Limoncello Yellow (Franki Amato Mysteries) (10 page)

I shared her confusion. Leaving a prestigious institution like the London College of Fashion off your famous design house company profile was like intentionally not telling your doctor that you had cancer. It just didn
't make sense. "Maybe you misunderstood."

"
No." She broke the thread in half. "I'm positive that the guy said she was a student there. I mean, how could I mistake the London College of Fashion? Jimmy Choo went there!"

"
Of course," I said, as though I were an expert in Jimmy Choo's pedigree. "Did she say anything back to the guy?"

"
Just that LaMarca had offered her amaaaaazing incentives on the condition that she manage the New Orleans store for a year. Sales were down, so they wanted a Louisiana native to try to turn it around. I heard her tell him that she wouldn't be in town for long, but he said he wanted her gone right away."

"
Maybe it was an ex-boyfriend. You know how demanding men can be."

"
I don't know."

I followed her bulging gaze as she glanced at someone who appeared to be a manager and then quickly resumed the scarf search.

"How long ago did this happen?" I asked.

"
A few months ago, so I doubt there's any connection to her death. Hey, do you like any of these?" Annabella shoved four yellow scarves at me.

"
I like that bright yellow one."

"
Great! Should I put this aside for you while you continue shopping, ma'am?"

I could tell by her shift to a more professional tone that the gossip fest had come to an end.
"No, I think that's it for today," I replied, noting the two hundred forty dollar price tag on the scarf with a sinking feeling.
Well, if I go without food this month, I might finally lose that twenty pounds
.

As Annabella bounced off to the register in her pink bobby socks and dingy white Keds, I pulled my wallet from my bag and accidentally upended my coin purse in the process.

"Mannaggia
!" I muttered the Italian version of damn as my change spilled onto the gold, carpeted floor. As I bent down to retrieve a quarter that had rolled underneath the base of the first scarf rack on the right, I accidentally dislodged a small, hard object. I picked it up and saw that it was a brownish-white bead the size of a hazelnut. It was carved from ivory or some type of bone in the form of an eerie-looking skull.
Could it have something to do with Jessica's death?

I checked to make sure that no one was watching as I pocketed the bead and headed to the cash register.

* * *

"
A skull bead? That's freakin' awesome!" David exclaimed as I pulled the bead from my pocket during an impromptu meeting in Veronica's office. He grabbed the bead with his long, skeletal fingers. "Hey! This looks exactly like one of those beads from Marie Laveau's House of Voodoo."

"
Marie Laveau?" I asked, confused. "The voodoo queen? I thought Father John told me she was dead."

"
It's a voodoo store on Bourbon Street that uses her name, Franki," Veronica explained, leaning back in her fabulous maraschino cherry–colored leather chair.

"
Yeah, my buddy Alex has a bracelet made of these beads hanging from the rearview mirror of his Honda," David replied. "He said he got them from there."

"
Do you know what these beads signify?" Veronica sat forward in her chair. She had always been one to take an interest in jewelry, even of the voodoo variety.

"
Nah, you'd have to ask the kid who works at the store. I'd check it out though, cause that place is rad," David explained in college speak. "They have voodoo dolls, chicken feet, gator heads, all kinds of potions. It's badass in there."

"
Potions? For what?" I asked.

"
Lots of stuff, like love potions and ones that'll help you score some cash," David replied. "There's even one that'll help you beat the law, like in court."

"
Wow, there sure is a lot of voodoo that centers around winning court cases," I said, recalling the pound cake left for Saint Expedite. "I wonder if they make one that will help you
solve
a case."

"
Speaking of solving cases, it's getting late, and tomorrow is Saturday. But there are a few things you and I will have to do this weekend, Franki." Veronica rose to her feet and removed a pale pink trench coat with a ruffled collar from the coat rack near her desk. "First, I need you to stop by Marie Laveau's sometime before Monday. If the murderer dropped the skull bead—and that's a big
if
—then we need to find out whether it came from that store."

"
No problem," I replied, thinking that I might like to take a look at those love potions David had mentioned while I was there. Not that I believed in that sort of thing, of course. I mean, not completely. "Do you want me to call the police too?"

Veronica and David stared at me, motionless.

"What for?" Veronica asked.

"
To tell them about the skull bead. If it does turn out to be connected to the Evans case, then it's evidence."

"
Franki, we're not required to share evidence with the police." Veronica was speaking slowly, like I was a very stupid child. "Just like they're not obligated to turn over any evidence to us."

"
Oh, right. I know that," I said, doing my best to sound like I'd just momentarily forgotten. To break the awkward silence that followed, I added, "Then I'll go call the London College of Fashion to verify that Jessica was a student there."

"
It's too late to call London now, so I'll take care of that first thing Monday morning." Veronica slipped on her coat. "Anyhow, the other thing you and I have to do tomorrow, Franki, is to scour local shops for that scarf. If we find out where it came from, we might be able to track down who bought it. Besides, all this talk of scarves and London has put me in the mood to do some shopping."

