Veronica was behind me again, trying to read over my shoulder. "Does the obituary list a funeral home?"
I turned back to look at her. "Yeah, and it's in Slidell. Where is that?"
"It's a suburb of New Orleans," David explained. Then his chest swelled with pride. "It's, like, a forty-minute drive from here, but I can make it in twenty-five."
"That reminds me," I began, "Veronica, you never told us the cities that Bill and Barbara Evangelista were living in."
"Oh, right! Let me go get the envelope." She hurried from the room.
"David, see if you can find an address for the Di Salvos," I said.
"Already got it," he replied. "There's a 'Rosario Di Salvo' in the white pages on St. Augustine Street. Their phone number's listed. But I can't believe people still have landlines, man. That's sooooo last century."
Before I could reply, Veronica clacked back into the room and stopped in front of my desk with the envelope. "Barbara lived on East Queens Drive in Slidell, but Bill didn't write his return address. It was postmarked in Baton Rouge, though."
"Well, David just found a Slidell address for a Rosario Di Salvo. If it's the right person, then Angelica and Immacolata could have known each other before they went to college."
"Let's call the Di Salvos and see if we can find that out, shall we?" she asked.
"Sure." I looked at the screen to find the number.
"David, while Franki and I are on this call, I need you to look up the property tax appraisal records for the parish that East Queens Drive is in. Find out whether the Evangelistas own that house." She handed him the envelope. "Then get me anything you can on Barbara and Bill Evangelista."
He stood up from my desk chair and stretched his long limbs. "Yes, ma'am."
Veronica shot him a look as she took his seat in front of my computer.
"Uh, I mean, mademoiselle." He scurried from the room to his workstation.
She smiled after him and then turned toward me. "Franki, will you dial the number on speakerphone? I don't want to miss any details of the call."
"Okay." I pulled my desk phone closer toward us. "Do you want me to talk, or you?"
"You talk, but if they refuse to meet with us, I'll chime in and try to ask a few questions."
As I dialed the number, I felt a knot in the pit of my stomach. It was one thing to chat up a gossipy salesgirl at LaMarca, but it was quite another to call a family whose loved one had been the victim of a brutal murder. I hoped the Di Salvos would be glad to know that someone was looking into their daughter's now cold case. I nervously waited through seven or so rings. Just as I was about to hang up, I heard someone answer.
"Hello?" a tired female voice asked.
"Hello, Mrs. Di Salvo?"
"Yes, who's speaking?" she replied in a hollow tone.
"My name is Franki Amato, and I'm on the line with my partner, Veronica Maggio. We're investigating a New Orleans murder that we'd like to talk to you about," I said, delicately sidestepping the issue of Immacolata's case.
There was silence on the other end of the line. "But, we've already talked to the police."
"Oh," I said, momentarily caught off guard. "About your daughter Immacolata's case, right?"
"No, about Jennifer's murder, or whatever Angelica was calling herself."
Veronica and I exchanged a look.
My heart began pounding in my chest. "You mean, Jessica. Jessica Evans."
"Yes, that's it. What is this about?"
I sat there, speechless, replaying Maria Di Salvo's words in my mind. Luckily, Veronica intervened on my behalf.
"Mrs. Di Salvo, this is Veronica. I know it must be tremendously painful for you to discuss your daughter, but my private investigation firm, Private Chicks, Inc., has been contracted by a local individual to investigate Angelica's murder. We're trying to determine whether her death is related to Immacolata's case. Would it be possible for us to meet with you this week?"
Another long silence ensued followed by what sounded like muffled sobs. "You can come tomorrow morning at ten o'clock."
There was so much sadness in her voice that my eyes welled up with tears. I couldn't possibly imagine the nightmare that she and her family were living.
"Thank you so much, Mrs. Di Salvo," Veronica said. "We'll be there tomorrow at ten." She leaned toward the screen to see the address. "Are you still at the St. Augustine Street address in the phone book?"
"Yes…see you tomorrow."
I disconnected the call. "Wow, that was hard, especially when she started crying. She sounded so unhappy, almost haunted."
