Dead and Breakfast (The New Orleans Go Cup Chronicles Book 2)

by Colleen Mooney

  Ernest drew the attention of a popular reporter and brought her over to meet Uncle Noble. In his charming Cajun accent—he laid it on a little thicker when on camera—he told the reporter just where to set her cameras for the best footage when he started pulling the vehicles out of the water. Other TV stations and crews were racing around trying to determine what their best vantage spot was.

  “Now, Chere, you listen to me. You are gonna want to get better shots at the first few that I pull outta dat dere bayou, but don’t you move, Chere. Don’t give up your front row spot for the cheap seats. You stay put, ma petite, and you will get the best shot of Violet Fornet’s vehicle. C’est bon,” he said putting his arm around the reporter and walking her to the perfect viewing spot. The other reporters and cameramen scampered around to stake out their positions.

  One reporter interviewed Noble and asked him why he was offering his services without charge to the City of New Orleans. “If it was my daughter,” he answered, “I’d want to find her. If I can help give these people some peace or closure, then God would want me to render my assistance. These folks need peace.” With that he marched off to instruct his workmen about securing the dredges. He told them to use the hydraulic winches rather than the grab bucket. He had told us earlier the grab bucket can smash a car and he didn’t want the family traumatized if Violet’s car came up mangled. The scuba divers geared up to go in. Their job at this point was going to be to hook the vehicles so the dredge could winch them out of the bayou.

  Noble Jacques didn’t disappoint the press. After pulling out a Jeep, the van on its side and a Lincoln Continental, the divers hooked the Shark-mobile and it slowly emerged from its watery grave. Her family was there and when they saw the body in the car, Violet’s mother fainted. Dante and his partner were there and commandeered the vehicle as soon as it was free of the winch and the forensics people went right to work. What couldn’t be discounted was that she was driving, still in her seat belt and there was no one else in the car.

  Jiff, Ernest and I kept a low profile, out of sight as much as possible. Jiff had his own cameraman taking videos of Violet’s vehicle recovery for their use in court, if it came to that.

  “I feel really bad for Violet’s family having to see her like that. What a way to find a lost child,” I said to Jiff and Ernest.

  “They lost Violet long before she ever drove into that bayou,” said Ernest.

  After a couple of hours of documenting everything that happened and interviewing all the key people involved, the news media packed up and left. Jiff and Ernest went and thanked Noble and his company for their assistance in finding Violet. It had taken them a couple of hours to locate her and remove her from the watery grave. The police department took the credit for finding Violet since it was their divers who found her while spearfishing.

  The police recovered Violet’s belongings in the trunk. Dante told the press it looked like her clothes in a suitcase and a couple of tote bags were in the trunk. Ernest’s police buddies told him what Dante did not tell the press. Also found hidden in the wheel well was an airtight bag of cocaine.

  The coroner’s report showed the cause of death was drowning.

  I thought if Gervais St. Germain had invited Violet to stay with him at the bed and breakfast, they’d both be alive, stoned of course, but alive, and Julia wouldn’t be in the middle of this fiasco. The press wasn’t ready to let Julia completely off the hook even though there wasn’t any evidence of foul play involved in Violet’s disappearance. They still made her out to be the home wrecker and further speculated Julia’s relationship with St. Germain is perhaps what drove Violet to commit suicide by running off the road into the bayou. The cocaine and the night of drinking were not mentioned in their news report. Julia really needed a break in the news. Where were our politicians who make national newsworthy sexual and corrupt blunders when we needed them?

  But who killed Gervais St. Germain? Violet was driving herself into Bayou St. John at the time of his death so she couldn’t have killed him. Witnesses put her in the bar until 4:30 a.m. Julia still looked good for the St. Germain murder.

  Now more than ever.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I stopped by Julia’s bed and breakfast to pick up my dress and stuff it into my car for the photo shoot. The Fortunata Tuddo-rama was scheduled to take up the next two days of my life starting with the wedding party photos at 4:00 p.m. followed by the rehearsal dinner.

  Woozie answered the door before I could knock. She greeted me with, “Miz Julia is more down than ever. You gotta help Frank and me lift her spirits.”

  “You haven’t let her have any of the Jameson’s, have you?” I asked.

