Prosecco Pink (3 page)

"Oh yes, dear. Do you remember your cousin Giovanna? The one who's only twenty-four and is already an attorney?"

I put the back of my arm over my eyes. The fact that my mother was bringing up my cousin's age and profession meant one of two things. Either she was calling to tell me that Giovanna was engaged or that she'd been promoted. I was betting on the former. "Of course I remember her. She's my cousin."

"Well, you're not going to believe this, but she's engaged to a judge!"

"
Tombola
," I said aloud.

"Are you playing Italian bingo, dear?"

I sighed. "It's seven o'clock in the morning, Mom."

"Well, I distinctly heard you say '
tombola
.'"

"I know, I just… Never mind. When's the wedding?"

There was a long pause, and then I heard muffled voices and the sound of a scuffle. I knew from years of experience that my eighty-three-year-old Sicilian grandmother, Carmela, was trying to wrest the receiver from my mother's hands.

"First she's gonna have-a the
festa del fidanzamento
," my nonna announced, breathless from the struggle.

I should've predicted that my nonna would be listening in to a conversation about a wedding. She'd been trying to get me married for the last thirteen years, since I was sixteen.

"She found a nice-a Sicilian boy," Nonna continued, "so they gonna get married in a church in-a
Sicilia
."

I couldn't help but feel a tinge of resentment toward Giovanna. By announcing her plans to get married in a Sicilian church, of all damned places, she'd opened up a world of grandma hurt for me. My nonna had already accepted the fact that Bradley wasn't Sicilian, reasoning that a twenty-nine-year-old
zitella
like me couldn't "have-a it all-a." But I wasn't sure how she was going to react to the news that a church wedding to Bradley—provided that he ever proposed to me, that is—was out of the question in light of his divorce. Of course, I avoided the issue and muttered a polite, "That's nice."

Nonna gave a bitter laugh. "'That's-a nice,' she says. Well, if-a you think it's-a so nice, then why you no wanna date those-a Sicilian boys I find-a for you?"

I thought of the string of Sicilian-American chauvinists and mammas' boys she'd given my phone number to a few months before. "Uh, they weren't exactly my type."

"No? And-a what's-a your type, Franki? This I want-a to hear."

I was treading on dangerous ground. If I wavered in my response, she would sick her army of Sicilian suitor-soldiers on me again. "My boyfriend, Bradley Hartmann," I replied in no uncertain terms.

"Okay, and-a when is-a this-a Bradley gonna come-a to meet-a your mamma?"

"Nonna, we've only been dating for a few months."

"That's-a plenty of time. I got-a engaged to your
nonnu
, God rest-a his soul, after two-a weeks.

"But that was in Sicily during Fascism. This is the United States, a democracy, sixty years later."

"And-a you see where all-a this-a freedom has-a gotten you, eh? Thirty-two years old without-a no husband.
Una tragedia
."

These calls from home were always so uplifting. "Nonna, I've really got to go. I have a list of things to do before I go to work this morning."

"Well, you add-a this to your list. Tell-a Bradley to meet-a your mamma. Because I'm-a hearing the tick-a tock-a tick-a tock-a of-a your clock all-a the way here in-a Houston."

If I stayed on this call a minute longer, my brain—and my biological clock—were going to explode. "I'll do that," I gushed. "
Ciao Ciao!
"

Happy Monday,
I thought as I threw the phone onto the nightstand. I kicked off my hot pink velvet duvet and climbed out of the French bordello-style bed. Thanks to my family, I was now painfully aware that I was old, husbandless, and quickly closing in on barren. So I figured that there was no time like the present to drop by Ponchartrain Bank to find out whether I was boyfriendless too.

*  *  *

An hour and a half later, I was strolling down Canal Street toward Ponchartrain Bank, taking in the sights and smells of the busy thoroughfare. Unlike the narrow, shop-and-bar-lined streets of the adjacent French Quarter, Canal was one of the main arteries of the city. In the colonial era, it was the dividing line between the French and Spanish portion of the city and the newer American Sector, which is now the Central Business District. Four lanes across with a two-way trolley line in the center, Canal looked more like something you would see in an urban metropolis such as Los Angeles than in a small Southern city like New Orleans. And the same could be said about its hordes of tourists and bums.

