Limoncello Yellow (Franki Amato Mysteries) (38 page)

"
That's because you don't like watches." I'd paced back and forth on Veronica's green shag carpet so many times in the past five minutes that I was starting to wear a path into it.

"
True, but I still don't get it. What made you suspect that Stewart wasn't wearing a watch?"

"
First of all, I've never seen a watchband with big bumps on it like that. Even the Gucci bamboo watch has a smooth silver link bracelet for a band. Plus, in the photo there's no buckle or clasp showing on the underside of Stewart's wrist. So I thought it might be some kind of bracelet."

"
Well, I'm truly impressed." She carefully placed the sweater on a drying rack near the sink.

"
Thanks, but now we have to figure out what happened to that bracelet. If Stewart wore it to the murder scene, then he must have picked up the beads after it broke, except for the one that rolled under the rack."

Veronica walked into the living room and took a seat on the couch next to a bowtie–adorned Hercules, who had been watching me pace with a wary eye.
"In that case, I seriously doubt he would have kept the beads," she said. "He would have gotten rid of them right away."

I stopped in my tracks.
"So what do I do? I can't just say, 'Hey, Stewart, did you ever happen to own a skull bead bracelet from Marie Laveau's?'"

"
Actually, you could ask him that and see what kind of a reaction you get," she replied, stroking Hercules's fur.

"
Unless his reaction is to lunge for my throat, that won't tell me anything definitive." I resumed my pacing. "I'll have to think of some other way. Maybe I could work voodoo into the conversation somehow."

Veronica crossed her arms on her chest.
"Well, whatever you do, don't mention Odette Malveaux. I don't believe for a minute that Stewart Preston is the Hollywood movie–style voodoo worshipper that Concetta made him out to be."

"
Maybe not." I pointed at her and added, "But he did wear a skull bead bracelet to court. That has to mean something."

"
It just makes me think that he's one of the countless people in New Orleans who are superstitious enough to turn to voodoo trinkets in moments of crisis."

"
I guess that makes sense. It's just so unsettling to find out about the bracelet and then the whole missing photo thing right before I meet the guy."

Veronica furrowed her brow.
"Yeah, the fact that the photo disappeared from
The Times-Picayune
archives looks bad for Stewart, doesn't it?"

"
I'll say." I put my hand on my neck. "I've had heartburn ever since I found that out."

Her face softened.
"I know you're scared. To be honest, I'm a little worried too."

I rolled my eyes.
"Well that doesn't make me feel any better!"

"
Just remember what you told me: you'll be meeting Stewart in a public place during the daytime. And don't forget that I'll be there to back you up."

"
Ah, yes, with the pink breast cancer special."

Veronica blinked, as though offended by my jab at her girly gun.
"It's a nine millimeter handgun, Franki. Its color won't affect its performance, I assure you."

"
You're right. I'm just on edge." I collapsed into the armchair. Ten minutes of pacing was an intense workout.

"
Can I get you something? A nice hot cup of tea might help calm your nerves."

I looked at the angry island god perched on the back of my chair.
"I think it would take a couple of shots of tequila."

She frowned.
"This is definitely not the time for a drink."

"
I know, I know." I sighed. "Let's just go back over the plan."

"
Okay." Veronica leaned forward. "We're going to rent a car for you so that Stewart can't trace the license plates. Then I'll follow you from the rental lot to the Carousel Bar in my car. We'll both park at the Hotel Monteleone."

"
Do they have a parking lot?"

"
Yeah, it's beneath the hotel. You pull into the garage, and a valet takes your car and parks it underground for you."

"
All right. After we park, I'll go to the bar and—"

She shook her head.
"It rotates like an actual carousel. You know how dizzy you get on merry-go-rounds."

"
True." It was a well-known fact that I'd never gotten my carousel legs. Within seconds of stepping foot on one of those things I was on my knees, puking.

"
Besides, there's no way you'd be able to have a private conversation with Stewart at that bar. It's always crowded, and the seats are too close together. You'll have to meet him at one of the seating areas in the lounge. It's down a small flight of stairs, which is great because that way I can sit up at the bar and have a clear view of the two of you."

"
So, if he's at the bar when I get there, I'll ask him to move downstairs."

"
Right, and then if you leave before he does, I'll stay and keep an eye on Stewart. I'll text you when I leave. Does that work for you?"

I nodded.

"Okay then. Go get ready," Veronica said as she adjusted the bow on Hercules's head. "We leave in thirty minutes."

* * *

I pulled my rented Chrysler convertible around the back of the Hotel Monteleone and promptly encountered a line of cars waiting to get into the parking garage. I looked nervously into my rearview mirror and was relieved to see Veronica waiting three cars back. So far, so good.

As I waited my turn, I leaned my head back on the headrest and looked up at the sky. Usually, when I put the convertible top down and let the wind blow my hair and the sun shine on my face, it was an instant stress reliever. But not today. All I could think about was that I was going to be meeting a murderer. Well, someone I was fairly sure was a murderer, anyhow. And unlike my cop days, I had no uniform, no badge and, worst of all, no gun.
I mean, I had a gun—nothing pink or disease-related like Veronica—just a plain purple Ruger. The problem was that I couldn't legally carry it because I still hadn't obtained my Concealed Weapon Permit from the State of Louisiana.

