Limoncello Yellow (Franki Amato Mysteries) (32 page)

"
Smart move." I nodded and then noticed I had powdered sugar on my chest. I was going to have to switch to something less messy, like croissants or raw cookie dough.

"
Apparently, he also learned that the police have questioned Stewart Preston." She crossed her arms. "Two days ago."

"
So he's probably in town, and he hasn't returned my call." I brushed the pesky powdered sugar off my shirt. "Looks like I'm going to have to get insistent."

"
Definitely," she said.

"
And while you're at Lenton's today, I'll go through
The Times-Picayune
society pages and make a list of the restaurants and bars where he's been spotted in the past. That way, if he doesn't return my call, we can try to track him down at one of his favorite hangouts."

"
Great idea."

I opened my Internet browser to start the search and heard the familiar crash of David entering the office.
I grinned and glanced at Veronica, who was silently shaking her head.

"
Ladies," David said with a nod as he entered the doorway moments later. "May I?"

"
You may," I replied uncertainly, unsure whether I should be concerned about his uncharacteristic formality.

David bounded into my office and plopped down into a chair.
"Prepare to be amazed," he said, pulling his laptop from his backpack with a flourish. "I had some time to kill between classes this morning, so I did some research on corporate affiliations." He paused for dramatic effect. "The Vautier Group is the parent company of Preston Textiles, Inc.!"

"
So the Prestons
were
paying Jessica!" I said, pounding my fist on my desk in excitement. Then I looked expectantly at Veronica, anticipating one of her voice-of-reason-style responses.

"
Now hold on, Franki," she began, not disappointing me. "I know it looks suspicious, but Jessica
was
in the fashion business, as is Preston Textiles. There's always the possibility that they were paying her for a legitimate service."

"
But Preston Textiles wasn't paying her," I objected. "The Vautier Group was."

Veronica turned to David.
"What does The Vautier Group do?"

"
Uh, basically, they just buy and control other companies through majority stock ownership," he explained. "And by the way, Stewart Preston, III, is on the current board."

I looked back at Veronica and waited.

"Well," she said, meeting my gaze, "it's certainly beginning to look like those deposits could have been payoffs."

"
Which would explain the weird conversation Concetta witnessed between Stewart and Jessica
and
the extravagant purchases Jessica started making right after Immacolata's death," I said.

She nodded.
"We've got to find Stewart ASAP."

"
Don't worry," I said. "As soon as you leave, I'll start calling him. Every hour if I have to."

David cleared his throat.
"Um, before you go, I've got some more information for you."

"
Okay, shoot," Veronica said.

"
So, I've been going through the Google hits for 'Bill' and 'William Evangelista,' and I found one that says a guy named Bill Evangelista died in a car accident in Gulfport, Mississippi in 1989."

"
That's close to here, right?" I asked.

"
Yeah, it's a little over an hour away," he replied. "My buddies and I went there for spring break last year because it's got some freakin'
awesome
beaches. Even though it
is
an oil town."

"
Oil?" I was instantly reminded of the life insurance payments Jessica was receiving from the oil company.

"
Sounds like our Bill Evangelista," Veronica commented. "The age of the daughter would also be about right, since Bill referred to her as a baby in his letter."

"
Oh, it's totally him," David said.

"
What makes you so sure?" I asked.

"
Because the obituary I found said his daughter was named 'Jessica,'" he said. "And she and her mother, Wanda, died in the accident too."

* * *

Veronica slowed her speed to ensure that we were following Harry Upton's navy blue Mercedes at a safe distance.

I looked out the window
at the gorgeous nineteenth-century architecture of the historic New Orleans neighborhood of Uptown and let out a sigh.

"
What is it?"

"
I spent all day calling Stewart Preston, and I haven't heard a peep out of him. Not even a text message telling me to go to hell. I guess I just feel like the chances of questioning him are getting slimmer by the minute."

"
Give it a little more time. I really think that he'll call, either out of concern or just plain curiosity."

"
Maybe," I said. "Anyway, you haven't told me what happened at Lenton's today."

"
It must have slipped my mind."

I turned to look at her.
"I take it you didn't find anything?"

Veronica shook her head.
"The person who was buying the scarf was an African-American male."

"
How was Ed?" I flashed a mischievous smile.

"
He wasn't there," she replied. "He's got the devil's grip."

"
Do I even want to know what that is?"

She smirked.
"It's a disease that causes bouts of severe chest pain that last for up to a week."

I couldn
't resist the temptation of asking, "Are you sure he wasn't just overexcited about spending the day with you?"

Veronica shot me a look.
"Looks like we've arrived," she said after Harry pulled into the parking lot of a restaurant called Pascal's Manale.

"
Hey, I read about this place today!"

Veronica slowed her Audi to a stop outside the parking lot.
"Yeah, it's kind of a New Orleans tradition. Everyone eats here sooner or later."

"
Including Stewart Preston. According to
The Times-Picayune
, he comes here fairly often."

"
Really?" Veronica asked. "That would be amazing if we saw him here too."

"
Yeah, well, don't get your hopes up," I said as I observed Harry parking in a space at the rear of the lot. "Coincidences like that only happen in books."