"Yeah, she did. But I'm sure you know from your police work that when you're interacting with the family of a victim, it can take an emotional toll on you. Even if you solve the case, you can never undo what was done to their loved one. So, you have to try to keep your personal and professional life separate to the extent that you can. And if the case starts to get to you, then you need to do something to deal with the feelings of helplessness."
"Well, I know one thing I can do."
Veronica looked at me. "What's that?"
"Go out and find that scarf," I replied with conviction.
* * *
As I walked toward Ann Taylor, I looked incredulously at my watch. Six o'clock? No wonder I'm so hungry! I'd spent the last seven hours scarf hunting at The Shops at Canal Place and hadn't thought once about lunch. I was pretty sure I'd never forgotten to eat a meal in my entire life, not even when I'd had a stomach virus. I had heard about people who "forgot to eat," but I always assumed that they had some sort of brain deficiency or damage from an accident or aneurism. But now it was looking like I'd just been going about the whole losing weight thing all wrong. Instead of dieting, I should have been doing some serious shopping. Now why hadn't I thought of that?
When I reached the store, I saw a ghastly pale, thin and bald mannequin rocking the LBD that Veronica had picked out for me. I figured that what I lacked in terms of thinness, I could make up for with my olive skin and big hair. But after questioning the staff, I left Ann Taylor without buying the dress. I just wasn't in the mood to dress shop after learning that no one in the store, or in the entire mall for that matter, had ever seen a black-and-white checked scarf with a yellow border. Plus, every time I thought of my conversation with Maria Di Salvo, I felt guilty about shopping for my date when I could have been working on a case that in all probability was related to the brutal murder of her daughter.
As I headed scarf-less and LBD-less toward the mall exit, I passed by a jewelry kiosk displaying silver voodoo doll earrings. My mind instantly flashed back to Mambo Odette and her bizarre warning about the Evans case. What was it she'd said? I thought for a moment, and then it came to me: "Dat girl, she know what dat boy do." No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't understand who "dat boy" was. Was it Ryan Hunter? If so, I certainly didn't know anything about that guy or his past. I also didn't get why Odette had called me "dat girl" when she was talking directly to me. Or was she? All of the sudden, a light bulb went on in my head: "dat girl" wasn't me, she was Jessica!
I rushed from the mall and speed-walked down Canal Street. (I made it a policy never to run unless my life was in danger.) It was less than a mile to Marie Laveau's House of Voodoo, and I wanted to get over there fast to talk to Mambo Odette. As creepy and crazy as it seemed, there was a possibility that she actually knew something about the case. Although I certainly wasn't familiar with the inner workings of the New Orleans voodoo community, I had a sense that it was rooted in a system of informants and spies, much like the criminal underworld. Not that I think voodoo practitioners are crooks, mind you. It's just that all underground movements—social, political, cultural, and religious—have historically relied on the covert exchange of information.
When I reached Bourbon Street, I hooked a right and immediately slowed my pace to begin weaving through the thick crowd. Even on a Monday, the street was hopping. But I hardly even noticed the revelers and the blaring jazz m
usic because I was so focused on deciphering the riddle of Odette's message. If Jessica was "dat girl," who was "dat boy"? My mind kept returning to Ryan. Did Jessica know something he had done? His criminal record was clean, but that didn't mean anything. Could he have been the one who strangled Immacolata? It seemed unlikely that a strong-willed type like Jessica would have been living with him if he had. Or…I stopped dead in my tracks. Had Jessica been covering for Stewart Preston?
"Excuse me." I practically shoved my way through the last two hundred yards that separated me from Marie Laveau's. "Oops, sorry," I said after I accidentally caused a guy to spill one of the two sixty-four-ounce plastic bottles of Miller Lite he was drinking. Oh well, I thought, he didn't need to be drinking that much, anyway.
I hurried up the steps to the store and rushed inside, just in case the beer guy decided to come after me. Instead of the cashier with the acne, I was greeted—if you could call it that—by an older woman who looked like she was dressed for a Sunday sermon.
