone call, I was fully awake and far too angry to stay in bed. I slowly got up and headed toward the bathroom for some aspirin. In the process, I almost stumbled over Napoleon, who was splayed out on his back on the floor against my pillow with one ear open and the other flopped over. He looked like he'd had a hard night too.

  I stepped over him, grabbed three aspirin from a bottle in the bathroom medicine cabinet, and then headed for the kitchen where I found the telltale evidence that I'd tied one on the night before. On the counter, beside the empty bottle of Limoncello, sat a half-eaten jar of Nutella. So much for skipping dinner yesterday to lose weight.

  I poured myself a glass of water and popped the aspirin into my mouth. It hurt when I leaned my head backward to take a drink, but I finished the glass nevertheless. My mouth was so dry it felt like I'd been eating spoonfuls of salt last night instead of the creamy chocolate-hazelnut spread.

  As soon as the aspirin were safely down my throat, I collapsed into one of my cushioned Bordeaux-and-gold chairs and tried to remember what, if anything, I needed to do today—besides call my nonna to tell her to call off her Sicilian attack dogs, that is.

  Then I heard my phone ringing again. I sighed, steeled myself for another call from a suitor, headed back into the bedroom, and looked at my phone. The display again read, "Unknown." Surely, it's not Pio, I thought. But just in case it was, I decided to answer and give him one final piece of my mind.

  "Hello?" I responded a little too testily.

  "Franki Amato?" an equally testy male voice asked.

  "Yes?" I tried to remember where I'd heard that angry voice before.

  "Ryan Hunter."

  Good God! Did Mambo Odette put a curse on me? Because not even I could be this unlucky all on my own, I thought. "I'm sorry, Ryan, I thought you were—"

  "Listen, Franki," he interrupted in a nasty tone. "I don't have time to chit chat. I'd like to know why no one has called me with the biweekly update on my case that I was promised."

  Yeah, she put a curse on me all right. I could clearly envision the voodoo doll of me, tiny cell phone in hand, with pins jabbed into its head and stomach.

  "Franki, are you there? I expect an answer!"

  "Yes, I'm here, Ryan." Despite my hangover haze, I distinctly remembered that we had accepted his case on Thursday afternoon, and today was only Sunday. "We just took your case a few days ago, and I can assure you that Veronica is extremely organized when it comes to handling our workload. I'm sure she plans to call you tomorrow or the next day. During business hours," I added, trying to make a point. Veronica and I certainly didn't need to be spending our free time on the likes of this guy.

  "Look, I've already wasted fifteen minutes this morning trying to track down your contact information, which I don't appreciate. Luckily, I called your office and that kid Donny was there."

  "David."

  "David, Donny, whatever. The point is that I've already left two messages on your partner's cell this morning, but she hasn't bothered to call me back. Now, I have a meeting with my attorney first thing tomorrow. So, if you've got any information, I need it. Capish?"

  I stifled a gasp at his inappropriate use of Italian and somehow even stopped myself from telling him off for being so impossibly rude and for calling me on a Sunday. After all, Veronica was in charge of the human relations aspect of the business. And, whether I liked it or not, Ryan Hunter was paying us to investigate the Evans case. So I took a deep breath and tried to recall everything we'd discovered.

  "Okay then. We got the photos of the crime scene, and we have reason to believe that whoever killed Jessica intentionally brought an inexpensive scarf to LaMarca to strangle her with. The killer either wore it to the store or may have even brought it as a gift.

  He laughed coldly. "Well, that should clear me then, because I knew better than to give Jessica a cheap present."

  His repulsive humor left me without words.

  "But how did you figure out that the killer brought the scarf there on purpose?" he continued once the silence had grown awkward.

  "Because LaMarca is known for its silk scarf collection, but the killer didn't use a scarf from the store."

  "Gee, you're a regular Miss Marple," he replied, clearly unimpressed. "What else you got?"

  "I went to LaMarca and spoke with the salesgirl who found Jessica's body."

  "Yeah?" he pressed.

  "While I was there I found a bead made of bone and carved like a skull, near w
here Jessica's body was found and—"

  "How do you know it's connected to the murder?" he interrupted. Again.

  "I don't," I replied defensively. "Right now it's just a hunch."

  "A hunch," he repeated. "Jesus Christ, my life is on the line here, and all you guys have are hunches?"

  "No, that's not all we've got," I snapped.

  "Well then let's hear it, Franki! I don't have all damn day!"

