"Actually, we are," Veronica replied.
"Well, then," she began in a grim tone, "you're looking at a two-hour wait."
I counted ten total cowhands in the waiting area. "It doesn't look like that many people are waiting."
The harassed hostess gripped the edges of the hostess stand, bowed her head, and took a deep breath before looking me straight in the eye. "There aren't. But the good folks who decided to organize a cowboy convention in New Orleans apparently thought our famous barbecued shrimp were cooked on a grill instead of a stovetop. So, the cowboys here have all sent their orders back to the kitchen and are threatening to quote 'rustle up a passel of wood and cook the dad-gum shrimps in the dad-blamed parking lot.' As you might imagine, it's going to take us a while to settle what the cowboys are describing as 'this here sitchiation.'"
Sensing that now was not the time to insist, I said, "You know, I think we'll just head on over to the bar."
I led Veronica to an oyster-shucking area. "I don't know about you, but I think we need to get out of here before these crazy cattlemen decide to brawl or stampede or something."
"I agree, but we have to figure out a way to get a few pictures of Harry first."
I thought for a moment. "I know! I'll pretend like I'm one of those people who go around taking courtesy pictures of the guests."
"That's perfect!" Veronica enthused. "What do you need me to do?"
"Just help me find Harry at the O.K. Corral here."
"On it." She took off, weaving through the tables.
As I followed close on Veronica's heels, I began to get an idea of what it must have been like to be a pioneering woman in the Old West. The lewd whistling, suggestive winking, and flat-out leering—a girl could get used to this.
I spotted Harry at a table in the back corner of the restaurant. His back was to me, and he was blocking my view of his date.
I grabbed Veronica's arm. "There he is."
"Okay, give me your bag."
I pulled out my phone and then handed the bag to Veronica. "Here goes nothing."
I walked straight to the table where I was shocked to discover that Harry's date wasn't Patsy at all but rather an attractive forty-something brunette in a white Chanel suit with black trim.
How does he do it? I wondered, bewildered. Then I approached the double-crossing duo. "Good evening!"
A nervous Harry jumped in his seat, and the brunette hung her head.
"How would you two like a picture as a memento of your dinner at Pascal's Manale?" I asked way too cheerfully.
The bashful brunette looked uncertainly at Harry.
"Oh, no. No," he blustered. "That won't be necessary."
"Don't be silly!" I exclaimed, giving Harry a not-so-playful shove. "This'll just take a sec!"
"We'd really prefer not to have our picture taken," Harry said.
"Nonsense," I said through clenched teeth as I placed my hand firmly on Harry's back and pushed him toward the brunette. "Now you two lean in and say cheat. Wait, did I say cheat? Oopsy! I meant cheese."
"Please leave us alone!" Harry shouted with a dramatic wave of his arm. In the process, he inadvertently knocked his wallet, which he had placed beside his silverware, onto the ground.
Just as Harry leaned down to retrieve the wallet, I heard Veronica shout, "Franki!"
I turned and saw her frantically pointing at a manager-type who was heading swiftly in my direction. I had to take the picture, and fast.
I spun back around, aimed, and snapped. When I pulled the phone away from my eyes, a red-faced, toupee-less Harry with little pieces of pink tape on his head made a grasping motion toward my chest.
"Whoa, there, partner!" I shouted in cowboyese. Was Harry trying to take a swing at me? As he grabbed once again, I looked down and saw it: His toupee was caught on the top button of my blazer. Eww.
I quickly struggled to remove the rebellious rug from my button, but not before the manager-type arrived at the table.
"What's going on here?" the manager demanded.
"She…my…we . . ." Harry sputtered.
"I'm just helping this gentleman with his toupee," I explained as I turned and slapped the offending item down hard on Harry's hairless head. "There! That toupee tape ought to stick now, sir!" I exclaimed. Then, as they say in Texas, I hightailed it outta there faster 'n a polecat in a perfume shop.
Moments later, Veronica and I peeled out of the parking lot.
"I wonder who that woman was with Harry," she said.
