Limoncello Yellow (Franki Amato Mysteries) (4 page)

When Napoleon and I finally turned onto
Maple Street, we were immediately greeted by a crowd of people in the street. I heard a live brass band playing "When the Saints Go Marching In" and realized that the crowd was walking in procession in time with the music. The people in the back of the procession were wearing casual clothes. Some were twirling parasols, others were shaking handkerchiefs. The people in the front, however, were dressed more elegantly and mostly in black. In that moment, I realized that I was following a jazz funeral. Not exactly an auspicious beginning to my new life.

As I inched down the street, I caught glimpses of the horse-drawn hearse carrying a casket behind glass, and I watched as the funeral-goers danced joyously to the music. My father once told me that the people in the front, the family and friends of the deceased, were called the
"first line." Those in the back were called the "second line" because they're not part of the funeral but instead are just passersby following along and enjoying the music. Life was certainly different in New Orleans, and so was death.

I glanced at the street addresses on my left and saw that they were odd-numbered. I looked at the next address and discovered that we were close to 7445.
"Napoleon! We're almost there, boy!" He cocked his head to one side, no doubt wondering if he would ever crack the mysteries of human speech, and I gave his head an affectionate little scratch.

A few minutes later, I watched as the funeral procession enter
ed a large cemetery. I looked to my left again and saw 7445, an old two-story house that had been converted into a fourplex. I realized that my new home was right smack across the street from that cemetery, and I gave a little shudder. Cemeteries, particularly creepy New Orleans cemeteries with their assortment of tombs, sarcophagi, obelisks, gothic statues, and alleged voodoo rituals, made my skin crawl. I noted with some relief that next to the cemetery was a tavern named Thibodeaux's, which it was looking like I was going to need.

I decided that I was going to have to kill Veronica for not telling me about the cemetery. And when I did, I knew exactly where I was going to bury her.

I parked in front of my new home. Before I could get out of the car, Veronica was already walking out her front door, smiling and waving with Hercules in tow in a turquoise fuzzy sweater that matched hers perfectly. Despite her Sicilian father, Veronica looked Swedish like her ex-ballerina mother, with long blonde hair, cornflower blue eyes, and pale skin.             

"
Franki!" Veronica yelled.

I bent over—at the waist—to hug her. I
'd forgotten how tiny she was, and I wondered for at least the hundredth time how her internal organs could function in such a small frame.

She looked up at me and smiled.
"How does it feel to be in New Orleans?"

I glanced over at the cemetery and then back at her.
"At the moment, it feels fairly morbid."

"
Oh, come on! You don't still have that weird cemetery issue, do you?"

"
Yes, Veronica. And I can't believe you didn't tell me that there's one right across the street! You know, lots of people would find it disturbing to go to sleep at night with a cemetery basically in their front yard, especially a
New Orleans
cemetery."

Veronica shook her head in mock disgust as she grabbed a box from my back seat.

"Thank God there's a bar right next to it," I continued. "In case I need to drink myself to death from despair."

She smiled.
"Well, if you do drink yourself to death, I wouldn't have to carry you very far for your burial."

I quickly made the customary
scongiuri
gesture that my
nonna
had taught me to do to ward off the threat of death, which Veronica had just so carelessly cast upon me. It looks like the University of Texas's hook 'em horns sign with the index and pinky fingers pointed up like horns, only you point the horns downward.

Veronica rolled her eyes.
"Do you still do that silly
scongiuri
thing too? God, Franki, you make me
so
glad my
nonna
stayed in Sicily. You're so superstitious!"

"
I do it just in case," I snapped. "I mean, you never know…"

Veronica walked up to my new front door, which
was right next to hers, and pulled a key from the front right pocket of her AG jeans. "Glenda—our landlady—told me to let you in. She'll come downstairs to meet you in a few minutes."

With the box balanced on her left hip, Veronica unlocked my front door with her right hand. She gave the door a shove with her shoulder, and it swung open. She turned to me and bowed.
"Welcome to your humble abode."

I excitedly entered the apartment with Napoleon at my heels.
As I surveyed the living room, a number of adjectives came to mind, but humble was
not
one of them. The room could only be described as the home decor equivalent of Amsterdam's Red Light District. The walls were covered in fuzzy, blood-red wallpaper with shiny gold
fleurs-de-lis
, and hanging from the ceiling was a baroque red-and-black crystal chandelier. The couch was a rococo chaise lounge in velvet zebra print, and next to it was a lilac velour armchair with gold fringe that matched the drapery to perfection. On the opposite wall there was a mahogany wood fireplace with a hearth covered in white candles of various sizes and shapes. In front of the fireplace, a bearskin rug replete with a bear head covered the hardwood floors. The only thing that was missing was the red fluorescent light in the living room window announcing my availability for prospective clients.

I realized that my
mouth was hanging open. "Wow. So…this Glenda…is she a prostitute?" I joked.

"
Former stripper, actually," Veronica replied. "And she's really touchy about the difference, so don't use the word prostitute in front of her."

I gaped at my best friend.
"You're serious?"

Veronica just blinked innocently, as if renting me an apartment from a former
stripper
across from a
cemetery
were perfectly normal. "You know, I was reading that the brothel look is really in right now. I believe it's called 'bordello chic.'" She began to pace back and forth as she tried to reconcile her unusually conflicted sense of fashion. "But now that I think about it, Lenny Kravitz redecorated his house here in New Orleans, and designers call his style 'bordello modern.'"

"
Something tells me that Lenny didn't decorate this place. And I wouldn't exactly call this 'bordello modern.' It's more like 'bordello seventies.'"