As I approached the foreboding black slate walls of the bank, I felt a growing sense of anxiety. I wondered whether Bradley was still mad about the alligator-accident-gun thing. But then I reasoned that the fact that he hadn't called me didn't necessarily mean anything. After all, it was entirely possible that he hadn't been able to call because his meeting ran late. And, looking back on the whole swamp incident now, the only real harm done was a little muddy water on his suit and possibly a lost business deal. But life was about so much more than work. Surely he could see that.

Feeling a surge of newfound confidence, I pushed open the heavy glass door and glanced toward the teller area on the right. Despite her petite 4' 10" frame, I immediately spotted Corinne Mercier, a teller who had helped Veronica and me solve a homicide case at the nearby LaMarca luxury goods store a few months before. She was just finishing up with a client, so I started in her direction to say hello.

"Why, Franki," Pauline's pompous voice boomed from behind me as I was enveloped by a cloud of her perfume. "I'm surprised to see you here."

I turned around and saw Pauline sitting at her desk in front of the row of offices on the left side of the room. "I hardly think it's surprising that I would drop by my bank," I said. Then I added, with emphasis, "And my boyfriend's place of work."

She blinked. "I couldn't agree more. It's just that I thought you'd be hard at work wrestling alligators or gunning down innocent people."

I sighed and slung my hobo bag over my left shoulder to free up my right arm. You know, for gesturing. "Listen, Pauline. I don't have time for this."
She rested her chin on her folded hands and looked me straight in the eye. "Neither do I."

I shifted in my slingbacks. This woman had a lot of nerve. "Could you buzz Bradley and let him know I'm here?"

"He's in a meeting," she replied. And, as though dismissing me, she picked up a jar of opaque white glitter and began sprinkling it into a stuffed envelope.

I gave an impatient toss of my hair. "Okay, what time will it end?"

"No clue." She picked up another envelope and added the white flakes.

"Can you at least tell me how the meeting went with Mr. Stafford last night?" I asked through quasi-clenched teeth.

She ceased sprinkling and glared up at me. "I'm not at liberty to discuss confidential bank business."

I'd set myself up for that one. "All right, then. Just tell Bradley I stopped by."

"That'll be number one on my to-do list." She flashed a false smile.

Somehow, I doubted that. I started to walk away, but my curiosity got the better of me. "What are you doing, anyway?"

Pauline turned up her nose with a self-important air. "Not that it's any of your business, but I'm putting together the invitations for the 'Shoot for the Moon' charity event I'm organizing for the bank. It's to raise scholarship funds for kids who were victims of Hurricane Katrina."

"So, what's the white stuff?"

"It's supposed to be moon dust," she replied, rolling her eyes.

"You sure it's not anthrax?"

She smirked and shook her head in disgust. "Everything's a crime to you, isn't it? And we saw where that got you last night."

I felt a wave of anger rise in my chest, but I fought to maintain my composure. I couldn't cause a scene at Bradley's bank, especially not after the events of last night. "Think what you want, but a lot of people are going to open those envelopes and panic when they see white powder."

"Oh, and I see you're also a cynic," she said, raising her eyebrows in mock surprise. "How charming."

I narrowed my eyes. "Coming from someone like you, I'll take that as a compliment."

She fluttered her eyelashes and faked a mournful frown.

My hands balled into fists. I needed to leave before my free right arm did something I would regret. I spun on my heels and stomped toward the teller area.

"See ya later,
alligator
," Pauline intoned.

I froze in my tracks but didn't turn around. I had no intention of giving her the satisfaction. Instead, I headed straight for Corinne's friendly face.

"
Bonjour
, Franki," Corinne said in her thick French accent. "I see you meet Pauline."

I took a deep, calming breath. "Yeah," I said, casting a hostile glance in her direction, "I had the great pleasure of meeting her a few weeks ago when you were on vacation."

"Ah." Corinne looked down. With her pixie haircut and big blue eyes, she looked like a sad Tinker Bell.

I rested my arms on the counter. "What's the matter?"

She looked up. "I sink she does not like me very much."