* * *

Later that evening, as I was preparing to luxuriate in a lavender-scented bubble bath in my pink claw foot tub, my phone rang. A quick glance at the display indicated that the call was from my parents. I briefly considered letting it go to voicemail but then decided to answer. I would need a relaxing bath after a call from home. And maybe a bottle of Chianti. I took a deep breath and picked up.

"
Hello?" I said, trying to conceal the anxiety in my voice.

"
Francesca, I got-a you two," proclaimed the unmistakable voice of my
nonna
with the cadence of someone who'd just crossed the finish line of a long, arduous marathon.

"
Two what,
nonna
?"

"
Dates, Franki! Dates!
Mamma mia
!"

"
Only two?" I asked relieved, before I could fully think through the ramifications of that question.

"
Franki, it's-a hard work-a finding a date for a
zitella
who is-a twenty-nine years of age! Give-a me a break! Besides, you been around-a the block a time or two,
eh
? And you don't even go to church.
Dio mio
! I'm-a no Mother Theresa here! I don't work-a no miracles!"

There was no point in trying to argue. Grandmothers in contemporary
Sicily may have modernized with the times, but those like my
nonna
, who immigrated to the United States in the first half of the
twentieth century, were still mentally living in Fascist Italy. You could try to challenge their dictatorial rule, but you knew it was a futile and even risky endeavor.

"
They are Bruno and Pio,"
nonna
continued.

Brown and Pius
, I mentally translated. With names like those, these guys were clearly the sons, grandsons, or nephews of her Sicilian friends. I just hoped that they didn't have the stereotypical Sicilian-American worldview, which necessarily precluded the best that modernity had to offer women. You know, things like working outside the home, eating pre-made food, and wearing brightly colored clothing.

"
Franki, are you still-a there?"

"
Yes,
nonna
." I was desperately trying to come up with a reason that would prevent me from going out with these guys. For lack of a better excuse, I opted for the truth. "Listen, I appreciate you trying to help me, but I just don't feel comfortable going on blind dates."

There was a long, frustrated sigh on the other end of the phone followed by silence—a sure sign that my
nonna
was summoning her inner matriarch in preparation for battle. And a Sicilian grandma is a formidable opponent, especially if she's your father's
mamma
. In that case, a girl can't rely on her dad for support because Sicilian mothers play their sons like finely tuned mandolins, and my dad was no exception.

"
Francesca, you go on-a these dates, or I go to my grave," she declared. In one savvy maneuver, my
nonna
had won the battle before it had even begun. If I didn't go on the dates, she would tell my father that I was killing her. And my father, like a good Italian boy, would tell me that I was being selfish for making my
nonna
so unhappy and guilt me into complying with her demands. There was nothing left to do but feign acquiescence and then try to find an alternate method of escape.

"
Okay,
nonna
." I sighed and flopped down on my bed next to Napoleon, who had one ear cocked to listen in. "What can you tell me about these guys?"

"
Bruno, he is-a the son of-a my friend Santina. She's-a the one who hurt-a her back in that terrible car accident."

"
What car accident?"

"
The one where Bruno was-a driving her to mass, and he run-a the red light."

I seized upon Bruno
's less-than-ideal driving skills as an excuse to get out of the date. "He doesn't sound like a safe driver,
nonna
. I'm not sure that I should be going anywhere with him."

"
Don't-a worry, Franki. He don't have-a the drivers license no more. Besides, you gonna meet-a him at-a his house."

Foiled again
. "I don't know this guy,
nonna
, so I'd rather meet him at a neutral place like a restaurant," I countered as I stroked the fur on Napoleon's back.

"
No, because his
mamma
she gonna cook-a the dinner!"

"
Nonna
, I'm too old to be chaperoned on a date by someone's mother!" I protested in vain.

"
Franki, she's-a no gonna chaperone. Bruno live-a with his
mamma
."

Of course he does
—
like all single Italian men
, I thought.

"
And he is a nice-a boy because he take-a good care of his
mamma
," she said with the utmost respect in her voice. "And he don't have-a no kids."

My
nonna
was clearly trying to sell me on this guy, which meant that she was hiding something.

"
How old is he, and what does he do for a living?" I asked warily. Just then Napoleon opened one eye as though he were suspicious too.

"
He is-a thirty-nine, and he work-a for the New Orleans Saints-a for twenty years!"

Now, my
nonna
knows that as a Texas girl I'm a
huge
football fan, and I have to confess that I was already envisioning a date that included box seats at the Superdome with catered Cajun food and a few Hurricanes thrown in. But I wondered if she knew that the Saints were a football team and not an association of Catholic martyrs. "What does he do for the Saints, exactly?"

"
He manage a food-a stand at-a the stadium."

So much for the box seats
, I thought. "What about Pio?"

"
Pio, he is-a forty, and he is-a the nephew of Luisa, who is-a the cousin of my cousin, Agatina."

A relative
?
This was an easy out
. "
Nonna
, I'm not going to date anyone I'm related to, no matter how old I get."

Napoleon must have felt comforted by my strong stance, because he closed his eye and began to doze off.

"Franki, he don't have-a our blood! And his
famiglia
they own-a the funeral parlor in-a my town, Porto Empedocle."