1 Limoncello Yellow

by Traci Andrighetti

  I bounded up the stairs to the office singing "Lust to Love" at the top of my lungs. In my mind, I had the same smooth and powerful voice as Belinda Carlisle, but in reality I sounded a lot like a female Neil Young—with a head cold.

  Just as I was entering the office, Veronica came running into the waiting room, looking panicked.

  "What's the matter?" I asked, instantly alarmed.

  "Didn't you hear that?" She didn't wait for me to reply as she started for the stairs. "It sounded like a dog yelping in pain! Let's go see if we can find it!"

  I stood there for a moment and listened, but I couldn't hear a thing. And then it dawned on me: she was talking about my singing.

  I inched into the hallway. "Hey, Veronica?" I called down the stairwell.

  She turned to look up at me from the bottom step. "Yeah?"

  "I think that sound you were hearing was the squeaky brakes on a truck that just went by." I hated to lie to my best friend, but if she thought my voice was that bad, then there was no way I was going to claim it.

  "Are you sure?"

  I crossed my fingers behind my back. "Absolutely."

  Veronica sighed in relief. "Thank goodness!" She began making her way back up the stairs.

  "You're here early," I said changing the subject, although my ego was still smarting from the indirect insult.

  "I couldn't sleep," she said, reentering the waiting room. "I wanted to call London as soon as possible."

  "And?" I followed her into her office.

  She took a seat behind her desk and shook her head. "There's no record of a Jessica Evans at the London College of Fashion."

  I sat in the armchair in front of her desk. "Well, like you said yesterday, she might have been using an assumed name. Maybe that's why the school has no record of her."

  "Or she never went there at all," she mused. "I mean, that salesgirl Annabella could have misunderstood what she overheard at the store that night."

  "True, but I think we should check with the police."

  She looked surprised. "What for?"

  "Because, unlike us, they can get a court order to obtain Jessica's birth certificate. So, if she was using an assumed name, they might already know that by now. Why don't we ask your crime analyst friend for an update on the police's case?"

  Veronica shook her head. "No, Betty puts her job on the line every time I ask her for help, so I only use her as an absolute last resort. For now, the best thing we can do is shift gears."

  "How so?"

  "We've got to get back out there and find the store that sold the killer the scarf."

  "Sounds logical to me. Besides, I need to buy a new outfit for my date," I replied faux-casually, waiting for her reaction.

  She gasped and leaned forward. "Your what?"

  "My date," I repeated. "Jeez, Veronica, is it really that shocking that someone would ask me out?" I hid a smile.

  "I didn't mean it like that, Franki. It's just that I'm surprised you're going on a date so soon after Vince."

  "Why? It's not like I need any time to get over that cheating bastard," I said huffily, turning away from her so she wouldn't see my eyes tearing up.

  "Well, that's what I mean," she said softly. "Are you sure you're ready to trust a man again?"

  "Of course." I boldly looked her in the eye. Although now that I'd thought about it for an entire split second, I realized that I wasn't sure at all.

  "If that's the case, then I'm glad." She leaned back in her chair, relaxed. "I'm just worried about you, that's all."

  "Look, I went after Bradley for a reason: he's not one of those deceptively sincere types I usually go for. He's a genuinely good guy, I can tell. The only thing we have to worry about is what I'm going to wear. I don't have a thing."

  "Where are you going?"

  "To Le Bayou restaurant," I replied, carefully avoiding the small matter of the eerie warning I'd received from Mambo Odette about men taking me to the bayou. Veronica had no patience for my Sicilian-inspired superstitions, so she was sure to be annoyed by my newfound voodoo misgivings, even though a healthy respect for the unknown was certainly nothing to scoff at.

  "You can always wear a basic LBD. It's perfect first-date material."

  I hesitated for a moment. "I don't have one."

  "What?" she asked, as though I'd just confessed to committing a capital offense. "Well, we're going to have to take care of that right now. I saw one at Ann Taylor the other day that would look amazing on you." She began typing furiously on her laptop. "Hang on. Let me see if I can find a picture of it on their website."