"Who knows," I replied. "A 'catch' like that could get any woman in the city."
* * *
"What the…?" I exclaimed when Veronica and I arrived home twenty minutes later.
There in the yard stood a 5-foot-5-inch body builder with gel-styled hair and a thick gold chain with a huge cross and a cornicello, a twisted horn-shaped charm for warding off the evil eye. Even in the dim porch light, I could plainly see the Italian pride–themed tattoos on his bulging biceps and the orange glow of his spray tan.
"Do you know that guy?" Veronica asked, still gripping the steering wheel.
I squinted to get a better look. Although I had no idea who he was, I didn't have to look beneath his wife beater to know that he had spent far too much time at the gym. "No, but he looks like he would have been a shoo-in for the cast of Jerseylicious"
The steroid stud's eyes caught mine. He puffed out his chest like a toad expanding its throat and revealed a mouthful of bleached teeth as florescent white as his velour track pants. Then he bent down to pick up something at his feet.
"Get down!" I ducked into my seat. "He's got a gun!"
"Actually," Veronica began, completely unconcerned, "it looks like a small guitar."
I peered out the window and saw the offending instrument: a mandolin.
"Mamma mia!" I wailed, sinking back down into my seat. "I'm about to get a Sicilian serenade—Jersey style!"
No sooner had I spoken the words than I heard the opening lines of my nonna's favorite song, "…E vui durmiti ancora!," which means "…And you're still sleeping!"
Veronica looked thoughtful for a moment. "Say what you want about your nonna, but I really admire her determination."
I didn't bother to comment. I just sat in my seat waiting for my ripped Romeo to finish his serenade and leave.
"Well?" Veronica asked. "Aren't you going to get out of the car?"
"No." I crossed my arms like a stubborn child.
"Come on, Franki. You've got to deal with this."
I turned to face her. "Or what? He'll wake the dead across the street with all that romantic racket?"
Veronica rolled her eyes. "So you can ask him to leave."
"Good point." I started to get out of the car, but then a disturbing thought occurred to me. "Oh no!"
"What?"
"I'm wearing leopard print!" I lamented.
Veronica blinked. "So?"
"He's from New Jersey! They go crazy for leopard print there."
Veronica shook her head. "That's stereotyping, Franki."
"Can you not see him, Veronica?" I gestured toward my serenader. "He's pretty much a walking stereotype, I'd say."
"Well, at least he's not singing 'O Sole Mio.'"
"Ain't that the truth," I concurred.
Veronica and I got out of the car and started up the sidewalk right as Glenda flung open her front door. She was wearing what looked like Borat's mankini in shocking pink underneath a sheer baby doll robe. Of course, because it was cold out, she had put on matching faux fur leg warmers over her high-heeled slippers. To keep her calves warm, naturally.
"Loooord almighty!" Glenda breathed as she gave the buff bodybuilder a once-over that would make even a seasoned gigolo blush. "What do we have here?"
"We have what's known in New Jersey as a 'juicehead,'" I explained while the music played on.
Glenda took a drag off her foot-long pink cigarette holder and blew an alarming smoke signal: a perfectly formed heart-shaped smoke
ring. "Well in that case, sugar, I'd like to take a long, slow drink of that nectar."
I felt my stomach start to churn. I had to put a stop to this serenade-slash-stripper circus, and pronto. I turned to the strapping Sicilian. "Stop singing!"
He ceased, mid-word, and stared at me in surprise.
I walked up to him and looked down (I was a good seven to eight inches taller than him in my heels). "Listen, uh…"
"Guido," he replied.
Seriously? "I'm sorry, Guido, but you went to all this trouble for nothing. I'm not interested in dating right now. Or in men, for that matter."
"Yo, if you're into chicks, I'm down wit' that," he said with a gangsta nod.
I pursed my lips Mr. Grinch-style. "How incredibly generous of you."
"Speaking of men," Glenda began, taking another drag off her cigarette.
