1 Limoncello Yellow

by Traci Andrighetti

  "Please do," I replied, and I shut the door behind her.

  I turned to Veronica. "What do you make of that?"

  "I think it confirms what we already suspect—that Jessica and Stewart had some sort of illicit relationship."

  "It also confirms that Stewart is every bit as arrogant as he looks in that picture of him after he'd been acquitted."

  "That reminds me," Veronica began. "Have you tried calling his parents again?"

  "No. I'll go do that now."

  When I got back to my office, I checked my recent call list and then pressed the Preston number. I waited for a couple of rings.

  "Preston's rezidens," a husky female voice responded.

  "Mrs. Preston?" I wasn't sure whether it was her, but I thought whoever it was might be drunk. Or Hungarian.

  "No, I maid," the voice responded in broken English.

  "Oh, hello," I said, relieved. "May I please speak to Stewart Preston, IV?"

  "He not here."

  "Okay, well—"

  "Who zis?" she interrupted. "Zsuzsanna?"

  I hesitated for a moment, unsure how to respond.

  "Vat you vant?" she continued.

  "Um, his cell phone number?" I asked.

  "I tell you before," she said in a whisper, "I sink he bad man. But, you vant number, I give. You vait."

  "Thank you." I was shocked at my unexpected success. I grabbed a nearby scrap of paper on my desk—a receipt for tampons, gelato, and red wine—and prepared to jot down the number.

  A minute later, the maid returned to the phone and recited Stewart's contact information.

  I repeated it back to her, after which she commanded, "You no call again!" Then she hung up the phone.

  I shook my head, momentarily marveling at the less-than-stellar phone manners of the Preston household, and then my text message tone sounded. I looked at the display and saw that it was my dad reminding me to check the oil on my car. I rolled my eyes. But before I put the phone down, I got another text. I felt my heart skip a beat when I saw that this one was from Bradley:

  In back-to-back meetings. But we need to talk. Call you later, B.

  Veronica entered my office. "Did you call the Prestons?"

  I jumped as though I'd been caught cheating on a test. "You're not going to believe this, but I actually got his cell number."

  She clapped her hands. "Have you called him?"

  "I was just about to," I said as I tapped the message icon and fired off an angry one-word reply in Italian to Bradley. Even though he didn't speak the language, I was fairly certain he'd know what it meant.

  "Great, let's put it on speaker." Veronica pulled up a chair.

  "Sure." I smiled devilishly to myself as I tapped send. Then I typed Stewart's number on the keypad and pressed call. The phone rang only three times before going to voicemail. There was no message, just a beep.

  "Hello, Stewart. My name is Gina Mazzucco." I shot Veronica a nasty look as she, in turn, flashed me a wicked smile. "I'm calling about an urgent matter regarding Angelica Evangelista. Please call me back at your earliest convenience." I recited my number and hung up.

  Veronica crossed her arms and gave a satisfied smile. "Now we sit back and let him stew."

  "I just hope he takes the bait," I replied, right as my phone started to ring.

  Veronica looked at me questioningly.

  With my heart pounding in my chest, I glanced at the display. "Ugh! It's my parents! They know better than to call me while I'm at work!"

  "You should take it. It could be important."

  "I suppose." I tapped answer. "Hello?"

  "Francesca," my mother began, her voice unusually shrill. "This is your mother."

  "Mom, I'm in a meeting, so I don't have much time. What's up?"

  "Well, your father says he texted you about your car, and you replied 'vaffanculo.' We're just wondering what in the heck is going on down there in New Orleans."

  I instantly felt a knot in the pit of my stomach. I'd told my dad to go screw himself, albeit in slightly more scathing terms, instead of Bradley!

  The only thing to do was take the easy way out. "Mom, like I said, I really can't talk now."

  "Now Francesca, your father is waiting for an explanation," she chided.

  "Just tell him that I meant to send that message to Bradley, okay?"

  "I don't think that's going to make him feel any better, dear. You know we didn't raise you to use language like that. Not in Italian or English."

  "Mom, I've really got to go." I quickly hung up the phone and dropped it on my desk, as though it had scalded my hand.