"Hello," I said as I walked past her toward the back room.
"Mm." She frowned as she looked down at me through her gray, horn-rimmed glasses.
I couldn't help but wonder why a woman like that would be working at a voodoo store, especially while wearing a pale pink church suit and a strand of pearls. Maybe she was keeping a watchful eye on the heathen world for her congregation?
As I entered the dimly lit room, I saw the rockabilly sales clerk in his seat behind the counter. He was carefully smoothing back his pompadour with a small black comb.
"Can I help you with somethin'?" he asked. He seemed much more relaxed than when I was here last.
"Yeah, I was looking for Mambo Odette." I strained my eyes in the darkness for any sign of the wooden statue woman.
"She's doesn't usually come in on a school night." He stood up and began playing air upright bass and bouncing his head to the imaginary beat.
"School night?" I tried to act like I thought his rockabilly air concert was completely normal.
"You know, a week day?" He pretend-strummed.
"Oh, right," I said, disappointed. "So, she only works on weekends?"
"No, it's the other way around. She makes the long green during the week, then she comes in here on the weekends to hang out."
"I'm sorry, the 'long' what?" I might speak Italian, but rockabilly was Greek to me.
He stopped air-strumming. "You know, baby. 'Bread,' 'grain,' 'money.'"
"Ah, gotcha." I opted to overlook the fact that he'd called me "baby" since it was clearly part of his rockabilly culture. "So, being a voodoo priestess is a regular Monday to Friday job?"
"The weekend is when all the cheatin' and thuggin' goes down, you dig? So, Odette spends the work week helping the hapless victims."
"Oh. Then I'll just come back another time."
"That's cool." He spun his nonexistent bass. "If you need anything else, just let me know. My name's Hep."
"Hip?"
"No, darlin', 'Hep,' as in 'Hep Cat'?" he intoned, as though I were the least "with it" person he'd ever met.
"Oh. Right." I smiled and returned to the main room. Hep was a very different person when Mambo Odette wasn't around, and I do mean different.
As I headed for the door, the gleaming glass vials of potions near the cash register caught my eye. As reluctant as I was to endure the disdainful stare of the Church Lady, I decided to take a look. After all, I had kind of hoped to ask Odette about my date with Bradley after I discussed the Evans case with her. But since she wasn't around, maybe a love potion would counteract any voodoo hexes Le Bayou had in store for me.
As I browsed the assorted potions, I was internally wrestling with my ambiguous position on voodoo, superstition, and things of the like. I really didn't want to believe in that sort of thing, but occasionally things happened in the world that made me wonder if I was wrong. And sometimes, especially on a sad and frustrating day like today, I just needed to believe in magic.
In the end, I settled on the obvious choice: Love Potion #9. A steal at only fourteen ninety-five, I thought as I approached the cash register and placed the bottle on the counter.
The church-suited lady rang up the potion. "That'll be sixteen dollars and eighteen cents with tax."
"Here you go." I counted out the exact amount and handed it to her. I was waiting for her to tell me that there were better uses of my money, like tithing, but instead she just looked disapprovingly at me as I placed the potion in my handbag and left the store.
As I walked in the direction of the office to get my car, I pulled out my phone and dialed Veronica's number.
"Hey, Franki. Any luck?"
"Nope. And I covered The Shops at Canal Street so thoroughly that I can even recite its motto: '32 names. 3 floors. 1 place.'"
"Impressive! So now that we've covered all of the stores in the vicinity of the crime, we'll have to expand our search to the broader New Orleans area."
"I'm starting to feel like we're looking for a needle in a haystack, Veronica."
"I know, Franki, but we have to keep looking." Then, skillfully changing the subject, she asked, "So you haven't told me about the dress. Did Ann Taylor have it in your size?"
I hesitated for a moment. "I didn't get it."
"What? Why not? Your date is tomorrow night!"
"I wasn't in the mood to dress shop."
Veronica sighed. "What did I tell you about keeping your personal and professional life separate?"
"I know, I know."