I looked back down at the road when I heard the car in front of me pull ahead, and I slowly inched the Chrysler forward. As I approached the garage, a flash of bright red caught my eye. It was a guy dressed like a giant crawdad—complete with red tights, torso and tail, and a headpiece with eyes and antennae—leaning against the wall smoking. He
'd had to remove one of his pinchers to hold the cigarette in his hand. While I was taking in his costume, our eyes met. He narrowed his gaze seductively as he took a drag and nodded appreciatively in my direction. I looked hurriedly away. After my last experience with a crawdad, I really didn't want any more trouble.

Finally, my turn arrived, and I pulled up to the waiting valet. I was so nervous that I practically jumped out of my car and jogged the few steps
from the garage entrance to the hotel. As I crossed the busy lobby, I had the unshakable sensation that I was walking toward my doom. Nevertheless, I gathered up my courage and forged ahead. I was so close to solving Jessica's murder that there was no way I could turn back now. So, I took a deep breath and entered the Carousel Bar and Lounge.

With Mardi Gras season in full swing, the
place was packed and buzzing with an electric energy. As I scoured the patrons for Stewart Preston, I tried not to look at the brightly lit merry-go-round-style bar as it rotated slowly beside me. I was already nauseated from fear. I didn't want to add motion sickness to my existing stomach woes.

When I didn
't see him, I turned to scan the customers sitting in the lounge. I spotted Stewart immediately. He was sitting on a couch in the middle of the adjoining room, a glass of some sort of whiskey in his hand. As I looked at him from the top of the steps, he stared up at me and then lowered his gaze to my breasts. My fear of Stewart turned into instant anger.

I balled my fists and marched resolutely down the st
airs. As I approached him, I was struck by how bloated his face was.
Could that be from drug use?
I wondered, again thinking of Odette Malveaux's mysterious warning to "Watch out fo' dem who take magic."

"
Stewart Preston?" I asked.

He took a leisurely sip of his drink and then
, with bloodshot eyes, gave me a slow, insolent once-over.

"
I'll take that as a yes," I said as I sat down on the couch directly opposite him, my back to the bar.

"
So, what is it that you're calling yourself?" he drawled, raising his cleft chin. "Tina, was it?"

He clearly wasn
't buying my cover. "Gina. Gina Mazzucco."

Stewart narrowed his eyes.
"Why don't you drop this little charade and tell me who you really are?"

I swallowed hard.
"I don't know what you're talking about."

"
Lady, you and I both know that Angelica Evangelista didn't have any girlfriends. And if she did, they sure as hell wouldn't be investigating her murder."

The jig was up. I had to stop playing games with this guy. Otherwise, he might walk out. I quickly calculated my risk and then went for broke.
"That's not true. Immacolata Di Salvo was her friend."

Stewart showed no sign of emotion at the mention of Immacolata
's name. "What would make you think I care about Immacolata Di Salvo?"

I looked at him defiantly.
"I know that you were charged with her murder."

A muscle worked in Stewart
's jaw. "And I was acquitted," he said in a dangerously soft voice.

"
I know that too."

For some reason, he relaxed visibly. Then he grabbed a handful of mixed nuts, leaned back against the couch and propped his foot on the coffee table between us.
"So, you're a private investigator."

I didn
't bother to respond.

"
I'll take that as a yes." He sneered and then popped a few nuts into his mouth.

I seized the moment to look at his jewelry. He wasn
't wearing a voodoo bracelet, just a top-of-the-line gold Rolex on his left wrist.

He took another sip of his drink.
"So what is it you want to know?"

I went straight to the point.
"I want to know if you killed Angelica Evangelista."

Again, no reaction from Stewart. He merely turned and flagged down a passing waitress. As she approached us, I looked quickly over my shoulder at the bar. Veronica was there with a strawberry daiquiri looking right back at me.

"I'll take another Maker's Mark, darlin'. Get this lady here whatever she wants."

I turned and looked at the waitress.
"Nothing for me, thanks."

The waitress nodded and headed in the direction of the bar.

I looked Stewart in the eyes. "You haven't answered my question."

He drained the whiskey from his glass and placed it loudly on the coffee table.
"Oh yeah. I did not kill Angelica."

"
Then why was your father's company putting ten thousand dollars a month into Angelica's account, under the assumed name of Jessica Evans?"

"
She was working for my dad as a textile consultant."

I snorted.
"I don't believe you."

He yawned, clearly tiring of the conversation.
"That's not my problem."

Shifting tactics, I asked,
"Where were you the night Jessica was killed?"

He raised an eyebrow.
"What business is it of yours?"

Now he was playing games with me. It was time to get real.
"You can drop the act, Preston. I know you strangled Immacolata in her dorm room. Angelica knew it too, so your father paid her to keep her mouth shut and sent her packing to Milan. But then she defied your daddy's orders and returned to New Orleans, so you went to LaMarca and told her to leave town. When she didn't comply, you went back to LaMarca and killed her the same way you killed Immacolata. You strangled her with a scarf."

Stewart leaned forward in his seat.
"You be careful who you tell that story to, understand? Because I'll sue you for slander, and I'll win." Then he sat back and crossed his leg over his knee. "Do you really think I, or anyone in my family, was worried about a lousy hundred and twenty grand a year? With all the money we're worth?"

"
Maybe it wasn't about the money." I was pretty sure I'd struck a chord. "I'll bet that Angelica had information that proved you killed Immacolata, and you needed to shut her up once and for all before she went to the police."