  Veronica raised an eyebrow.

  "Don't ask!" I put my head in my hands. That text message wasn't going to help the already tense situation with my parents. On the positive side, though, it would probably put a stop to those annoying car reminders from my dad.

  * * *

  At 6:30 p.m. I was just getting ready to call it a day when a sullen David popped his head into my office. Veronica warned me that he was lovesick for a girl in his Brazilian dance class who unfortunately only had eyes for the Samba instructor. His opinion on the matter was painfully apparent from his mopey disposition.

  "You got a minute?" he asked, his usually bright eyes uncharacteristically dark and expressionless.

  "I've always got time for you, David," I said in an attempt to lift his spirits. "What's up?"

  "Well, I've got to get to the library to study for an exam, but Veronica's on the phone. Can I fill you in on my research real fast?"

  "Absolutely. What've you got?"

  He sat in front of my desk and leaned over with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped in front of him. "Not much," he said, looking even more defeated than he had moments before. "I ran the background checks on the Di Salvos, and they're all clean."

  "Even the Diva of Darkness?" I was kind of expecting some sort of run-in with the law to surface—a public menace charge, at the very least.

  "Yeah, her too." He looked down at his hands.

  "What about Bill Evangelista?"

  David sighed in frustration. "Nothing. It's like the dude dropped off the face of the earth." "That's so odd. You know, I just keep wondering whether he or his family could be connected to this case in some way."

  "You mean like his daughter, right?"

  I nodded.

  "Yeah, she definitely could have been jealous of Jessica, and maybe she wanted to eliminate the competition, you know? Women are ruthless like that." And then, his face turning as red as an apple, he held up one spindly fingered hand. "But not you or Veronica, or anything."

  I smiled. "Of course not. Anything else you want to talk to me about?"

  He opened his mouth to reply, but Veronica burst into the room with a strange look on her face. "Come to my office. Quick!"

  David and I exchanged looks and hurried out after her.

  "I just got off the phone with Betty down at the police station," Veronica explained in a somber tone. "Domenica Di Salvo has been arrested."

  David and I looked at each other, stunned, and then back at Veronica.

  "For Jessica's murder," I breathed. "I knew it."

  "No, not for Jessica's murder," Veronica corrected. "For grave dancing."

  David yelled "Holy shit!" as I simultaneously shouted, "Say what?"

  Veronica inhaled deeply. "According to Betty, Domenica was arrested at around 4:45 p.m. today. Apparently, she belongs to a group that dances on graves, and they've been charged with defacing a tombstone."

  After I recovered from the initial shock, I exclaimed in a vindicated tone, "I told you that girl was creepy! What normal person would ever want to hang out in a cemetery, much less freakin' dance a jig there?"

  "I know, right?" David chimed in, nodding vigorously.

  "And where, exactly, have they been doing this?" I asked, outraged. "No, don't tell me. Let me guess: where Marie Laveau is buried."

  "Wrong," Veronica said. "In Slidell. In the
cemetery where Immacolata is buried."

  I stared at her, momentarily speechless. Then I recovered. "No way."

  "Yes way," she replied. "From what I've been told, that's the only place they've been doing this. And that's not even all there is to the story."

  "No?" I wasn't sure how much more of this story I could take.

  "No. The police are also investigating whether this group had any involvement in the murder of a man named Henry Withers." Veronica paused and then added, "He was the cemetery's caretaker, and he was hacked to death with an ax in the cemetery last Halloween night."

  David stood openmouthed as I gasped and collapsed into a nearby chair. I'd certainly been suspicious of Domenica and her deviant demeanor, but I hadn't expected anything like this.

  "So, it looks like we're going to have to pay Domenica yet another visit," Veronica continued.

  "How are we going to do that now that she's in jail?" I asked. "You know her mother isn't going to have the money to bail her out."

  "I'm a criminal attorney, Franki," Veronica reminded me. "I have a right to speak with my client."

  "Veronica!" I admonished. "You're not seriously thinking of representing her, are you?"