  For Veronica, the little black dress was a simple yet fabulous wardrobe item for any occasion. But for a first date, the LBD just looked like what I would wear underneath my dress—a Spanx slip. I needed a little more coverage to feel at ease with a new man, not to mention with the new roll that had appeared on my stomach since moving to New Orleans. But Veronica had an excellent eye for fashion, so if she knew of a dress that would be flattering on me, it was definitely worth taking a look.

  The waiting room bell interrupted our style search. Veronica was so immersed in her research that she didn't even react, so I went to see who it was.

  I walked into the waiting area and found Ryan Hunter holding a large box and a sinfully expensive red crocodile handbag that must have been worth roughly the GDP of a small country.

  "Hello," I greeted him coolly. I wanted to compliment him on his bag, but I didn't dare use sarcasm on this guy for fear of what he would do. "You know, Veronica was going to call you today with your report—"

  "I'm not here about that," he interrupted.

  "No?" I paused, slightly thrown.

  He placed the box on a nearby chair. "I found something in Jessica's things that might help my case."

  Inexplicably, I felt a rush of adrenaline. "Let me get Veronica."

  I hurried down the hall to her office. "Come quick. It's Ryan. He's found something of Jessica's that he thinks may be important."

  She stood up and followed me without a word into the waiting area.

  "Hi Ryan," she greeted him. "Franki said you've found something?"

  "Yeah, last night I packed up Jessica's stuff so that I could bring it by your office today. As I was putting the boxes into the trunk of my car this morning, I dropped one of them, and this handbag fell out. When I went to pick it up, I noticed the corner of a white envelope sticking out from between the interior lining of the purse and the exterior leather. Right here." He showed us an area of the bag where the stitching had clearly given way.

  "What was in it?" Veronica asked eagerly.

  "This old letter." He pulled an envelope from inside his suit jacket and handed it to Veronica. "It's postdated June 27, 1988."

  Veronica pulled the letter out of the envelope and began reading intently.

  My heart was thumping wildly. I had a gut feeling that the letter contained a key clue to Jessica's past. Plus, the whole idea of a secret letter made me feel like a sleuth in a mystery novel. "What does it say?"

  "It's really short. I'll read it," Veronica said. "Here goes: 'Barbara, I got laid off from the refinery last week. I'll send you money for Angelica when I can. But like it or not I got a new wife and kid to take care of now. Sincerely, Bill.'"

  "Wait, I'm confused," I said. "Who are Bill and Barbara?"

  Veronica examined the envelope. "Well, they have the same last name: Evangelista." She let the arm holding the envelope drop to her side. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

  "I'm not thinking anything," I replied. My mind always went completely blank whenever people expected me to guess their thoughts.

  Ryan shot me a contemptuous look. "Nice intuitive skills."

  I pretended that I didn't hear him. "Was Jessica maybe blackmailing these people?"

  "I don't know, but now I'm convinced she was hiding something," Veronica said. "Does any of this make any sense to you, Ryan? Have you heard these names before?"

  He shook his
head. "No, never. Maybe this Angelica was one of Jessica's friends or a cousin or something."

  As I was contemplating this, the waiting room door burst open.

  "Hey, party people!" David entered the room and tossed his backpack on his workstation.

  "David, one of these days you're going to scare us to death," Veronica said. I'd heard her ask him several times to enter the room calmly, but his youthful exuberance apparently prevented him from doing so.

  He hung his head. "Uh, sorry."

  I shot Veronica a look. There was no reason to embarrass the kid in front of a client. "Don't worry about it, David."

  Ryan, true to arrogant form, didn't bother to acknowledge David's existence.

  "Ryan," Veronica said, looking at her watch, "I hate to run, but I need to call the London School of Fashion again before they close to find out whether they have a record of an 'Angelica Evangelista.' I called earlier this morning, but they had no record of Jessica."

  "Interesting," Ryan responded. "Okay then, I'll bring up the other boxes from my car, and then I need to get to the office. But can I count on one of you to actually update me today on what you find out?" He looked from Veronica to me.

