Limoncello Yellow (Franki Amato Mysteries) (11 page)

Of course they do, because that sort of thing makes my skin crawl
. "Does he live at home with his mother too?"

"
No, he live at-a the YN-aCA."

"
The Y
M
CA,
nonna
. Why does he live there?" I asked suspiciously. Napoleon reopened one eye.

"
He can't-a live with his
mamma
because he pay-a for her to live at-a the retirement home, and he also have-a to pay-a the alimonies to his ex-wife and kids."

"
He's divorced,
and
he has kids?"

"
Sì
, five. But he has a good-a job,
eh
Franki?" she reassured, knowing full well that an invalid mother, an ex-wife, and five kids definitely qualified as baggage.

"
Nonna
, I don't mean to sound like a snob, but I'd rather not date a man who works at a funeral home. You know that sort of thing is disturbing to me." This time Napoleon opened both eyes and raised his head. If he could talk, I knew he would agree with me.

"
Franki, he work-a for the sanitation department!"

So did Tony Soprano
, I thought. But if this guy was living at the Y, then I could rule out the Mafia. Well, maybe. "I have an idea,
nonna
. Why don't you give me their phone numbers so I can call them?" I asked, knowing that I never would. It was a weak last-ditch attempt, but it was all I had.

"
I already gave-a them your number, Franki. And your street address and your address for the emails too."

Nonna
had clearly covered her bases. This was no ordinary act of war—she had declared a full-on state of emergency.

"
I gave-a them-a Veronica's number too, Franki," she continued. "It's-a better to be safe than-a sorry,
no
? And you've been-a sorry for a long-a time."

Okay, that
's it. Time to cut the call short, with or without my dating exit strategy. "
Nonna
, I'll wait for Bruno and Pio to call. Give my love to Mom and Dad!
Ciao
!"

After hanging up the phone, I did what any self-respecting Italian-American girl would do following a crushing defeat from her
nonna
—I skipped the bubble bath and headed straight for the kitchen where I promptly opened the pantry door and grabbed a bottle of Chianti from the bottom shelf.

As I downed my first glass of the rich, red liquid
, I wondered if my dating prospects were really so grim that I needed my grandmother to set me up with reckless mamma's boys who worked in concessions and divorced mobsters who lived at the Y.
I mean, I'm not bad looking, and even though I've gained a few pounds, I'm trying to lose weight
, I thought as I poured myself another glass and grabbed some fontina cheese from the refrigerator. Plus, I refused to believe that a single woman had to raise the white flag of dating surrender at the age of twenty-nine. So, to thwart the intentions of my
nonna
and her army of Sicilian suitors, I needed to find a guy and quick. And I couldn't lie about it because my
nonna
definitely had her sources. I took a swig of wine straight from the bottle, deciding to make another visit to the Ponchartrain Bank. If it was
nonna
's picks or Bradley who-may-or-may-not have been flirting with me, I'd give the sexy bank manager a second chance—that is, unless he had a Sicilian
mamma
or
nonna
.

"
Veronica? It's me. Franki." I knocked on her apartment door for the second time and stood directly under her tiny front porch to avoid the pouring rain.

"
Be right there!" she yelled through the door.

"
Okay," I replied with a tinge of apprehension in my voice. I had been in New Orleans for almost a week and still hadn't seen the inside of Veronica's apartment. When we were in college, she had a Cinderella–style dorm room that had always made me uncomfortable. I could deal with the pink—even though I'd always been a purple girl myself—but her delicate princess furniture made me feel like Alice in Wonderland after she'd eaten the cake and grown to the size of a giantess.

Veronica threw open the door to reveal that both she and Hercules were dressed head to toe in matching orange rain gear.
"Sorry it took me so long! I could
not
get Hercules' galoshes on!"

"
No worries. Are you ready to go murder scarf shopping?"

"
Yeah, I'm just going to run Hercules outside for a sec," Veronica explained as I stood there awkwardly. "To do his business," she added in a confidential whisper and then walked Hercules past me and out into the yard.

"
Okay," I said, entering her apartment. As I turned to close the door behind me, I caught a glimpse of the living room and did a double take. Instead of the familiar princess furnishings, I saw chunky, animal print–upholstered furniture made of dark wood, the legs, arms, and backs of which had been carved to look like tiki idols. Adding to the bizarre décor were tropical curtains, lamps with fuzzy orange shades, lime green wall-to-wall shag carpeting and enough plants to simulate a rain forest. It looked like our landlady Glenda had bought out the contents of Elvis Presley's Jungle Room at Graceland on one of her antique-shopping trips.

Just then Veronica returned with Hercules.
"What do you think of my new couch?" she asked, removing her raincoat.

"
Th-This is
your
furniture?"

"
Yes!" she said, beaming. "What do you think of it?"

"
Uh…it's wild," I responded truthfully as I took a seat in an armchair that had what looked like an angry island god perched atop its back.

"
I know!" Veronica kicked off her galoshes and freed little Hercules from his teensy galoshes and itty-bitty raincoat, which looked a lot like a doggie straightjacket. "Franki, I think I've discovered something important about the Evans case."