  “No. I still rubbing it around the rim of her coffee mug like you said to.”

  “Where is she?” Woozie led me upstairs to Julia’s apartment that took up the rear of the building over the kitchen. She was sitting at her desk, staring out of the window. Frank was sitting in the chair across from her idly flipping through a Cosmopolitan magazine.

  “Hey, Julia, what are you wearing to the wedding? I know you don’t want to miss seeing Gone With The Wind meets the Godfather. I think it’s all being filmed as a reality TV show.”

  “It’s more like Scarlet O’Hara meets the American Mafia,” Frank said looking up from his magazine. I saw one corner of Julia’s mouth turn up as she resisted a smile.

  Before she could answer and say she wasn’t going, Frank jumped out of the chair and said, “I’ve been working non-stop making her this to wear.” In a grand gesture he threw open the doors of her armoire, parted the hanging garments, and pulled out a black silk, calf-length dress with a sheer bodice. He held it high in the air with one hand while sweeping his other arm behind it to present it for all of us to admire. It was beautifully made and would look stunning on Julia. “In fact, I almost have the dress for Woozie ready if she would only stop working long enough for a last minute fitting.” He hung Julia’s dress on the top of the door and I went over to scrutinize it more closely.

  “I’m wearing that bridesmaid’s disaster of a dress that makes me look like a Mardi Gras float and you get to wear this?” I was in awe of Frank’s talent. I looked from Julia to Woozie and back. “Both of you are lucky Frank is doing this for you. You know, Frank, if they don’t appreciate you, please come live with me.” After inspecting the precision stitches on Julia’s gown, I asked Frank, “What kind of machine do you use to sew this silk?”

  “I don’t have a machine. I sew everything by hand,” he answered.

  “By hand?” I couldn’t believe how perfect every stitch was.

  “He cuts his own patterns after taking our measurements,” Julia added. Maybe she realized she hadn’t been appreciating Frank’s skills as much as she should have or maybe she thought Frank might take me up on my offer to poach him.

  Frank was back in the armoire flipping through the hangers one by one until he found what he was looking for. I felt like I was in a high-end fashion boutique with Frank, the salesperson, showing us what to wear. With another dramatic whirlwind of fabric fluttering out of the closet, he swept another dress over his arm displaying what he made for Woozie. It was a soft, flowing peach chiffon that still needed to be hemmed.

  “Woozie, what are you waiting for?” I asked. “Put it on now so Frank can hem it. The wedding is tomorrow.”

  “Why I get a peach color and Julia get black? Ain’t I sexy enough for black?” Woozie demanded of Frank with her hands on her hips. “You shoulda made my dress black and Julia peach. Now, everyone is gonna call her the Black Widow woman at that wedding.”

  “Do you see what I have to deal with?” Frank asked me. “They tag team me all day long,” Frank sniffed as if he was completely worn down.

  “No one is going to call her that. Come on, Woozie, go put the dress on so I can see how pretty you make it look and Frank can hem it,” I said. “Y’all are all acting like we’re going to a funeral instead of a wedding.” No one moved. “Well, I�
��m adjusting the attitude in here, right now.”

  “Good luck with that, girlfriend, cuz I’m tired of trying,” Frank said over his shoulder as he followed Woozie behind a dressing screen at one end of the room to zip her up.

  I found just the ticket in Julia’s album of CDs and popped in She Drives Me Crazy by the Fine Young Cannibals and started dancing around the room. I pulled Julia to her feet and tried to make her laugh saying something silly, “You know I only dance on two occasions and that is when I’m alone or with someone.” She was slow to acquiesce but who can refuse FYC? Frank came out from behind the screen jutting his head from side to side in time with each deliberate step he took to the music. He led Woozie by one hand with the other hand on his waist and bent up at the wrist as he moved it opposite every step. He sort of looked like a rooster prancing around the barnyard. He had Woozie step up on a footstool so he could pin the hem. While Julia and I danced, Woozie started moving her hips and shoulders to the music. Frank stood and gave up hemming the dress and joined us dancing around the room. Woozie stayed on the pedestal continuing to groove along.