I turned and followed her gaze toward the street. Bradley had just walked out of Thibodeaux's. This time my stomach dropped. I didn't want to see him right now. I mean, I did, but I didn't.
Bradley crossed the street. He narrowed his eyes when he walked up the sidewalk. "Evening ladies." He nodded stiffly at Guido.
"Bradley!" I exclaimed. "I thought you'd be at Jersey Boys—with your wife."
"That's a great show, bro," Guido said.
I turned and shot Guido a piercing look, and his chest deflated like a popped balloon.
"I guess I deserved that," Bradley said. Then he looked at me questioningly. "Am I interrupting something?"
Glenda, who had sidled up to Bradley like a stripper to a pole the second he had entered the yard, beat me to the punch, so to speak. "Miss Franki's getting a serenade from a juicehead! Isn't it delicious?"
Bradley's lips tightened into a thin line. "I see."
I moved to stand beside Guido, who promptly reinflated his chest.
An uncomfortable silence descended upon the yard, and then Bradley looked me straight in the eyes. "I guess that's my cue to leave."
As he turned and headed for his car, I desperately wanted to beg him to stay, but I couldn't.
"A crying shame, sugar," Glenda breathed.
"Stay strong, Franki," Veronica whispered, slipping her arm around my shoulders as I stared after him.
"I'm trying, Veronica. But this time it's really hard."
"You're a tough girl, though," she said with a squeeze.
Then I heard the reprise of the mandolin.
I spun around to give Guido a piece of my mind and stopped dead in my tracks.
Guido was no longer serenading me—he was serenading Glenda. And Glenda was doing what she does best: a striptease.
When I saw the first faux fur leg warmer fly, I fled to the sanctuary of my bordello, er, house.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Standing in line at CC's Community Coffee House on Royal Street the next morning, I felt kind of glad that I'd had to get up and go to the office to get my laptop. After the events during last night's serenade, I had fully intended to wallow in self-pity in my house—actually, in my bed—all day long. But a Saturday morning trip to the French Quarter had turned out to be just what I'd needed to lift my spirits.
"What can I get you?" a teenaged cashier with charming braids and freckles asked.
"A double soy latte to go," I replied.
"Anything else?"
"Now that you mention it, I could use a little something to eat," I said, resting a hand on my bloated belly. How could something so empty feel so big? "I'll take a lemon pastry."
"The iced lemon pound cake or the lemon square?"
"Both. And make that three of each." This day was getting better by the minute.
She placed the pastries into a bag and rang up my order. "That'll be seventeen dollars and fifty cents."
I swiped my credit card through the reader, dropped fifty cents into the tip jar and headed toward the coffee bar.
While I was waiting, I looked around the rectangular-shaped room at all the people enjoying a lazy morning reading newspapers, studying, and surfing the Internet on their laptops. I noticed that an older man at the first table to my left was editing what looked like a play or a screenplay with a red pen, and I was instantly reminded of some of the cool movies that had been filmed in New Orleans: A Streetcar Named Desire, Interview with a Vampire, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, and that all-time classic Big Momma's House 2.
My gaze drifted to the elliptical transom window over the entrance. It was one of my favorite features of New Orleans buildings, aside from the wrought iron Victorian balconies. My view of this lovely architectural feature was soon marred, however, by the image of Concetta in a nun's habit peering through the glass pane of the door below. She was scowling.
I wondered what she was doing in the area, and then I remembered that there was a Catholic Center up the street. For a second, I held out hope that she wasn't looking for me. She might just look mad because she hadn't had her morning coffee, right? But no such luck. I saw Concetta's eyes zero in on me like a heat seeking missile. This day was going back downhill fast.
Concetta pushed open the door, marched right up to me, and cut to the chase. "I heard you and Veronica paid Domenica a visit in jail yesterday," she said in a none-too-charitable tone.
I shifted uncomfortably in my purple Ugg boots. Gone was the benign nun—she'd been replaced by an overprotective big sister. "Yes, that's right."
She leaned closer. "Do you mind telling me what that little charade was all about?"
