Veronica and I exchanged a look of panic before turning and hoofing it down the street. When we reached the cemetery, I ripped the car keys from my bra. Then we jumped into the Mustang and burned rubber.
* * *
"I wonder how Twyla is going to react to these photographs," Veronica mused as we drove back to the office. "After all, she's expecting to see Patsy, not a beautiful young brunette."
"Give me…a sec," I gasped between breaths. It had been almost five minutes since we'd left the brunette's mansion, and I still hadn't recovered from the two-hundred-yard sprint to my car.
"Maybe we should deliver them to her in person," Veronica continued. "She is prone to fainting spells, and I'd hate for something bad to happen."
"Me too," I wheezed.
"Okay, then it's settled. We'll bring them to her tomorrow."
I slowed to a stop as we approached the intersection of Governor Nicholls and Bourbon Street. It was a residential district, so the street was quiet. I looked to the left then to the right and promptly did a double take. I saw what looked like Bradley walking down the street with a masked young woman in a Mardi Gras queen costume—that is, if you could call a teeny bikini with a few sequins and feathers a costume.
Suddenly recovering the full force of my lungs, I yelled, "Is that Bradley with that hot blonde?"
Veronica looked out the passenger-side window. "Didn't you say his wife was a blonde?"
"Yeah, but that's not her. She doesn't have waist-length hair."
"Well, it's impossible to tell if that's Bradley. He's walking away from us, and it's dark."
"Oh, it's not impossible," I muttered, pulling a quick right onto Bourbon.
"What are you going to do?" she asked, panicked. "Run them down?"
"No," I responded with deadly calm. "We're going to follow them."
"But there's a barricade up ahead. You can't drive through there."
"That's why we're going to park and follow them on foot." I pulled into a rare Bourbon Street parking space and shut off the ignition.
Veronica put her hand on my arm. "Franki, this is not a good idea. If it is Bradley, what are you going to do?"
"I'm not going to do anything, Veronica," I assured her, although I wasn't sure I was being entirely honest. "I just need to know if it's him or not."
"Well, you might want to look at your dress first," she advised. "It looks like it's torn."
"Veronica!" I exclaimed, throwing my hands in the air. "This is hardly the time to worry about a little rip in my dress!"
Before she could reply, I blew out of the car and rushed down Bourbon. I could still see Bradley and the blonde a couple of intersections ahead. I had to catch up to them before they passed the barricade at St. Ann Street that separated the homes from the bar district. My high heels were slowing me down, but there was no way I was taking them off. It was one thing to run barefoot down a residential street in the wealthy Garden District, but it was quite another to do it on Bourbon Street.
When I got to the intersection, Bradley and the blonde were near the barricade. Just before they slipped into the swarm of partiers, he turned to her and said something that made her laugh. The minute I saw his profile, I recognized the outline of his Roman nose and strong jaw.
Just then Veronica caught up to me. "Well?"
"It's Bradley, all right." I was so angry I was sure that fire was shooting from my eyes. "He's already found a new woman to cheat on his wife with."
"Okay. Now that you know it's him, let's go back to the car."
"Not before I get a better look at that blonde," I replied through clenched teeth.
I ran to St. Ann and began pushing my way through the revelers. The entire time, I kept my eyes glued to the back of Bradley's head.
"Franki, wait!" Veronica shouted. "I'm trapped!"
I turned to look at Veronica and saw that she was stuck behind a tall group of men dressed as Catholic cardinals.
"Push 'em the hell out of the way!" I yelled and turned back around. But by then, Bradley and the blonde had vanished.
I stood there scanning the crowd for any sign of them.
"Hey! Catch!" a sexy male voice shouted from a balcony above.
I looked up just as a bead necklace hit me in the face. Before I could react, the man who had thrown the necklace winked and raised his glass in a silent toast. A group of his friends gathered around him and smiled admiringly at me.
"Here ya go, beautiful!" one said, tossing a handful of necklaces in my direction.
I stood there, surprised. I'd been to Bourbon Street several times before, once even in my pre-cellulite days, and I'd never seen this kind of action.