  We all laughed while we danced with arms in the air, moving and hip bumping each other. Before the song ended and while Frank twirled Julia around, I booted up a couple more CD’s, all dance songs that kept us moving around aerobically for the next thirty minutes. Finally, Woozie bailed and had to sit down but did keep doing dance moves from her seat. She watched, laughing while Frank changed dance partners every few steps with Julia and I—swinging, spinning or dipping us. Julia was into the music by now and we laughed and danced like fools for almost an hour.

  “That was fun,” Julia said collapsing on her bed. “Who’s playing at the wedding?”

  Uh oh, I thought she was going to sink into a black depression when I told her what band was going to be there, so instead I said, “There are eighteen groomsmen, Italian groomsmen, who will be looking to dance. You don’t want to miss that, do you?”

  “I don’t want to miss it,” Frank said putting pins in his mouth getting ready to resume hemming Woozie’s dress.

  “I don’t know.” Julia balked. “People all know this big murder mess is still going on and they think I’m a murderess.”

  “You gonna go cuz I got this great dress and you got that great dress and when they sees us they gonna know you no killer,” Woozie said stepping back up on the stool after admiring herself in the full length mirror. “I look good in this here dress. We both going to this here wedding.”

  “Well, I do need to get out of here and Frank can come, right?” Julia asked.

  “Of course, you, Frank and Woozie can all come to the wedding together. Besides, Julia, do you want to miss the potential fireworks with Jiff, Dante, Hanky and me all in the same room at the same time?”

  “Well, I won’t know where to look first, at the Italians or you and your cluster of chaos,” Julia said pulling out a pair of shoes from a bottom drawer in the armoire to wear with her dress.

  Frank was busy hemming Woozie’s dress with a mouthful of pins and would mumble something that sounded like ‘turn’, which Woozie did every so often as the pins went in adjusting the length of her gown. I almost hated to ask, “Frank, what are you wearing?”

  He put all the pins back in the pincushion one at a time before he answered. By now, all three of us had eyes on Frank waiting for the answer. “I made myself a seersucker suit which I can wear all summer after the wedding,” he said.

  “Oh, good. That sounds nice. Yes, that will look great.” Woozie, Julia and I all answered talking over each other at the same time.

  “Oh, look at the time, I’ve got to get to Angela’s for the photos. Frank, where’s my bridesmaid’s dress?”

  Frank went to find my dress and while he was gone, I said to Julia, “Make sure he shows up dressed like a man, and not wearing makeup or carrying a purse.”

  “You sound like you think Frank is gay,” Julia said.

  “He gay,” Woozie answered.

  Frank returned with my bridesmaid’s dress and offered to help me get it in the car.

  “Don’t be surprised if your dress fits a little better,” he said looking sheepish as we walked downstairs and out to my car. “I altered it to make you look gorgeous, even though I couldn’t do anything about that putrid color.”

  “The only way this dress could make me look gorgeous is if you burned the original dress and this is a totally different one, in a different color,” I said, fighting to get the hoop part that Frank had put in a separate hanging bag in the car.

  “You won’t be needing this,” Frank said as he took the bag with the hoop in it away from me.

  “No, Frank, I need it to hold the skirt out.”

  “No you won’t. You’ll see. Now go.” And with that he leaned the hoop against the tree and gently kissed me on the cheek, moved me in behind the wheel, closed the door and waved goodbye. I could have sworn he was wiping a tear from his eye when I looked at him through the rear view mirror. I felt like crying myself since the day had come to put this monstrosity on and allow others to see me in it.

  ***

  The long awaited wedding—by Angela, Angela’s mother and Nana only—was upon us. No long engagement for Angela when that gold American Express card was waiting for the shopping charges she was planning to rack up once she was Mrs. Angelo Tuddo.

