Limoncello Yellow (Franki Amato Mysteries) (34 page)

"
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 the 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?"

"
Veronica. Open up."

I got up and opened the door to find Veronica dressed in a faux shearling coat, jeans
, and Frye boots. "Howdy, partner," I drawled in Texan. "Are you on your way to the cowboy convention?"

"
Don't be silly." She blew past me into the room. "The whole cowboy incident just reminded that I hadn't worn this outfit yet."

I closed the door and returned yet again to the chaise lounge. I managed an eye roll on the way.

"Anyway," Veronica continued, "I got your message about Concetta." Then she spotted my mini banquet and squealed. "Yummy! Thanks for getting me some too!"

I felt my heart drop. I wasn
't going to admit that all six of those lemony treats were for me. "No problem."

Veronica bit hungrily into the very slice of pound cake that I
'd been trying to eat for the past ten minutes. "So, you don't think Concetta was following you, do you? I mean, from what you told me, it sounds like she just happened to see you as you were going into CC's."

"
That's what I think too," I replied as I snatched a piece of the cake for myself. "I guess I was just a little taken aback by how angry she was."

"
Well, I can see how she'd think we were targeting Domenica, so it's really not surprising that she would get upset. Nuns are people too, you know."

"
I suppose so," I conceded. Although, based on my Sunday school experiences, I was half convinced that nuns were actually a special race of super humans who had x-ray vision that they used exclusively for the purpose of seeing right through those with guilty consciences.

"
I wouldn't worry about it, though," Veronica said with a wave of what was left of her pound cake. "She's such a nice person. She'll probably call you to apologize."

"
Maybe." But I wasn't as sure about that as Veronica was. Concetta had seemed pretty darned mad to me.

"
So, are you ready for round two of the Harry Upton stakeout tonight?" she asked, finishing off the last of her pound cake. I watched with a growing sense of panic as she moved on to a lemon square.

"
As long as we don't have to go back to the rodeo restaurant," I responded, seizing a lemon square for myself before it was too late.

"
Definitely wear a dress again in case we have to follow him into someplace nice."

"
Ugh!" I exclaimed. "I don't want to be in a dress while we're looking at video at Lenton's. I'd rather be in my comfy jeans."

"
We're not going to Lenton's."

"
Why not?" I asked, surprised. "Is Ed still in the grip of the devil?"

She shrugged and took a bite of lemon square.
"I don't know, but his assistant called me this morning and said that the DVD of the other two purchases hasn't arrived yet."

"
That doesn't sound promising." I chewed my lip.

"
Don't worry. It should be here in a day or so. She said it was sent via FedEx." Then she looked at her phone. "Oh! I have a mani-pedi in thirty minutes. I've got to go."

I looked at the plate and was relieved to see that I still had one of each of the pastries left. Big mistake. Veronica had followed my gaze and decided to take the last piece of pound cake to go.

"Well, I'll see you later," I said, rushing her out of the apartment before she could do any more damage to my dessert, er, breakfast. Then I locked the door behind her.

Alone with one lousy lemon square, I picked up my laptop and clicked my Internet browser. On a whim, I pulled up
The Times-Picayune
picture of Stewart Preston waving on the courthouse steps. There was something about the photograph that just wasn't right, but for the life of me I couldn't figure out what it was.

I studied the image for a few more minutes.
As my eyes roved the picture, it finally hit me: There was no clasp on Stewart's watchband. I stared at the watch trying to determine whether it was the slip-on kind, and then I had a sudden flash of intuition. But to be sure, I needed a high-resolution version of the photo. I scrolled to the bottom of the page and clicked "Times-Picayune Store." After a quick search, I discovered that the picture wasn't readily available, so I filled out a web-form request for a copy.

I had a hunch about that photo, but even I had to admit that it was a long shot. If I was right, though, it was going to blow the Evans case wide open.

* * *

I turned over to my left side with a giggle. Bradley was licking my face. Wait. The moment I thought that, I knew it didn't sound right. I sat up with a start. Napoleon was standing on his hind legs with his front paws perched on the chaise lounge, his tongue still lolling out of his mouth. I put my hand on my right cheek and felt something wet and sticky. Dog saliva mixed with lemon square. Nice.

I looked at my phone to check the time.
Three o'clock?
I must have crashed and burned from my caffeine-sugar high, which meant that it had been a successful lazy Saturday, after all. I also noticed that there was a voice mail from my parents' number. It had to be my
nonna
wanting to find out the results of her serenade scheme. I gave silent thanks to the universe for allowing me to miss that call. I tapped on the message and steeled myself for what was to come.

"
Franki, I talk-a to Guido!" the voice of my
nonna
reported. "He tell-a me that-a you two had a date last-a night! And he say that-a you're gonna have another one again-a tonight! I
told-a
him that-a song would do the trick-a! Now, he did-a say that you were
a lot
older
than-a he thought-a you was gonna be, but that-a was because-a I tell-a him that-a you were twenty-one and not-a twenty-nine!" Then she added a resounding "Ha!" as she slapped what was probably the kitchen table in a fit of self-induced hilarity.

I paused the message.
What is she talking about?
I wondered.
Guido and I did
not
have a date last night.
And just where did he get off saying that I looked "a lot older" than he'd anticipated? I could pass for twenty-one or so!
I thought, livid. Then a disturbing realization began to dawn on me: He was talking about Glenda.
Guido thought I was Glenda!

I lay back on the chaise lounge feeling slightly nauseated, and it wasn
't because of the pastries and coffee. I toyed with notion of deleting the rest of the message—I wasn't sure I wanted to hear anymore. Who knows what Guido had told my
nonna
about what he and Glenda had done on their date? But then I remembered something I was always hearing on TV or wherever: Knowledge is power. And power was something I needed to take on my
nonna
.

I pressed play.

"So make-a sure you don't-a tell-a him your real age,"
nonna
advised. "Remember, a
zitella
like-a you—"

I pressed delete.

For a moment, I wondered whether I should I tell my
nonna
the truth about what had happened last night. But then I realized that I must be delusional from low blood sugar. I mean, if Guido was dating Glenda and thought she was me, then I was finally off the hook! No more
nonna
in my love life! I just had to hope—or, rather, pray—that Guido wasn't the type to kiss and tell. I cringed at the mere thought of the stories he would potentially divulge.

M
y phone took that moment to start ringing. I looked at the display, and this time I sat up with a jolt. It was Stewart Preston. My hands were shaking as I tapped answer.

"
H-hello?" Not exactly an auspicious beginning.

A low, grating voice shot back,
"Who the hell
are
you, and why have you been calling me and my family?"

Stewart was clearly ready to play hardball, so I needed to pull myself together quick.
"Like I said in my messages," I began coolly, "I'm an old high school friend of Angelica Evangelista's."

"
What's that got to do with me?" His voice was thick with suspicion.

I gathered up my courage.
"I need to talk to you about her murder."

"
You must not have heard my last question," he said in a slow, threatening tone. "I repeat, what's that got to do with me?"

"
Well, I know you and Angelica go way back—"

Stewart cut me off with a loud, raucous laugh.
"Darlin', Angelica goes way back with a lot of men!"