"
What?" I asked hesitantly. I was still trying to come to grips with her Polynesian Primitive style.

"
Take a look at this." Veronica retrieved a crime scene photo from her lava rock coffee table and shoved it under my nose. "I don't know how I missed it before," she added, pointing to the photo, which featured the yellow-trimmed scarf that had apparently been used to strangle Jessica.

I scrutinized the edge of the scarf, which Veronica was jabbing at with a perfect pink nail.
"I don't see anything."

"
Here, use this." Veronica handed me a magnifying glass in the shape of a hibiscus flower.

As I looked through the magnifying glass, I saw something thin and white right where she was pointing.
"What is that?"

Her eyes practically glowed with excitement.
"It's a fine barb."

"
Um, okay," I replied sarcastically. "I guess you could call the scarf 'fine garb'—that is, if you work at the Renaissance Fair."

Veronica rolled her eyes.
"Franki, I said 'fine
barb
.' It's the piece of plastic used to attach a price tag to a garment."

I stared at her for a moment.
"You
would
know what that thing is called."

"
Yeah, me and the millions of people who work in retail." She took the photo and magnifying glass from my hands.

"
So, what do you think that fine barb thingy means?" I leaned over to stroke Hercules' fluffy fur.

"
It means that the scarf was new," she said, sitting daintily in the tiny armchair.

"
Why do you say that? Someone could have left it there without noticing."

"
Franki, what kind of person leaves a fine barb on clothing and doesn't notice?"

"
I don't know," I said innocently, thinking of all the times I'd discovered that I had been walking around with stickers from the store still on my clothes, not to mention the occasions when I'd put on my underwear or even my T-shirt inside out. Come to think of it, had I managed to put everything on the right way today? I did a quick spot check and then, satisfied that I appeared properly dressed, returned my attention to the case. "But, so what if it was new?"

"
I'm convinced that someone brought a brand new scarf there on purpose," she replied, crossing her arms with conviction.

"
You mean, as a gift? But remember, Annabella said that Jessica hated cheap scarves. So why would someone bring her a scarf they knew she wouldn't like?" I asked as I smoothed Hercules' fur to see what he would look like without his Pomeranian poof.

"
Maybe the person who brought it to her didn't know that. If it was a man—well, you know how clueless men can be about clothing," Veronica said.

"
And if it was a woman, she would probably know that Jessica wouldn't like the scarf," I deducted.

"
Precisely," Veronica replied in a tone that indicated she suddenly understood everything perfectly. I, on the other hand, couldn't figure out how a gift-buying
faux pas
could solve a murder.

"
So what do you make of it?" I asked, noting that, with his fur flattened, Hercules looked a lot like a Jorge.

"
If you're talking about Hercules' fur, I think it looks awful. But if you mean the scarf, I'm not sure yet. But something tells me that if we find out why someone gave her that particular scarf, we may have our answer."

"
Well, the fact that the scarf was new should make it easier for us to track down," I said, watching as Hercules struggled out of my arms and ran to Veronica.

"
Right." Veronica repoofed Hercules' fur and gave him a reassuring pat. "So, I've made a list of local stores and their addresses. We'll have to split up to cover more ground."

"
Split up? That's no fun!" I protested.

"
Francesca Lucia Amato!" Veronica chided. "A day of shopping is
always
fun!"

* * *

After spending several hours fruitlessly scouring boutiques in the Canal Street area, I decided that it was time to break for a late lunch. The rain had stopped, and it was shaping up to be a sunny and unseasonably warm day. Fortunately for me, Ponchartrain Bank was open from noon until 6 p.m. on Saturdays. So, I decided to stop by before grabbing a bite—to check on the status of my ATM card, of course.

As I entered the lobby, I scanned the room for Bradley. There was no sign of him, but I did see Corinne. She was beckoning frantically to me from her teller window, and she looked pale and despondent, like Tinker Bell without her pixie dust.

I walked up to the window. "Is everything okay, Corrine?"

"
Franki, you are a private investigator,
non
?"

"
Yes. Why?"
              Her eyes filled with tears. "Yesterday I come home from work, and my
petite Bijou
, she is missing."

I wasn
't entirely sure who or what a
petite Bijou
was, so I hazarded a guess. "Is Bijou your pet?"

"
Oui
, she is my
chien
—
pardon
, my dog. She was a gift from Thierry. She is just a puppy," she said between sobs.

"
What kind of dog is she?"
              "She is a
bijon frise
." She reached for her handbag under the counter and pulled out her phone. She pulled up a picture of Bijou for me. He looked a lot like a white powder puff with black eyes and a black nose. "Franki, can you please help me find her? I pay whatever you want."

"
Of course, Corinne." I examined the picture. "How did the thief get into your house? Had any of the doors been tampered with? Or a window?"

"
Non
." She blew her nose with a honk. "I live in an
appartement
on ze fours floor."

"
Was anything else taken?" I asked, handing the phone back to her.

"
Only
Bijou
," she wailed, placing the phone on the counter and covering her eyes.

"
So, it sounds like someone went there just to steal her. Corinne, the last time I was here, you said that you and Thierry had broken up. Are the two of you back together?"