A drunken male voice shook me out of my stupor. "Are you supposed to be Poison Ivy or Eve in The Garden of Eden?"
I looked away from the balcony and saw a Humpty Dumpty–shaped guy in a Court Jester outfit standing in front of me. "Huh?"
He took a leisurely sip from his large neon green, hand grenade–shaped cup. "Those leaves on your hooters and your hoo ha."
I looked down. At some point during my fall from the trellis and the ensuing struggle with the shrub, my three quarter–sleeve, beige knit dress had acquired leafy accessories in the nether regions. It had also gained a ten-inch plunging neckline that could only be described as Glenda-worthy. That explained the beads.
"Because if you're Eve," he continued, "then you really should've worn a bikini instead of that big dress." This from a Court Jester whose only exposed body parts on the chilly January night were his face and hands.
"Speaking of big," I began, leaning in closer to the egg-shaped joker, "if you don't shut your big mouth, I'm going to take your big cup and shove it up your big—"
"Franki," Veronica interrupted after she'd finally broken free from her Catholic-costumed captors. Then she clasped her hands to her face and stared at me. "Your dress."
"Believe me, Veronica, I know about my dress!" I said, glaring at the Court Jester, who finally took that as his cue to beat it. I bent over, collected my beads, and put them around my neck to cover my now fully displayed cleavage. "Now let's get going," I added as I discretely plucked some leaves from the area below my waist. "But first I need a drink."
"I think I do too."
I turned and saw a young woman in black shorts, a bright green tube top and white go-go boots selling Jell-O shots outside a club called Funky 544. "Perfect." I pointed to the woman. "Let's go over there."
"A Jell-O shot?" Veronica crinkled her face. "Those are so disgusting!"
"Well, I haven't eaten dinner yet, so this way I can get something in my stomach while I drink. Otherwise, you're going to have to drive home."
Veronica gave me a look. "I don't think Everclear-infused Jell-O qualifies as solid food."
I walked up to the shot seller. She was shivering in the cool night air and chewing gum a mile a minute. "How much?"
She popped a bubble she'd just blown with her gum. "Three bucks for the test tubes, seven for the syringes."
"You have them in syringes?"
The girl smacked her gum and nodded. "You can inject 'em."
"Even better. I'll take two."
The girl handed me two syringes the size of toothpaste tubes. "If you want, I can inject them into your mouth," she said disinterestedly as she pocketed my fifteen dollars in cash and then adjusted her sagging tube top.
I looked at her hands. "Thanks, but I can handle it from here." I squirted them one by one into my mouth.
Veronica looked thoroughly annoyed. "Can we go to the office now, Franki? I'd really like to get these pictures printed."
"Of course," I replied as though I'd fully intended to go to the office after drink-eating two Jell-O shots. "Let's go."
The mob on Bourbon seemed to be growing by the minute, so it took a while to make our way back to the car. At around the halfway point, we were forced to stop behind a huge crowd that had gathered in the middle of the street to listen to a traveling jazz band that was
playing "Shake It and Break It."
"Let's wait until the song ends and then forge ahead," I said.
Veronica nodded.
As we stood at the edge of the crowd, I had the sudden feeling that someone was watching me. I instinctively looked over my shoulder but didn't see anyone out of the ordinary. Then I glanced to my right. There, down a side street, was Domenica standing with a group of goth teens. The others were absorbed in conversation, but she was intently watching me, her face so full of loathing that I took an involuntary step backward.
I tapped Veronica on the arm. "You'll never believe who's standing down the street over there," I said above the music.
Veronica turned and made a sound of disbelief. "Domenica? She's not drinking is she? All she needs right now is a minor-in-possession charge."
"No, I don't see a drink. She's just openly glaring at me. Maybe she thinks we're following her or something."
"Who knows." She turned to watch the jazz band. "But it would be best to stay away from her right now."
"Fine with me." The farther I stayed from Domenica, the better.