"Well, then you'd better get over to Ann Taylor right now and buy that dress."
"Or what?" I asked, half playfully, half seriously.
"Or I'm going to have Glenda dress you for your date." There was a firmness to her voice that left no room for doubt.
I had a quick mental image of me opening the door to Bradley in a black leather bustier, a gold lamé miniskirt, purple stripper shoes, and a green boa, with a long black cigarette holder in my left hand. "I'm on my way."
* * *
At 8:45 p.m., I was strolling through Lenton's at Lakeside Shopping Center listening to the loudspeaker message announcing that the mall would close in fifteen minutes. Incredibly, Ann Taylor had the LBD in a size twelve. The dress had fit to perfection, which did wonders for my mood. I'd even splurged on a pair of black pumps to celebrate the occasion.
Just before I reached the exit, I noticed two large tables piled high with merchandise marked seventy-five percent off. Of course, I'd already maxed out my meager clothes allowance for the next four months with the purchases I'd just made, but who could pass up the opportunity to buy clothing at a quarter of the price? I mean, it would be financially irresponsible of me not to try to find something to buy at those prices.
As I quickly sorted through the piles, I saw the sleeve of what looked like a cute mulberry sweater tangled in a mass of clothes. I put my bags on the floor and began to unravel the knotted items. Suddenly, I caught sight of fabric with a black-and-white checked pattern in the mix. My heart began thumping hard in my chest as I worked to free the item from the other clothes. It was a scarf! And it looked exactly like the one in the crime scene photo, except that it had a mauve border.
With scarf in hand, I picked up my bags and ran to a nearby cash register. A heavyset woman with a nametag that read "Keisha" was busy putting anti-theft devices on a stack of cardigans. "Did you need help findin' somethin'?"
"Yes, I was wondering if this scarf came in any other colors." I placed it on the counter.
"One minute while I check." Keisha snapped another device onto a cardigan. She picked up a scan gun, scanned the barcode on the price tag, and proceeded to look at her cash register screen for what seemed like an eternity. Then she furrowed her brow. "Looks like it came in one other color."
By this time, my heart was beating so fast that I thought I might faint. "Can you tell me which color?"
"Is says lye-moan-sell-low," she syllabified.
"What? What color is that?"
She shrugged. "Beats me. That's all it says."
"Do you mind if I look?" I asked, not without a hint of frustration.
"Be my guest."
She stepped to the side as I rushed behind the counter and looked at the screen. After scanning through a seemingly endless series of product names and lengthy codes comprised of letters and numbers, I saw it. "Style: Limoncello."
I threw my arms around Keisha. "It's yellow!"
She pulled away and took a step backward. "O-kaaay."
"Listen, Keisha, does Lenton's keep records of its sales?"
"Of course. But you'd have to talk to the store manager about that."
"Is the manager here now? It's important."
She looked at me for a moment, and then I could see the light dawn in her eyes. "Hey, you're not a detective are you?"
"Yes, I am." I was hoping that this would convince her to help me.
"Is this a cheatin' husband case, or somethin'?"
"It's much more serious than that."
She opened her eyes wide. "Murder?"
When I didn't reply, she nodded. "He'll be here tomorrow morning at 9:30. Ask for Ed Orlansky."
CHAPTER TWELVE
"I'm still so excited that you found the scarf store!" Veronica exclaimed, throwing her hands into the air as we sped down Interstate 10 East toward Slidell in her Audi the next morning.
"Me too," I said, watching to make sure that she put her hands back on the steering wheel. Luckily, she did.
She abruptly veered into the left lane, cutting off a jacked-up pick-up truck with tractor-trailer tires in the process. "What time did you say we could call the manager?"
"Keisha told me he would be in at around 9:30 today." I looked over my left shoulder at the now road-raging truck driver, who promptly hit the gas and swerved into the middle lane. I quickly shrunk down into my seat, but not far enough to miss him unceremoniously saluting us with his middle finger as he roared around us.
Veronica glanced at the clock on the dashboard, completely oblivious to what had just occurred. "But that was ten minutes ago!"
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