If you have any comments about the Danger Cove Hair Salon mysteries or my Franki Amato mysteries, I would love to hear from you. Your emails not only help me to improve my plots, they also keep me company (clearly, I spend too much time alone). So please write to me at [email protected].
Last but not least, please consider writing a favorable review of A Poison Manicure and Peach Liqueur. We authors are dependent on readers like you to stay in business, so thank you in advance for your support.
And, if you're reading this in November or December, Buone feste (Happy holidays)!
Traci Andrighetti
PS: If you're a Danger Cove or a Franki Amato fan, I'd love to have you on my street team, The Giallo Squad. You can find information about how to join on my website: www.traciandrighetti.com.
* * * * *
BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS
In A Poison Manicure and Peach Liqueur, Jade Liu is poisoned by chance. Do you think her death was poetic justice? Why or why not?
Cassidi and Gia have a rocky relationship with rival salon owner Ivy Li, both before and after the murders. How did you feel about her?
Amy collects nutcrackers, and so do my mom and I. Do you or does anyone in your family have a collection?
Cassidi's aunt Magnolia channels Barry Manilow in a crisis—or, at least, she thinks she does. How would you explain her odd behavior?
Magnolia also has an interesting relationship to inanimate objects, including her car and guns. Do you name items or own things that are more than possessions to you?
Harriet McCudgeon is opening a tour business, and because of it she's in everyone's business, which is both good and bad for Cassidi. Do you think Harriet is an admirable character? Explain.
Board games are a minor character in A Poison Manicure and Peach Liqueur. Have you ever played one of the games mentioned? What other games do you play?
The storied (and sullied) history of The Clip and Sip has caused problems for Cassidi, not least of which is Sabine LaSalle. If you had inherited the Victorian mansion, what would you do with it?
Vinnie Conti was a salon owner, a drug dealer, and a gigolo. Do you think any of these factors were the reason for his death? What, and who, do you think killed him?
Who is your favorite character in A Poison Manicure and Peach Liqueur? How come?
* * * * *
SNEAK PEEK
of the first Franki Amato Mystery
LIMONCELLO YELLOW
by
TRACI ANDRIGHETTI
CHAPTER ONE
As I surveyed the scene at what looked eerily like the Bates Motel, I was shaking so badly from the cold and fear that I was afraid the gun in my holster would fire on its own. I longed for the cozy fire and protective embrace of my boyfriend that I'd felt as we'd exchanged Christmas presents just hours before.
"Folks, you need to go back to your rooms immediately," Officer Stan Stubbs announced to the crowd of curious motel guests that had gathered.
When the onlookers began to disperse, the woman in room six began moaning again. According to 911 dispatch, she had been in distress for at least half an hour.
I gave an involuntary shiver and wondered what kind of animal would want to cause a woman pain that produced that sort of moaning.
"Something about this doesn't feel like a regular domestic abuse situation," Stan said, drawing his gun. "We need urgent backup, Franki."
I nodded and grabbed the radio from my belt. "I have a 10-39 at the Twilight Motel on Manor Road. Request backup."
Stan began his approach to room six.
I put the device away and drew my gun. Then I hurried over and took my place on the opposite side of the door from Stan.
"I'm goin' in on the count of three," he said in a low voice. "I need to get to the john, and quick like."
I gasped. "Now, Stan?"
Stan was my partner on the Austin PD. As a rookie on the force, I'd been paired with a seasoned veteran of the department. Even though we'd spent the past six months together, I'd learned little from Stan except that he had a "wifey" named Juanita who worshipped the ground he walked on, he valued his handgun collection more than he did his now adult children, and he suffered from chronic gastrointestinal distress. And despite his self-proclaimed "legendary instinct" for cracking cases, he was perpetually baffled by his stomach issues even though the culprit was clear: a steady diet of jelly donuts and chorizo, bean and cheese breakfast tacos that he washed down with a gallon or so of coffee and Gatorade (Did I mention that he was also chronically dehydrated because of the diarrhea?). Needless to say, he spent the better part of every shift visiting the nearest men's room.