  Neither do I, I thought, and yet I'm spending my day off taking abuse from you. "Ryan, if you'll just let me speak I'll explain everything to you."

  "Okay, speak."

  "A man went to see Jessica at LaMarca one night, after the store had closed."

  "Un-huh," he said with the faintest hint of interest.

  "From the sound of things, she knew him, and they were arguing."

  "Yeah, well, that's hardly surprising. Jessica had a talent for bringing out the worst in people."

  His derogatory remarks about Jessica were getting on my already frayed nerves. "This guy was threatening her, Ryan. He said she'd broken some agreement they had and told her to leave New Orleans. Do you know anything about this?"

  "So, you're asking me if I was that guy, right?" He snorted. "Why is it that every time I talk to you, I get the feeling that you're interrogating me instead of looking for the real killer?"

  "Ryan, I just met you a few days ago. For all I know, you and Jessica had a fight one night at her workplace, and you told her to get out of your life or something."

  "Well, that didn't happen because I've never even been to LaMarca."

  "Okay, fine. But you need to understand that when I ask you a question, I'm not implicitly accusing you." Although I certainly wouldn't put anything past you, I thought. "I have to cover my bases to make sure I'm not following up on a dead end."

  "Fair enough," he conceded, to my utter astonishment. This was the first time Ryan Hunter and I had ever seen eye-to-eye on anything.

  "Apparently, this guy also mentioned the London College of Fashion during the argument. Do you know if Jessica attended this school or had friends there?"

  "Like I told you the other day, I don't know anything about her past. She didn't talk about it, and I didn't ask."

  "All right. Veronica is going to call—"

  "Wait," he interrupted yet again. "I heard her mention London once."

  I felt a rush of excitement. "When?"

  "On a phone call. A month or two ago."

  "Do you know who she was talking to?"

  "No, but she said a name. It sounded like a woman's name, but I couldn't say for sure. It was Eye-talian or something."

  "Do you remember what it was?" I figured it was unlikely given his inability to recall the proper pronunciation of "Italian."

  "No, it was a weird name. All I know is that it ended in an 'a.'"

  Well that certainly narrows it down since pretty much all Italian women's names, including my own, end in "a," I thought. "How did London come up in the conversation?"

  "She said something like, 'You don't know what the hell you're talking about. You know I wasn't even in London when it happened.'"

  "So she was angry."

  "Oh yeah. At the time, I thought she was having a fight with some Eye-talian girlfriend of hers from London."

  I sighed inwardly. Was it really so hard to say the "it" in "Italian"? "Did she tell you anything about the call when she hung up?"

  "No, she just stared at me. I don't think she even knew I was home. Then she started bitching at me about something. I think I'd forgotten to take out the trash or pick my clothes up off the floor. Who the hell knows! I could never do anything right in her eyes…"

  I deliberately sidestepped the topic of his relationship with Jessica. "Okay. Well, that's all I can tell you at the moment. We're going to follow up on the London angle tomorrow, so I'll have Veronica call you in the afternoon with an update."

  "Good, because I'm paying you for information. Solid information." Then he hung up, and he did it from a landline too because I could hear him slam down the receiver. The jerk.

  All that standing was starting to get to me, so I made my way to the chaise lounge to call Veronica. I tapped her number, closing my eyes as I waited for her to answer.

  "Hello?" She was clearly out of breath.

  "Did I interrupt something?"

  "Hercules and I are on our Sunday morning jog," she replied—way too perkily. "What's up?"

  Thanks to my hangover, I shuddered at the mere thought of bouncing up and down. "I just got a call from Ryan Hunter."

  "Ryan Hunter?"

  "Yeah. It's looking more and more like something went down in London that involved Jessica Evans. Any chance you can meet today?"

  "Of course I can meet!" she added cheerfully. And loudly. "How about Thibodeaux's at noon? I could really use a mimosa. Oh, and some onion rings! Mm."

  The mere mention of alcohol and greasy onions made my stomach lurch. "Works for me. See you then," I replied weakly.

  As I was pondering the logistics of how I was going to make it from the chaise lounge to the bathtub, the phone rang again. Distractedly assuming it was Veronica calling back to change the time or something, I responded. "Hey."

  "Franki, I just-a got a call from-a Luisa, the cousin of my cousin, Agatina," my nonna replied in a frantic voice.