Fortunately, the song ended and the crowd began to disperse. I looked in Domenica's direction, but to my surprise, she had vanished. Veronica and I silently resumed our high-heeled trek to the car.
Although my now aching feet were moving slowly, my mind was racing. If she were Jessica's strangler, would she become desperate enough to try to kill me or Veronica to silence us? And what about Stewart Preston? He'd already killed once. What would he do if he found out I wasn't a friend of Jessica's at all but a private investigator working her murder case? As I contemplated these questions, not even the warm glow of my syringe shot buzz could eliminate the chill that was spreading through my body.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I took a bite of my boudin and tossed my fork onto the plate. Even though I'd lost my appetite after seeing Bradley with the blonde bimbo the night before, I'd nevertheless ordered Thibodeaux's breakfast special: Cajun-style eggs Benedict with boudin patties and home fries, a side of pain perdu, otherwise known as French toast, and unlimited juice refills. I'd ordered carbonated water to cut calories.
"Cheer up, Franki," Veronica said. She was sitting across the table from me with a half-eaten Creole omelet and a few remaining mini baguette slices.
I swallowed a mouthful of oozing eggs and Tasso ham Hollandaise sauce. "How, exactly, am I supposed to do that? I mean, it's bad enough that Bradley turned out to be married, but then I have to see him out with a beautiful blonde on his arm!"
Veronica picked up her café au lait. "You're an attractive woman too, you know. Have you forgotten that men were throwing beads at you left and right on Bourbon Street last night?"
I shot her a look. "Maybe that had something to do with the fact that my boobs were bursting out of my dress and my vajayjay was framed in leaves."
"That wasn't the only reason," Veronica continued, undaunted by my bitterness.
"Whatever. Looks aren't issue here. His marriage certificate is the problem."
Veronica began buttering a slice of baguette. "Have you considered the possibility that he might have a logical explanation for all of this?"
"You mean for going out with a barely dressed Mardi Gras queen instead of his wife?" I angrily stuffed a cluster of fries into my mouth.
She rolled her eyes. "Well, that and the fact that he's married. You never really let him explain."
I looked at her pointedly. "What's there to explain?"
She shrugged. "For one thing, why his wife lives in Boston while he lives here. Maybe the marriage is over."
"Or maybe they're living apart while he spends a year at a New Orleans bank," I said as I cut into my boudin with a little too much zeal.
"Maybe. But that's the kind of thing you should find out. Because it's real obvious that you still care about Bradley."
I put down my knife and fork, just in case I got the sudden urge to stab myself. "It doesn't matter how I feel about him now. I'm tired of sharing my boyfriends with other women. I want a man all to myself. So, as long as Bradley's married, he's off limits."
"That banker man got you down, sugar?" a not-so-sultry smoker-voice asked.
I looked up to see Glenda standing in front of our table in all her glory. Glenda's top was nothing special by her standards, just a red spandex jog bra, heavy on the cleavage. It was her matching red spandex pants that were so, um, spectacular. They were essentially crotchless, but it wasn't only the crotch that was missing. It was all the fabric below the waistband. So her red G-string was prominently exposed, from hip to hip and on down, if you know what I mean. And to think I was worried about a few lousy leaves.
"Oh, Glenda," Veronica said. "You look sensational in red."
Glenda batted her false eyelashes. "It's scarlet."
For reasons I couldn't fathom, Veronica turned and looked expectantly at me. So, I spit out the first compliment that came to mind. "Nice biceps," I said, choosing to focus on Glenda's upper body. "Have you been going to the gym?"
"No, it's from years of swinging on poles," Glenda replied.
"Of course," I said, dumbstruck.
Veronica looked up at Glenda. "Would you like to join us?"
I fervently hoped that Glenda would either sit down or leave. Having that G-string so prominently featured right next to my face was absolutely killing my urge to emotional eat. Then again, maybe that was a good thing: diet by disgust.
"No, I phoned in an order to go." She paused and leaned closer. "I have a gentleman caller at the house."