Ignoring my concern, Stan grasped his gun with both hands and slammed his right shoulder into the door. It flew open instantly, and he stormed into the room. "Police! Hands in the air!"
As I rushed in behind him, my gun drawn, the woman let out a hair-raising scream.
"What in the hell?" Stan shouted.
I followed his gaze to the bed, and a chill went through my body.
"Why, it's just a couple goin' at it," Stan scoffed.
I blinked hard. Was it my imagination playing tricks on me at 4:30 a.m., or was one member of that couple horribly familiar? As in, exchanging-gifts-by-a-cozy-fire familiar.
"Vince?" I said, my voice barely above a whisper as I stared at my boyfriend of over two years.
He looked at me like a deer caught in the headlights. "Franki?"
Make that, like a cheating rat caught in the act.
Stan looked from Vince to me. "You two know each other?"
I nodded, unable to speak. The chill that I'd felt initially had turned to a dull aching pain, and all I wanted to do was run from the room and cry. But I couldn't because I was on duty.
"I'll let you take it from here, Franki," Stan said as he rushed into the bathroom and slammed the door.
No sooner had he left the room than the woman leapt from the bed—all 6' 5" or so of her—wearing nothing but her outrage. "Zis invazion iz illegal in Deutschland."
"All right Franki," Vince began in a patronizing tone, "no crime has been committed, so why don't you put the gun down? Then we can all talk about this like rational adults."
No crime? Rational adults? The dull pain was quickly turning to red-hot anger. Before I could think it through, I shouted, "If you think for one minute that I'm going to sit down to chat with you and your German whore here—"
The furious fräulein kicked the gun from my hand, and I watched in what seemed like slow motion as it flew under the bed.
"Be careful, Franki," Vince warned. "She's here from Munich on a semi-pro wrestling tour."
"Oh, so now you're worried about my well being, Vince?" I asked, backing away from the German giantess. Now that I'd mentioned it, I was a little worried about me too. She was squatting down low with her hands raised, like she was going to make mincemeat of me.
"For you, ze 'tilt-a-whirl slam,'" she announced as she lunged for my waist.
From over her shoulder, I saw Vince leap from the bed to try to tackle her. Without even so much as a glance behind her, she laid him out cold with an elbow to the jaw.
"Ze 'discus elbow shmash,'" she explained, raising her chin and jutting out her King Kong–like chest.
By now it was clear that the crazed Kraut was a force to be reckoned with. Unfortunately for me, she was refusing to recognize that I was a force to be reckoned with too—a member of the police force. Before I knew what was happening, she had heaved all 5' 10" and 170 pounds of me over her right shoulder and begun to spin. Then, she let go.
I landed on the floor with a dull thud and desperately tried to remember what the police academy had taught me to do in situations like this. But the truth was that the trainers hadn't covered how to extricate oneself from a female German wrestler with a serious case of roid rage.
"Und now ze 'fist drop,'" she said, falling onto me while driving her fist into my belly.
I writhed on the gro
und in agony, gasping for breath. Then I saw the Munich Monster rise up from the floor like Godzilla from the sea. Clutching my stomach, I scrambled to my feet and did my best to mimic her sparring moves.
I dodged another lunge and glanced in the direction of the bathroom. "I really need you out here, Stan!"
"Just another minute, Franki." I heard the toilet flush.
In an attempt to reason with the raging wrestler, I said, "Listen, Greta or Helga or whatever your name is—"
"Mein name is Petra! Petra ze Pretzelmaker!" Her face contorted with rage as the veins bulged from her thick, manly neck. "It iz not whore!"
"Well, whoever you are," I wheezed, "you're under arrest."
"Nein. You are under arrest. Prepare for ze 'body avalanche.'" She flew through the air, knocked me flat on my back, and pinned me beneath her hulking frame.
Trying to protect my stomach from another fist drop, I rolled over just as she introduced a "hair pull" move that jerked me backward into an upward facing dog position.