"It wasn't all a charade, Concetta." I guiltily watched the cross on her necklace swing from side to side rather than look her in the eyes. "Veronica did give her some legal advice."
She put her hands on her hips and snorted in disbelief. "You call telling her to be frank with her attorney 'legal advice'?"
"Listen, Concetta, I can understand why you're upset, but Domenica needed to hear what Veronica had to say." I glanced around to make sure that no one was watching me argue with a nun, and then added, "She's not exactly forthcoming, you know."
She rolled her eyes. "Well of course she doesn't feel like talking, much less being interrogated after losing half her family! Tell me, just how do you expect a teenager in her situation to behave?"
"I don't know. But I certainly don't expect her to dance on graves and deface her own sister's tombstone, and especially not in a cemetery where an unsolved murder took place."
Concetta's face contorted in anger, and I noticed that her right eyelid was twitching slightly. She inhaled deeply. "I told you and your partner before; I don't approve of Domenica's goth look. But that's all it is, a look. My sister is not a Satanist, if that's what you're insinuating. And she's definitely not a murderer!"
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the cashier conferring with a pasty-faced twenty-year-old guy who appeared to be the manager. They were whispering and casting concerned looks in our direction.
"We're disturbing the customers, Concetta. I think it would be best if we continued this conversation with Veronica at our office."
"That won't be necessary. But you guys gave Domenica advice, so now let me give you some: If you really want to solve this case, you'll leave my sister alone and start interrogating Stewart Preston. Unlike her, he's a known voodoo practitioner and a murderer." And with that she spun on her heels and left the store.
"Double soy latte!" the barista shouted.
Ignoring my coffee call, I stood there and reflected on what had just happened. I was frustrated by Concetta's inability to understand that we had to re-question Domenica after her unexpected arrest. But I did think she was right about one thing: If Veronica and I were ever going to solve this case, Stewart Preston was the key.
As I walked over to the counter to get my latte, I resolved to step up my phone call assault on Stewart, right after I called Veronica to tell her about my run-in with the nun.
* * *
I pulled up in front of my house twenty minutes later and scanned the yard for Sicilians before getting out of th
e car. I hadn't heard a word from my nonna since the serenade, so the Sicilian coast was by no means clear. As soon as I was certain the area was suitor-free, I grabbed my bag of lemon goodies and bounded up the sidewalk to my apartment. This was my first lazy Saturday morning in ages, and I was determined to enjoy it—boyfriend or no boyfriend.
I opened the door expecting to find Napoleon waiting for me to take him on a walk, but he was nowhere to be seen. Dogs are supposed to greet their masters when they come home, but Napoleon occasionally opted to continue napping instead—because his life was so exhausting and all. No matter; it just meant that I could get right to the important business of the morning—eating and shopping online. In between calls to Stewart Preston, of course.
After grabbing a plate from the kitchen, I headed to the living room and sat cross-legged on the chaise lounge. Next, I opened up my laptop and placed it in front of me and then carefully laid out my pastry picnic. I had just picked up a slice of the pound cake and was preparing to take my first delicious bite when I heard a whimper coming from the floor below. Napoleon was staring at me, begging.
"You know sugar isn't good for you," I said. "Go lie down."
Napoleon knew the phrase "go lie down" as well as he knew the words "bath" and "treat," but he chose to ignore me and whimpered pitifully again.
I looked him in the eyes. "Trust me, boy. I'm doing you a favor."
He stared back at me with the intensity of a hypnotist, silently willing me to give him the pound cake.
I sighed and put down the pastry. "Come on," I commanded as I went back into the kitchen to get him a dog treat. I took a biscuit from a box in the pantry and held it up to his mouth. "Here you go. Now scram."
He took the treat with his teeth and ran straight to the living room to eat it, presumably so that he could punish me by leaving little dog biscuit crumbs on the bearskin rug for me to clean up.
I flopped back onto the chaise lounge. The very instant I picked up the pound cake, someone began knocking on my front door.
I bowed my head in frustration. "Who is it?"
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