Even though I was convinced that Pauline was evil incarnate, I was surprised that she'd take issue with a sweet person like Corinne. "Honestly, I don't think she likes anyone very much, so I wouldn't take it too hard if I were you."

"
Peut-être
," she said, her chin quivering.

"Did something happen between the two of you?"

She wiped away a tear. "I suppose I can tell you. But please, do not tell Bradley."

"Of course not," I said, leaning forward.

She took a deep breath. "On Friday, zere was money missing from my teller drawer. Pauline say I took ze money. But I did not."

Now I was shocked. I didn't know Corinne very well, but I knew she wasn't the type to steal money from her place of work. "How much was missing?"

"Five hundred dollars."

I gasped. "What happened? Do you think you made some kind of mistake?"

"I don't know, but I repay ze money."

"Out of your own pocket?" That was a sizeable chunk of change on a bank teller's salary. And on mine, for that matter.

She nodded. "But now Mr. Hartmann sinks I steal."

"I doubt very seriously he sinks—I mean,
thinks
—that. He knows what an honest, loyal employee you are."

She shook her head. "No, he does not. Pauline say she
saw
me take ze money."

"Oh, Corinne. I'm so sorry." I couldn't imagine why Pauline would go so far as to accuse Corinne of theft. I didn't think it likely that she was after Corinne's job since she struck me as the type who would set her career sights much higher. But what other reason would she have had for saying Corinne took the money? And what had happened to that five hundred dollars, anyway?

"Franki," Corinne said, shaking me from my thoughts.

"Yes?"

"Be careful. Zis Pauline, she is not a nice person."

I thought of her potential influence on Bradley, and my jaw tightened. "I will. And you do the same. Keep your eyes on your teller drawer at all times, and let me know if anything else happens."

*  *  *

As I headed down Canal Street toward the Mississippi River, I couldn't stop thinking about that missing money. I really hoped that Bradley was looking into the situation. Because even though I had no idea what was going on at Ponchartrain Bank, my gut was telling me that something wasn't right.

My gut was also telling me, loud and clear, that it was time for breakfast. And for me, breakfast in the French Quarter, and often lunch and dinner, meant only one thing, beignets. But it was already nine, so the world-famous Café du Monde was out of the question. By this time, the line to get in usually stretched all the way down to the Civil War era, model cannon in neighboring Washington Artillery Park. I took a left on Decatur Street and stopped instead at the less renowned but optimistically named New Orleans Famous Beignets and Coffee Café and ordered a dozen of the powdered-sugar pastries. To share with everyone at the office, naturally.

Ten minutes later, I exited the restaurant cradling a bag of piping hot beignets. When I looked down to grab my sunglasses from my purse, I ran straight into a little woman with the body type of the Pillsbury Doughboy and a Chanel handbag the size of a sixth grader. The impact was so strong that we bounced off one another.

"Oooh!" the woman exclaimed. She straightened her purple knit poncho and then smoothed her platinum-highlighted, bouffant brown bob. Her stubby fingers were tipped with white, paddle-shaped acrylic fingernails decorated with tiny replicas of the same silver and gold moons and stars that adorned her charm bracelet, necklace, and earrings.

"I'm so sorry," I gushed. "Are you okay?"

She stared at me with green eyes as big as saucers and raised her pudgy hand to her small mouth. "I'm fine," she said in a honeyed voice. "But you're obviously not."

I felt my face and did a quick check of my limbs. Everything seemed in order, that is, except for that twenty extra pounds in my mid-section and backside. "Um, I'm not sure I understand."

Her round face grew serious. "I wasn't referring to your earthly body. I meant your
aura
. It's black."

That explains the moons and stars
, I thought. "Yeah, I've had kind of a rough morning."

She shook her head, causing her jewelry to jingle like Santa's sleigh bells. "It's not about your morning. And I know, because I talk to spirits."

My first inclination was to tell her that the only spirits I wanted to know about were those of the alcohol variety. But in the short time I'd been in New Orleans, I'd learned to treat the drunks and the crazies in the Quarter courteously—and then flee. "How interesting," I said with a polite nod. "But, I'm late for work, so I'd better be on my way."