I frantically tried to visualize what a good cop would do in a situation she hadn't been trained for when her partner's in the bathroom and she'd already called for backup, but nothing was coming to me. In the meantime, Petra, as her wrestling named implied, was twisting me into a pretzel. I had to buy time until backup arrived, or she was going to turn me into spaetzle.
"Petra, you need to calm down," I explained. "In the U.S., assaulting a police officer is a felony offense. You could go to prison for a long time."
To my relief, she abruptly let go of my hair. But as I fell forward she used her brawn to lift me into the air by my belt loops and sling me over her shoulder yet again. I heard the distinct sound of the seat of my uniform pants splitting.
Wunderbar, I thought as I remembered that I'd gone commando that day for lack of clean underwear.
"Und now I shpank," Petra announced.
"Don't you dare!" I felt the full force of her giant paw come down on my bare behind.
I mentally swore at the backup team for taking so long to arrive. Then I cursed my pants for splitting. I'd spent years avoiding my disproportionately large butt, both visually and mentally. Since it was behind me, I'd never had to look at it or think about it. Ever. And that had been my strategy—until now.
I heard a wet smacking sound as I felt her palm strike my bottom for the second time. My eyes filled with angry tears.
The toilet flushed again.
"I'm coming, Franki!" Stan rushed from the bathroom, fumbling with the buckle on his oversized pants. He drew his gun and aimed it at Petra. "Freeze! You're under arrest!"
Petra stopped in mid-spank, leaving my bare bottom directly under the glow of the only light in the dimly lit room.
"Drop the officer, boy," Stan commanded.
To my chagrin, Petra promptly did as she was told, and I hit the ground with the full force of my weight on my right knee. I was almost positive that it was either dislocated or broken.
"Now lie down on your belly real slow-like, son, and put your hands behind your back," he continued.
I rolled onto my back and clutched my knee. "She's the female, Stan. Vince is unconscious on the other side of the bed."
He sauntered over to Petra and squinted at her in the soft light. "Well I'll be damned."
After he cuffed the now astonishingly docile Deutschländer and pulled her to her feet, he whistled in amazement. "You're a real nutcracker, aren't ya?"
Despite my loathing for the woman, I rolled my eyes at Stan's remark. The guy had no filter.
Next, I looked on angrily as he led the placid Petra out the door to the squad car, carefully protecting her head with his right hand as he helped her into the backseat with the other.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that Vince was regaining consciousness across the room. If I could have walked or even crawled to his side, I would have knocked him out again.
Vince sat up and rubbed his jaw where he'd been elbowed. Then he turned to me. "Are you okay, babe?"
I stared at him in disbelief. "You mean after finding you in bed with a woman who then tried to kill me? Yeah, Vince. Doin' great."
"I can explain . . ."
"That's classic," I snapped, turning my head to hide my tears. "Do us both a favor and shut your mouth."
Stan chose that moment to pop his head into the room. "Uh, Vince, can I talk to you outside for a minute?"
Vince nodded and followed Stan out the door. I couldn't hear what they were saying because they had lowered their voices, but I would swear that I heard the two of them chuckling at one point. I watched in silent fury as they solidified their male bonding moment over a handshake before Vince got into his car and drove away.
When Stan re-entered the room, he nonchalantly pulled out his report pad and started to write.
I looked up at Stan from my supine position on the floor. "Um, Stan? Do you think maybe you could help me up? Since I'm injured?"
"Huh? Oh sure, Franki. One sec." He finished writing his sentence and ambled over to me.
Stan put his hands on his hips and looked down at me. "You looked pretty funny hanging upside down like that over Suzy Schwarzenegger's shoulder. Did you know your butt was showin'?"
"Yeah, thanks, Stan," I replied through clenched teeth. I was forever on the receiving end of his asinine comments.
"Sure, Franki. That's what partners are for."
I snorted. Since starting this job, Stan had been about as helpful to me as a ball and chain around my ankle and a noose around my neck. I had watched in frustration as the other rookies from my class flourished under the watchful eyes of their respective partners while I had slowly deteriorated under the disinterested gaze of mine. And when I'd finally gotten up the nerve to privately request a new partner, I'd been publicly branded as a troublemaker and earned the nickname "Finicky Franki," as though I were a petulant child or, even worse, a cat.