  "Of course, Ryan." Veronica turned to me. "Franki, fill David in on everything and help him do an Internet search on 'Angelica Evangelista,' okay?"

  "Sure." I nodded a frosty farewell in Ryan's direction. "David, let's go use my computer," I suggested as I turned to walk to my office. I didn't want to have to deal with Ryan Hunter when he returned with the remaining boxes.

  "Right on," David replied, following close behind. I was sure that he didn't want to see Ryan again either.

  When we reached my office, I said, "David, you're the resident research guru. You sit here in my seat, and I'll just pull up a chair beside you. By the way, what time do you have class today?"

  "Uh, I have Brazilian Dance at one." He sat down and opened my laptop.

  "Brazilian Dance? I thought you were a computer science major."

  He looked at me sheepishly for a moment. "Well, not a lot of girls, like, take comp sci courses."

  "Got it." I smiled both at the thought of him taking classes to meet women and at the mental image of his long, lanky frame doing Brazilian dance moves.

  "So, I just googled 'Angelica Evangelista' and got almost eight thousand hits," he said. "Let's add 'New Orleans' to narrow down the search." His long, spindly fingers flew over the keyboard, and then he pressed the return key.

  I looked at the screen. "Wow, less than a hundred results. Now that's more like it."

  We were interrupted by the clacking sound of Veronica's Manolo Blahniks, which were quickly approaching my office.

  She burst into the room. "Incredible news! A student named Angelica Evangelista graduated from the London College of Fashion in 2008! Can you believe it?"

  David and I looked at each other and back at her.

  "Did you find out anything else?" I asked.

  "Yes. This Angelica got a bachelor's degree in Fashion Management."

  "Which is exactly what Jessica Evans did for a living," I added.

  Veronica's eyes were sparkling. "Exactly!"

  "Is that a four-year degree?" I pressed.

  "Yeah, why?"

  I did a rapid calculation in my head. "Well, then the year would be about right, because Jessica was twenty-six, and that would make her around twenty-two years old when she graduated."

  "Could Angelica be Jessica?" Veronica asked as though she didn't dare believe it.

  "I'm beginning to wonder that myself," I replied, deep in thought. "Hey, David," I began, "try searching 'Angelica Evangelista' and 'London.'"

  Veronica walked behind my desk to see the computer screen.

  "Whoa!" David exclaimed as the results appeared. And Veronica and I didn't need to ask him why. The very first link was a Wikipedia page entitled "Murder of Immacolata Di Salvo."

  "What's this?" I said, stunned.

  David clicked the link, and we all leaned closer to the screen to read the text.

  'Immacolata Di Salvo, an American exchange student from New Orleans, Louisiana, was murdered on May 1, 2008. Di Salvo, aged twenty-two, was found dead in her dorm room in London, where she attended the London College of Fashion.'

  I quickly glanced through the rest of the article but didn't see the name Angelica Evangelista. "David, scroll down the page a little. I want to see how this Angelica person is connected to the murder."

  He did a search for "Angelica" and found her name in the middle of the page.

  "There," I said when the cursor highlighted the name. "I'll read it aloud. Angelica Evangelista, an American exchange student from New Orleans, Louisiana, and the flat mate of Di Salvo, found Di Salvo's body after returning home from a trip abroad at 3 a.m. There were no signs of forced entry in the dorm room, which led police to believe that Di Salvo knew her killer."

  "Oh. My. God." I sat back in my chair.

  "Could this be related to our case?" Veronica asked. She and I stared at each other in shock.

  "Dude!" David exclaimed.

  "What?" I asked with a start. I was on the edge of my seat and almost fell off.

  "It mentions Stewart Preston!" he exclaimed. "I totally remember hearing about this when I was a kid."

  I couldn't help but repress a smile at the notion that David was anything but a kid now.

  "Who's Stewart Preston?" Veronica asked.

  "His family is rich," David explained. "I'm talkin' uber rich. His father, Stewart Preston, III, owns, like, half of New Orleans."

  "What does he do?" Veronica pressed.

  "I dunno. I never really knew," he replied. "One second."