Veronica pulled into the lot and parked in the row in front of Harry
's car, and we slouched down into our seats.

Peering over the dashboard, I watched as Harry pushed open his car door and struggled briefly beneath the weight of his Hitchcockian belly before exiting. After buttoning his over-sized sport coat, he carefully patted his toupee and smoothed his mustache with his index finger and thumb. Then, he gave a little skip and a hop and set off in the direction of the restaurant entrance.

I gasped, outraged. "Did you see that? He's so jazzed about his affair that he actually did a little dance!"

"
Oh! That reminds me." Veronica began rummaging in her pink Prada handbag. "Twyla emailed me a picture of Patsy. Here," she said, handing me her phone.

I flinched when I saw the photo of the alleged cotillion coquette. Patsy had the white beehive hairdo and sharp features of the late Texas Governor Ann Richards, but she had the teeth of
Alvin the Chipmunk.

"
She won't be hard to spot in a crowd." I handed the phone back to Veronica. "So, what do we do now?"

"We need to go inside. If we wait out here, we run the risk of Harry and his date leaving the restaurant separately. Then we'd miss the photo op."

"
We're not going to let that happen," I vowed. I leapt from the car, slung my ten-dollar Target-special hobo bag over my shoulder, and growled in a vigilante voice, "Let's do this."

I entered the restaurant followed by Veronica and promptly did a double take. The place was teeming with men in full-on cowboy gear, from cowboy hats and neckerchiefs to chaps and boots.

I leaned over to Veronica. "The newspaper said this was an Italian restaurant, but based on the clientele, it looks more like a Wild West saloon. Minus the showgirls."

Veronica nodded and, apparently as a precautionary measure, tightened the belt of her Burberry trench coat.

We made our way through the crowded lobby, carefully avoiding any spurs, to the empty hostess stand.

While we were waiting for someone to arrive, a lonesome-looking cowpoke with a toothpick between his teeth tried to take a gander down the front of my dress. I narrowed my eyes like Clint Eastwood in a spaghetti western and drawled menacingly,
"Giddy on, little doggie."

The toothpick fell from his lips as he recoiled in surprise. Then he adjusted his hat and moseyed away.

A few minutes later, a harried looking hostess rushed up to us. "I hope you're not waiting for a table!" She had a partially untucked shirt and a run in her stocking, causing me to wonder if an overzealous broncobuster had just tried to lasso and hogtie her.

"
Actually, we are," Veronica replied.

"
Well, then," she began in a grim tone, "you're looking at a two-hour wait."

I counted ten total cowhands in the waiting area.
"It doesn't look like that many people are waiting."

The harassed hostess gripped the edges of the hostess stand, bowed her head
, and took a deep breath before looking me straight in the eye. "There aren't. But the good folks who decided to organize a cowboy convention in New Orleans apparently thought our famous barbecued shrimp were cooked on a grill instead of a stovetop. So, the cowboys here have all sent their orders back to the kitchen and are threatening to quote 'rustle up a passel of wood and cook the dad-gum shrimps in the dad-blamed parking lot.' As you might imagine, it's going to take us a while to settle what the cowboys are describing as 'this here sitchiation.'"

Sensing that now was not the time to insist, I said,
"You know, I think we'll just head on over to the bar."

I led Veronica to an oyster-shucking area.
"I don't know about you, but I think we need to get out of here before these crazy cattlemen decide to brawl or stampede or something."

"
I agree, but we have to figure out a way to get a few pictures of Harry first."

I thought for a moment.
"I know! I'll pretend like I'm one of those people who go around taking courtesy pictures of the guests."

"
That's perfect!" Veronica enthused. "What do you need me to do?"

"
Just help me find Harry at the O.K. Corral here."

"
On it." She took off, weaving through the tables.

As I followed close on Veronica
's heels, I began to get an idea of what it must have been like to be a pioneering woman in the Old West. The lewd whistling, suggestive winking, and flat-out leering—a girl could get used to this.

I spotted Harry at a table in the back corner of the restaurant. His back was to me, and he was blocking my view of his date.

I grabbed Veronica's arm. "There he is."

"
Okay, give me your bag."

I pulled out my phone and then handed the bag to Veronica.
"Here goes nothing."

I walked straight to the table where I was shocked to discover that Harry
's date wasn't Patsy at all but rather an attractive forty-something brunette in a white Chanel suit with black trim.

How
does
he do it?
I wondered, bewildered. Then I approached the double-crossing duo. "Good evening!"

A nervous Harry jumped in his seat, and the brunette hung her head.

"How would you two like a picture as a memento of your dinner at Pascal's Manale?" I asked way too cheerfully.

The bashful brunette looked uncertainly at Harry.

"Oh, no. No," he blustered. "That won't be necessary."

"
Don't be silly!" I exclaimed, giving Harry a not-so-playful shove. "This'll just take a sec!"

"
We'd really prefer not to have our picture taken," Harry said.

"
Nonsense," I said through clenched teeth as I placed my hand firmly on Harry's back and pushed him toward the brunette. "Now you two lean in and say
cheat
. Wait, did I say
cheat
? Oopsy! I meant
cheese
."