  "Definitely not," she replied. "But that'll just be our little secret, now won't it?"

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  In my hazy dream state, it seemed perfectly normal that I would be at an Elvis Presley concert. But something in the back of my mind was telling me that The King wasn't singing "Burning Love" to me in person, no matter how appealing the thought may be. Did I mention that it was the sexy, black leather–clad Elvis from the '68 Comeback Special, not the sparkly cape-wearing, bell-bottomed Vegas version? Yummy. Then it hit me: That was my "Burning Love" ringtone I was hearing.

  I opened my eyes and immediately cringed from the harsh glare of daylight. The ringing was coming from somewhere below me, so I peered over the edge of the chaise lounge where I had apparently spent the night. Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw. On the floor next to my phone were a bag of potato chips, a tub of sour cream and chive dip, a container of Ben & Jerry's Dublin Mudslide, a box of chocolate-covered cherries, and a bottle of red wine, all of which were empty. I whispered a silent prayer that Napoleon had eaten all that food while I was sleeping—it was clear by now that I had been the one to drink the wine. But given that he was sitting beside the empty packages with his plastic food bowl in his mouth, I knew the chances of that were slim to none.

  I rooted out my phone from underneath the potato chip bag and saw that Corinne was calling. "Hello?" I croaked, sounding a lot like my mouth was full of gravel. Or chips.

  "Bonjour, Franki! It is Corinne."

  "Hi, Corinne." I briefly pulled the phone away from my ear to check the time: 7 a.m.

  "I have some information for you," she replied in a hushed tone. "But I am at ze bank, so I must hurry before ze osers come to work."

  "Okay." I flopped down onto my back. "Have you found out anything about Jessica's monthly deposits?"

  "Oui. Ze deposits she make each mons were checks."

  "Her LaMarca paychecks?" I held my breath in anticipation.

  "Non, for her paychecks she have ze direct deposit," she explained. "Zese checks were from a life insurance company."

  I exhaled loudly. So they weren't payoffs from the Prestons, after all. "A life insurance company? Is there any way to tell who the policy holder was?" It was a long shot, but I had to ask.

  "Non, but ze policy is from an oil company in Baton Rouge."

  "Really?" I asked, surprised. "How big were the checks?"

  "Zey were small. One hundred dollars."

  It was looking like the bank lead was a bust. "I guess the policy was from a relative or family friend. It's obviously not a bribe."

  "Wait, Franki. I save ze best for last."

  I felt a surge of excitement. "What?"

  "Jessica receive other PPD deposits, besides her paycheck."

  "What do you mean by 'PPD deposits'?" I asked just as Napoleon put his food bowl down and gave a high-pitched bark in my direction.

  "Ah, 'PPD' is an SEC code, so it tell ze bank ze transaction type. A code of PPD means 'Prearranged Payment and Deposit.' It is a repeat deposit, like for a paycheck or pension or somesing."

  "How much were these deposits for?" I switched the phone to my left ear so that I could pet Napoleon with my right hand to keep him from barking.

  "Ten sousand dollars!"

  I sat straight up on the chaise lounge. "Ten thousand dollars?"

  "Oui."

  "How often did she receive them?" I was reeling from the amount of those deposits.

  "Every mons."

  It looked like I had just hit pay dirt. As, apparently, had Jessica. "Is there any way to tell who these direct deposits were from?"

  "Ze registry shows zey are from ze Vautier Group."

  "Could you spell that?" I ran and grabbed a pen from the kitchen counter. For me, French might as well be Sanskrit. Using the box of chocolate-covered cherries as a note pad, I hastily scribbled the company name.

  "Do you have any idea what this company does?"

  "Non, I never hear of it."

  "Corinne, this is very important. Can you tell me how long Jessica has been receiving these deposits?"

  "Since she open ze account with us in 2012. I do not know if she receive ze money before zat."

  If only she'd been with the same bank since Immacolata's murder! "Did you see any other activity in her account that looked unusual?"

  "Non, zat is all."

  "Well, if these payments are what I think they are, this could be a huge break in the case. I can't thank you enough for your help."