  David opened a new page and typed "Stewart Preston, III" into the search field. He immediately found a Wikipedia page on Preston, and, after scanning the contents he said, "Looks like he owns a bunch of textile companies."

  "Make that a textile empire," I corrected, glancing at the long list of companies owned by Preston and his associates.

  "Franki, read the part in the murder article about Stewart Preston," Veronica said.

  "Sure," I said as David switched back to the other screen. "It says, 'Stewart Preston, IV, an American exchange student from New Orleans, Louisiana, who was attending the London School of Economics, was charged with the sexual assault and murder of Di Salvo in August of 2009.'"

  David nodded. "Right! And he never went to jail either. Everyone said it was because of his dad's money and connections."

  I resumed reading. "It says, 'Preston was eventually acquitted and cleared of all charges in January of 2012.' I wonder why."

  "Me too," Veronica replied. "Does it say?"

  "No, and it doesn't explain how Immacolata was killed either," I noted.

  "Right," she said. "David, look for a local article on the murder, maybe one from The Times-Picayune."

  As David returned to the main search results page, Veronica commented, "You know, it's certainly looking like Jessica Evans and Angelica Evangelista are one and the same person, but I wish there was something more concrete to link the two of them."

  David pulled up a Times-Picayune article on the Di Salvo murder dated May 4, 2008. The opening line of the article reported, 'On May 1, 2008, Immacolata Di Salvo was found strangled to death in her dorm room at the London College of Fashion.'

  "Strangled?" Veronica said.

  She and I exchanged a questioning look.

  "Just like Jessica," I said softly.

  "Yeah," David confirmed, "and look at this part!" He pointed a skinny finger at the second line of the article. "'The murder weapon was a scarf."'

  "Tombola!" I whispered in Italian. "Uh, I mean, 'Bingo!'" I translated for David's benefit.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  "A scarf." I shook my head. "I can't believe it."

  The three of us stared at the computer screen for a few minutes, dumbstruck. David was the first to break the silence.

  "So, Angelica and Jessica
were, like, the same girl!"

  "It sure looks that way, doesn't it?" Veronica replied.

  "Yeah," I breathed. "This case is getting crazy, isn't it?"

  "I'll say. And dangerous too! Like, you guys could be dealing with a serial scarf strangler!" David opened his eyes wide. "If I were either one of you, man, I wouldn't even think of wearing a scarf while I was workin' this case."

  Even though I wasn't wearing a scarf, my hand involuntarily went to my throat. I started to protest but then opted to remain silent. The kid had a point.

  Veronica walked to the front of my desk to face us. "Let's not jump to any conclusions, David. Even if these two cases are related," she continued, pacing back and forth, "there's no guarantee that the same person committed both murders."

  "I guess." David stared down at his dirty white tennis shoes. He was clearly very attached to the idea of a serial scarf strangler.

  Veronica looked at him. "We need to actually prove that Jessica was really Angelica before we spend any time investigating the relationship between these two cases. Otherwise, we could make a critical mistake."

  "So, we need to track down Bill and Barbara Evangelista," I said.

  "Yeah, and Immacolata's family. Since Immacolata roomed with Angelica, then one of her relatives or friends must have seen a picture of Angelica at some point."

  David was typing quickly. "Uh, here's an obituary for Immacolata Di Salvo. It mentions her family."

  I turned to look at the screen and scanned the text. "Here we go. It says, 'She is survived by her father, Rosario Di Salvo, her mother, Maria Di Salvo, and her sisters Concetta and Domenica.' Wow, those are some serious Italian Catholic names."

  "Huh?" David turned to look at me. "What do you mean?"

  "Well, 'Immacolata' is Italian for 'Immaculate,' and the other family members' names mean 'rosary,' 'Mary,' 'conception,' and 'Sunday.' Oh, and the 'Salvo' part of their last name is the nickname for 'Salvatore,' which means 'savior.'"

  "Wicked!" he exclaimed.

  Righteous, maybe, but not wicked, I thought. "Religious-themed names are really common in Italy, especially in the South, so I'm guessing that the Di Salvos are fairly devout." I continued scanning the obituary.