She shot me a guilty look, and I knew instantly that she was talking about Guido. For a split second I felt something akin to jealousy—certainly not of Glenda having the Jersey juicehead in her bed, mind you, but of her ability to attract men so easily.
"If you mean Guido, I'm totally fine with the two of you seeing each other," I said, trying to quell any concern she might have on my account. After all, I desperately needed their relationship to continue to keep my nonna off my back.
"Well, if you need a man to replace that banker, sugar, I'm willing to share," Glenda said. And then with a Vanna White–like flourish of her arm she added, "A body like this can't be wasted on only one gentleman, even if he is a strong man in the circus."
"A strong man?" Veronica squealed, clapping her hands. "Tell me more!"
I, on the other hand, had already heard all I wanted to hear. So I picked up my phone and stared at the time. "Wow. It's almost 10:30. We'd better get going if we're meeting Twyla at the office at eleven."
"Oh, okay." Veronica frowned. She pulled two twenties from her wallet. "Let me get this since you're having to work on a Sunday."
"Thanks." I grabbed my purse and fled the bar.
* * *
"Good afternoon, ladies," Twyla said in a somber tone as she entered the office lobby. Her vibrant pinkish-yellow sack dress made her look a lot like a giant grapefruit.
"Hi, Twyla," I replied, quickly scooping up the photos of Harry and the brunette that Veronica and I had been reviewing on the coffee table moments before.
Twyla took a seat on the couch and then tightly clutched a vintage wooden decoupage purse to her chest, as though it were a shield she could use to protect herself from the news she was about to receive. "I'd like to thank you girls for so kindly agreeing to meet me at your office on a Sunday." Her ruby red lips set in a thin line. "I would have dearly luuuved to invite you to tea, but Harry is at home right now playing with his train set."
A train set? If you asked me, this Harry seemed like the opposite of a catch.
"That's all right Twyla," Veronica soothed. "It's probably better if you look at the pictures here, anyway."
A muscle twitched in Twyla's cheek. "What did you find out?"
"We–" Veronica began.
"Wait!" Twyla interrupted, raising her right hand in the air. "Don't tell me yet!" She opened the clasp of her purse with pinkish-yellow-lacquered fingernails and pulled out h
er smelling salts. Then she placed the bottle on the coffee table in front of her and pulled her purse back to her ample bosom. "Okay. I'm ready now."
Veronica cleared her throat. "As you know, we have followed Harry for the last two nights. On Friday, he went to Pascal's Manale restaurant in Uptown, and on Saturday he went to a private residence in the Garden District."
Twyla's eyes grew wide at the mention of a home. "Was this house on Magazine Street, by any chance?"
"No," I replied. "Prytania."
She blinked in surprise and said nothing.
I pushed the photos of Harry and the brunette across the table to Twyla. "He met this woman on both occasions."
She peered down at the photo on the top of the pile with one eye closed. Then with a sharp intake of breath she jerked her head up in alarm. "That's not Patsy!" she shouted, as though Patsy were somehow a preferable choice for an affair.
Veronica shook her head. "No. We haven't been able to identify the woman yet. The house where Harry met her is listed in a man's name."
Twyla looked from Veronica to me. Then she stiffened oddly, her eyes rolled back in her head, and she abruptly fell back against the couch, her head hanging over the back. She was out cold.
"Grab her smelling salts!" Veronica shouted.
I snatched the vial off the table and snapped it open between my fingers. While Veronica carefully lifted Twyla's head, I began to wave the contents of the vial under Twyla's nose.
After about five seconds, the smelling salts began to take effect, and Twyla slowly regained consciousness. Her eyelids fluttered for a moment, and then she opened her eyes. She blinked a few times. "Am I in heaven?"
"No." I half-smiled.
She raised an eyebrow. "The ICU?"
"You're at Private Chicks, Inc.," Veronica said softly. "You hired us to investigate your husband, Harry."
Twyla furrowed her brow as though deep in thought and then went straight to despondent mode. "Haaaarry!" she wailed, choking back a sob. "How could he do this to me? And after almost fifty years of wedded bliss!"
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