  "It is my pleasure. But now I really must go. Au revoir!""

  "Ciao, Corinne."

  The second I hung up I saw yet another awful sight: Bradley had called last night. And I needed to talk to him—just to tell him to stop calling me, of course. I flopped back down onto the chaise lounge in an instant funk. I'd fallen asleep early because of the wine, which I'd only drunk because I'd been disturbed by Domenica, a.k.a. the Dame of Demise, and her deathly antics. That girl was definitely getting on my last nerve. Or maybe I should say she was dancing on it.

  Speaking of Domenica, I had to be ready in half an hour to go to the police station with Veronica to question her. I sent a quick text to David asking him to find out the names of the owners and board of directors of The Vautier Group. Then I walked and fed a very testy Napoleon before heading off to my closet to find something that looked attorney-like.

  * * *

  "So, what am I supposed to do when we get inside?" I asked as Veronica made a right turn into the parking lot of the Slidell City Jail.

  "I'm going to introduce you as my paralegal." She scanned the rows of parked cars for an empty space. "That way, the police will direct all the questions to me."

  "That's good." I glanced at Veronica's smart gray suit and raspberry silk blouse. In comparison, the Forever 21 black blazer and leopard-print dress I'd thrown together made me look more like I was ready for a night of fist pumping at the Jersey Shore than a day of representing incarcerated clients.

  Veronica maneuvered her Audi into a parking space right next to an old pink Toyota that was completely covered with Barbie doll parts.

  I was mesmerized by all those dismembered dolls. "Wow, I wonder if the driver of that car is in the slammer. If so, it's got to be for Barbiecide."

  "Killing Barbies isn't a crime, but bad taste in car décor should be." Veronica put her sunglasses in her bag. "We'd better get going. Domenica will go before a judge first thing this morning, and we have to talk to her before that happens."

  "Why?" I reached for my purse. "Aren't we allowed to talk to her after that?"

  "No, the judge is going to ask her who's representing her. So we need to meet with her before she names her attorney or before the court appoints one to her. Because at that point, it'll be too late for me to pose as
her legal counsel."

  Suddenly, I heard "I'm just a hunk, a hunk of burnin' love" coming from my purse. I pulled out my phone. "It's Bradley!"

  "Are you going to answer?"

  A wave of anxiety swept through my chest. "I have to talk to him sooner or later."

  "Okay, but try to stay calm," Veronica said.

  I nodded and did my best not to sound nervous. "H-Hello?" I responded unsuccessfully.

  "Franki, it's Bradley," he said in an unexpectedly neutral tone.

  "Oh?" I feigned a surprise that I instantly regretted. In the smartphone era, it was obvious that you knew who was calling.

  "I'm sorry to call you so early, but I've got back-to-back meetings again today, and I wanted to catch you before they got underway. Do you have a minute?"

  "I suppose." This time I feigned an indifference I definitely didn't feel. Even after finding out about his wife, my mind couldn't help replaying the kiss-to-end-all-kisses.

  "I tried to call you last night, but I guess you were out?"

  "Uh-huh," I said truthfully. After all, I was out, just not the kind of out he was thinking.

  "Listen, I've been thinking about what happened the other night, and I realized that I came on a little strong with that kiss. So I want to apologize if I was, uh, forward."

  I bit my lip. If only it were as simple as a kiss.

  "Anyway," he continued, "I know it's short notice, but I have two tickets to the opening night of Jersey Boys tonight. I was hoping you would do me the honor of going with me. I promise I'll behave like a perfect gentleman."

  There were no words to express how much I did not want to turn down a date with Bradley, especially when he was being surprisingly sweet and respectful. And when I was already wearing the perfect Jersey-style outfit for the occasion. But after everything I'd been through with Todd and then Vince, I just couldn't go from being cheated on to being a cheater. I didn't want to hurt another woman, not even Sheilah. So, I had to draw the line firmly in the sand. With a heavy heart and a sick stomach, I replied, "I'm sorry, Bradley, but I don't date married men."

  There was a deafening silence on the other end of the line followed by what sounded like a sharp intake of breath.