  Two hours before the rehearsal dinner all the bridesmaids arrived at Angela’s house with our hair coiffed like we were going to wear it the day of the wedding—like that mattered if it was going to be under that enormous hat—with our dresses and matching dyed shoes. This morning, before going to Julia’s I had a command performance at a nail salon where one of Angela’s many aunts arranged for and treated all the bridesmaids to have manicures and pedicures together. It seemed to me this was the female version, Italian style, of a bachelor party. I expected the manicurist would be instructed to paint tiny flags of Italy in red, green and white on each nail but we were all given a French manicure and pedicure along with Angela. The Italian thing was not forgotten, however, because another aunt brought T-shirts custom made in red, green and white that said BRIDE of the FORTUNATA/ TUDDO WEDDING and the date, while the rest of us got to wear the one that said BRIDESMAID of the FORTUNATA/TUDDO WEDDING. Angela’s mother had one with MOTHER OF THE BRIDE and Mrs. Tuddo had the MOTHER OF THE GROOM with the mandatory addition of the FORTUNATA/TUDDO WEDDING, with the date. Nana had one too, without her nickname. Angela wanted all of us to wear our T-shirts to the rehearsal dinner. I advised I had come straight from the office and didn’t have a change of clothes to wear with a T-shirt. She suggested I wear it like a muumuu over my business suit. This just kept getting better and better.

  Angela had flower displays the size of bushel baskets delivered and waiting for us at her parents’ home where the photo session for the bridesmaids was going to take place. There were so many people having to carry so much stuff we looked like nomads roaming the desert with all our possessions. Finally, after much hand wringing by Angela’s mother in front of Angela’s father, Mr. Donnato called and hired a limo bus to come and get all of our dresses, hoops, shoes, bushel baskets, and suitcases and bring it all to the hotel where we were staying the night of the church rehearsal and sit down dinner party to follow.

  At Angela’s parents’ house a photographer was taking bridesmaids’ photos ahead of time to minimize the photos needing to be taken at the church and reception. This was a good idea because he would need a bull horn and whip to corral some forty or so people in the wedding party. Doing that would be quite an accomplishment, since he also needed ten more hands for his camera, as well as the flash and the three video setups he was instructed to manage in order to capture the wedding every second, from every angle.

  ***

  At Angela’s, I pulled the dress on to discover that Frank had replaced the hoop with yards and yards of netting to make the dress stand out away from me. It was softer and felt a lot more comfortable. The lines of th
e dress looked more natural than that hoop thing with the varying sized wires making everyone else look like a Christmas tree. He also cut the sleeves down so that the poofs didn’t look like Mount Fuji sitting on each shoulder. Now it was showing off the neckline and my cleavage more. To say it was pretty this way, or in any way was a bit of a stretch, but it did look better and it was a lot easier to move about in. I could actually sit down without pulling the hoop up to my waist and hoping my ass found a chair to land in. It also allowed me to stand next to someone and not hold them out at an arm’s length. This didn’t go unnoticed by the other bridesmaids.

  “Why does your dress look…different…better?” asked bubble-gum-girl. The bridesmaid next to her had teased her hair so much her hat looked like it was an open sun umbrella on a pole. Bubble-gum-girl and high-hair-girl were giving me the once over, trying to figure out the difference in our dresses. I wore my hair in a simple braid down the back so if the hat came off, my hair wouldn’t look like it had been molded into its shape. Their do was going to be interesting when they removed the hats.

  “Maybe Angela wanted mine a little different since I’m the maid of honor?” I said and smiled. I stood behind other hoops and avoided any front row photos, hoping to remain unnoticed by Angela, her mother and the Scowler for as long as possible. I didn’t want to be ordered to retrieve that hoop. Angela was self-absorbed with making the tiara fit perfectly on her head and didn’t pay attention to the dress discussion. Angela’s mother and Nana were all eyes on the sofa.

  Angela’s mother was standing by, wringing both hands as usual. She had been told by the photographer to remove the clear plastic covers on all her furniture, otherwise the flash would bounce off the plastic and explode light into the pictures causing overexposure or starbursts. This was probably the first time the furniture had ever been exposed to elements in the real world since it had arrived there some thirty years ago. She made a point of reminding all of us that the furniture was a wedding gift to her and Angela’s father from Nana, who stood with hands clasped at her waist sending a disapproving look at us over Mrs. Fortunata’s shoulder. Angela’s mother, with the help of Nana, the Scowler, scanned the bridesmaids continuously looking for a drink or food in someone’s hands that might spill onto the prized sofa and soil it. When Angela’s mother was not commanded to stand in a photo she would pick up the plastic furniture covers, ready to replace them as soon as the last flash went off. As soon as the photographer said he was done, Angela’s mother shooed everyone off the sofa and began to replace the plastic covers even while Angela whined to be unbuttoned.