"
Well, at least you won't have to add any touches of color," Veronica said.

"
I'll say. Speaking of color, any idea of the backstory on this furniture?" I eyed the chaise lounge nervously. "I mean, I know it's used. But do you have any idea
where
it was used?"

Veronica shrugged.
"Glenda's a collector. She's always going on some trip or other to buy antique furniture. You'll have to ask her where she got it."

I considered Glenda
's potential sources and then immediately resolved to get a new couch. And a new bed.

"
She also collects stripper costumes. I guess you could say she's the Debbie Reynolds of the stripping world." Veronica took a seat on the lilac armchair.

"
How do you mean?" I was dying to hear the rationale behind this fascinating analogy.

"
She collects stripper costumes like Debbie collects Hollywood costumes. She's got an Anna Nicole Smith, a Dita Von Teese, and a Gypsy Rose Lee. You know, Glenda was quite the local celebrity back in the sixties and seventies. She stripped for all the famous singers, actors, and politicians. She even danced for President John F. Kennedy. She made a fortune and invested it all in real estate, antiques, and strip memorabilia."

"
What did you say her last name was?" I was now determined to google her.

"
O'Brien. But her stage name was Lorraine Lamour."

"
Oh, good choice," I said, truly impressed.

"
Do you want to go see the
boudoir
?"

"
Okay. But first promise me that it doesn't have a heart-shaped bed or a mirrored ceiling," I replied, dead serious.

"
Oh no. I don't go in for the tacky look," a raspy voice said from behind me.

I turned and saw
standing in the doorway a short, wiry, sixty-something woman with a deeply lined face, platinum boob-length hair, and the longest false eyelashes I had ever seen. From the outfit she was wearing, I had no doubt whatsoever that it was Glenda. She was dressed in a sheer black robe with gold sequins, a ruffled leopard print corset with a matching ultra mini skirt, black satin high-heeled slippers with feathers, and a bright yellow boa. In her left hand, she held a Mae West–style cigarette holder, and in her right was a glass of champagne.

"
You must be Miss Franki. I can see that you're Italian; you look like that actress from the 1960s, Claudia Cardinale. You've got her tits too." She sized up my chest as she took a drag from her cigarette. "My name is Glenda, but I also answer to Lorraine. Welcome to New Orleans, sugar."

"
Thanks, uh, Miss Glenda," I replied, uncertain of proper Southern stripper forms of address and whether I was supposed to throw in a "honey" or a "doll." "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"
Likewise, I'm sure," Glenda replied, inelegantly exhaling a puff of smoke.

"
I see that Miss Ronnie here has shown you the place. In case she didn't mention it, the laundry room is downstairs in the basement. And if you need more storage space, there's a walk-in closet down there you're free to use. I used to keep my costumes in it, but after the post-Katrina floods I moved them to the apartment upstairs. I still have every costume I ever wore on stage, except one made of packing tape—they had to cut me out of that one, child!" She laughed with a hacking sound typical of smoker's cough.
"Anyway, I dropped a wad of dough on those costumes, so I've gotta look after my investment."

"
Of course," I said, empathetically.

"
Now. I don't mind your furry friend here as long as he doesn't poop and pee on my chaise lounge. I had to search all over Louisiana to find one in faux zebra."

"
Oh, he's house trained."

"
One last thing: The Visitor Policy. I don't allow my female tenants to have more than two male friends spend the night at one time. I've got a reputation to protect, and I don't want people to think I rent to whores."

"
Certainly not," I replied with conviction.

"
Let me know if you have any questions."

I started to ask Glenda about the origin of the furniture and then decided to keep my mouth shut.
"No, I think it's all painfu-, er, very clear for now."

"
All right then, you ladies have a good evening. And when you're all settled in, Miss Franki, I'll take you over to Thibodeaux's for a Harvey Wallbanger.
Au revoir
!"

I looked at Veronica.
"What's a Harvey Wallbanger? Or is that a who?"

"
Nooo. It's some drink from the seventies."

"
That's funny. I'd sort of taken for her a Fuzzy Navel or Slippery Nipple drinker."

She laughed.
"You know, Glenda's a little rough around the edges, but she's whip smart."

"
An interesting choice of adjectives to describe her intelligence."

Veronica leaned over to pick up Hercules, who, despite his mighty name, had been having a tough time fending off Napoleon
's skillful battle techniques. "So, what do you say, Franki?"

"
I say that people think Austin is weird, but it's got absolutely nothing on Nola!"

"
Are you ready to start work tomorrow?" She adjusted Hercules' sweater.

I took a seat on the chaise lounge.
"After today, I'm ready for anything."

* * *

Napoleon and I were just settling down to sleep in our black French bordello-style bed with the hot pink velvet duvet and matching canopy, when my phone started ringing. I figured that it was my mom or my
nonna
calling to make sure that I'd encased the mattress in plastic, which I had seriously considered doing, so I prudently ignored it. But then a minute later the phone rang again. I looked at the display and saw that it was Vince.

Vince had called me every day since I
'd caught him in bed with the wrathful wrestler, but I had never answered the phone. I had also promptly deleted all of the messages he'd left for me without listening to a single one of them. Deep down I was thinking that if I just avoided him, I wouldn't really have to face the fact that it was over, that I was alone yet again. But tonight I knew that the time had come to hear him out and then tell him in no uncertain terms that we were through. Otherwise, I was never really going to be able to reassemble the shattered pieces of my life—not to mention my pride—and move on.