As Stan helped me off the ground, he let out a loud, greasy fart. "Hooo! That felt goooood."
I closed my eyes—and my nostrils—and promised myself that I would learn how to meditate.
"You know, I've really got to see somebody about my stomach," he reflected to himself for what must have been the hundredth time since I had met him. "I think I might have some kind of problem, but I don't know why. Hell, I'm in the best shape of my life."
Stan confidently patted his spare tire belly as he walked—and I hopped unassisted—to the squad car.
As soon as he climbed into the seat, he emitted three resounding sausage-scented belches. "Ugh, this heartburn is a killer. I feel like Old Faithful's eruptin' in my gut. Hey, could you hand me my antacids? They're in the glove box."
By this time, I knew very well where he kept his antacids, anti-diarrheals, and anti-gas tablets, all of which I regularly replenished out of my own pocket unbeknownst to Stan. I opened the glove compartment and handed him the box of antacids. Then I rolled down my window for life-sustaining oxygen. He'd already left me to die a violent slamming death. I'd be damned if I was going to let him suffocate me too.
"You okay, Franki?"
"I'm fine, Stan."
"Well, you rolled down your window like you needed some air. You feelin' dizzy?"
Oh indeed I am, I thought, but not because you let the Teutonic Titan spin me around the motel room for half a freakin' hour. He had absolutely no concept that his bodily functions might present a problem for me, both in terms of my physical safety on calls and my ability to breathe.
We arrived at the station and took Petra to booking. After she was processed and taken to her cell, Stan turned to me and began his customary end-of-the-shift lecture. "You know, you've really got to pay attention when you're out there on the street. This isn't the first time I've had to come to your rescue."
"Stan, I—"
"I mean, I'm not bragging or anything," he interrupted, "but I'm the best of the best. If you can't learn from me, then I don't know if you're gonna make it on the force."
"You know I have to write this in my report, Franki. You put me in real danger out there. I had no backup. I could've been killed!"
That did it. Although I was mostly mad at Vince, Stan was about to find out what it was like when I lost my filter. And it's not like he didn't have it coming. "Wait just one minute, Stan. Let me get this straight. I put you in danger? Are you freakin' kidding me? You put me in danger when you left me alone with the Deutsch Destroyer! And this was hardly the first time. I mean, I'm always covering my ass while yours is planted on a toilet seat."
Stan smirked. "Well, you didn't do such a good job of covering your ass tonight, now did you Franki?"
Now why did I have to mention my ass? I'd practically handed it to him on a platter with that remark.
"And that's the problem," he explained. "You can't protect yourself out there, and you can't be relied on to protect your partner from loonies like Schotsie the Sausagestuffer, either."
"Petra the Pretzelmaker!"
"And if you really want to know something, Franki," Stan continued in an offended tone, "I think it's inappropriate for you to discuss my bathroom habits."
"Me?" I'd had to endure play-by-play reenactments of the ins and outs of his bowels—make that the outs—on a daily basis since the first day of our partnership. But Stan was too self-absorbed to ever be able to realize that, much less admit it. I could tell that this conversation was going nowhere fast, just like my career. There was nothing more to say.
In that moment I knew it was over—I had to quit the police force. It wasn't because of Stan's utter lack of self-awareness or mentoring skills. (Although, after suffering through the many misadventures of his entrails, the idea of spending my days—or, in this case, my nights—joined at the hip of a partner had forever lost its appeal.). It was because I was tired of the kinds of people I had to deal with, the unpredictable situations and the humiliations. In the past few months, I'd been accidentally knocked head first into a steaming hot tub by another cop during a hotel fight, punched in the face on Halloween night by a drunken sorority girl who'd assumed I was wearing an "unsexy cop costume," and attacked by a disorderly circus clown's overprotective monkey, just to name a few. And now I had to add "spun and spanked by a German female wrestler with anger management issues who was fresh out of bed with my boyfriend" to the list. The time had definitely come to consider other forms of employment.
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