  A mental image of Odette plunging a pin into the backside of my voodoo doll flashed through my aching head. I sighed. "Yes, nonna?"

  "Pio called her, and he told-a her that you're a loose-a woman!" It was a widely shared belief in Sicilian-American circles that for a woman to have questionable virtue was a cardinal sin, second only to the inability to make a good ragù.

  "Nonna, all I told Pio was that I couldn't go out with him because I have a date with another man. So—"

  "A date?" My nonna instantly forgot all about the slight to my honor. "Dio mio! Who with? Bruno?"

  "No, nonna, I'm going out with someone named Bradley."

  "Who is-a Bradley?" she asked, winded with excitement.

  "He's the president of Ponchartrain Bank here in New Orleans."

  My nonna let out a whistle like a sailor who was seeing a woman for the first time in six months. "You did-a good, Franki!"

  I basked in the glow of her rare praise. "Grazie."

  "Is-a he Italian?"

  "No, he's not," I responded, waiting for the inevitable comment.

  "Well, we can't have-a it all-a, can-a we Franki?" she glossed. "Now-a when is-a this date?"

  "Um, I'm not sure about the exact day yet," I admitted ever-so-reluctantly. I couldn't lie because she would call me immediately after the date—probably even during—to get the details.

  She gasped. "Not-a sure?! You mean-a that you gave up a date with a fine-a man like-a Pio, and you don't even have-a no date with-a Bradley? Francesca Lucia Amato, you never turn-a down a date when you don't have-a no date!"

  Fine man, my rear, I thought. "Nonna, Bradley said he would call me this week, and he will. Have some faith, okay?"

  "The only-a man I have-a the faith in, Franki, is-a the Pope," she replied solemnly.

  When nonna mentions the Pope, it's time to end the call. Period. So, I gushed, "I've gotta run, nonna! I'll call you right after the date! Bye now!" I hung up before she could say another word.

  Next, I did what I should have done three phone calls earlier: I pressed the off button on my phone. Then I immediately turned it back on, of course, because there was always the possibility that Bradley would call. Although, after talking to my nonna, I wasn't feeling all that hopeful. Maybe I really did "have-a no date." It wasn't like Bradley had set a time and place, or anything. The more I thought about my dating prospects, the better that mimosa Veronica mentioned was starting to sound. But not the onion rings.

  I could actually agree with my nonna on one point, though: I shouldn't be counting on a date until I knew for certain that I had one lined up. But I wasn't ready to believe that the Pope was the
only man a girl could trust—at least not yet. And I couldn't afford to give in to defeat. Bradley Hartmann was going to call me whether I had to resort to Vulcan mind control, Jedi mind tricks, or even voodoo to make it happen.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The flash of sunlight that greeted me when I opened my front door at noon seared into my eyes like a laser. I recoiled into my apartment, rummaged around in my purse, and pulled out my tortoiseshell sunglasses for the walk across the street to Thibodeaux's. After donning my shades to block the glaring sun—and the harsh reality of the cemetery—I set off gingerly on the one hundred-foot trek. The street was completely deserted, and all was going well until I stepped from the yard into the street. Right at that moment, a twelve-year-old kid on a bike appeared from out of nowhere and passed not two inches in front of me at breakneck speed. I tottered backward on my heels, flailed my arms like a tipsy tightrope walker, landed squarely on my rear end, and then, voluntarily, lay down in the grass to regroup.

  "You're lucky I have extra cushioning, kid!" I shouted after the boy from my supine position with a clenched fist raised in the air. Otherwise, it could have gotten ugly between him and me.

  After a few minutes of quietly contemplating the clouds, I stood up, brushed the dead grass off my clothes, and then walked my bruised behind to the bar. Before entering, I paused for a moment to summon the strength needed to endure Veronica's ever-effervescent Sunday afternoon chatter. When I pushed open the door, I immediately spotted her sitting at the bar with her back to me. She was sporting a Madonna ponytail a la The Blond Ambition Tour, a sunny yellow velour tracksuit, and matching yellow tennis shoes. As I approached her, I noticed that she smelled revoltingly of fresh air and sunshine.

  "Hey Veronica." I slid onto the bar stool next to her.

  She looked and me and raised an eyebrow. "Wow. What happened to you?"

  "What do you mean?" I feigned ignorance as I placed my purse on the bar.

  "You look a little rough," she said with a smirk as she took a dainty sip of mimosa from a straw. "Have you been rolling in the hay with anyone I know?"