Limoncello Yellow (Franki Amato Mysteries) (15 page)

I felt a rush of excitement.
"When?"
              "On a phone call. A month or two ago."

"
Do you know who she was talking to?"

"
No, but she said a name. It sounded like a woman's name, but I couldn't say for sure. It was Eye-talian or something."

"
Do you remember what it was?" I figured it was unlikely given his inability to recall the proper pronunciation of "Italian."

"
No, it was a weird name. All I know is that it ended in an 'a.'"

Well that certainly narrows it down since pretty much all Italian women
's names, including my own, end in "a,"
I thought. "How did London come up in the conversation?"
              "She said something like, 'You don't know what the hell you're talking about. You know I wasn't even in London when it happened.'"

"
So she was angry."

"
Oh yeah. At the time, I thought she was having a fight with some Eye-talian girlfriend of hers from London."

I sighed inwardly.
Was it really so hard to say the "it" in "Italian"?
"Did she tell you anything about the call when she hung up?"

"
No, she just stared at me. I don't think she even knew I was home. Then she started bitching at me about something. I think I'd forgotten to take out the trash or pick my clothes up off the floor. Who the hell knows! I could never do anything right in her eyes…"

I deliberately sidestepped the topic of his relationship with Jessica.
"Okay. Well, that's all I can tell you at the moment. We're going to follow up on the London angle tomorrow, so I'll have Veronica call you in the afternoon with an update."

"
Good, because I'm paying you for information.
Solid
information." Then he hung up, and he did it from a landline too because I could hear him slam down the receiver. The jerk.

All that standing was starting to get to me, so I made my way to the chaise lounge to call Veronica. I tapped her number, closing my eyes as I waited for her to answer.

"Hello?" She was clearly out of breath.

"
Did I interrupt something?"

"
Hercules and I are on our Sunday morning jog," she replied—way too perkily. "What's up?"

Thanks to my hangover, I shuddered at the mere thought of bouncing up and down.
"I just got a call from Ryan Hunter."

"
Ryan Hunter?"

"
Yeah. It's looking more and more like something went down in London that involved Jessica Evans. Any chance you can meet today?"

"
Of course I can meet!" she added cheerfully. And loudly. "How about Thibodeaux's at noon? I could really use a mimosa. Oh, and some onion rings!
Mm
."

The mere mention of alcohol and greasy onions made my stomach lurch.
"Works for me. See you then," I replied weakly.

As I was pondering the logistics of how I was going to make it from the chaise lounge to the bathtub, the phone rang again. Distractedly assuming it was Veronica calling back to change the time or something, I responded.
"Hey."

"
Franki, I just-a got a call from-a Luisa, the cousin of my cousin, Agatina," my
nonna
replied in a frantic voice.

A mental image of Odette plunging a pin into the backside of my voodoo doll flashed through my aching head. I sighed.
"Yes,
nonna
?"

"
Pio called her, and he told-a her that you're a loose-a woman!" It was a widely shared belief in Sicilian-American circles that for a woman to have questionable virtue was a cardinal sin, second only to the inability to make a good
ragù
.

"
Nonna
, all I told Pio was that I couldn't go out with him because I have a date with another man. So—"

"
A date?" My
nonna
instantly forgot all about the slight to my honor. "
Dio mio!
Who with? Bruno?"

"
No,
nonna
, I'm going out with someone named Bradley."

"
Who is-a Bradley?" she asked, winded with excitement.

"
He's the president of Ponchartrain Bank here in New Orleans."

My
nonna
let out a whistle like a sailor who was seeing a woman for the first time in six months. "You did-a
good
, Franki!"

I basked in the glow of her rare praise.
"
Grazie
."

"
Is-a he Italian?"

"
No, he's not," I responded, waiting for the inevitable comment.

"
Well, we can't have-a it all-a, can-a we Franki?" she glossed. "Now-a when is-a this date?"

"
Um, I'm not sure about the exact day yet," I admitted ever-so-reluctantly. I couldn't lie because she would call me immediately after the date—probably even during—to get the details.

She gasped.
"Not-a sure?! You mean-a that you gave up a date with a fine-a man like-a Pio, and you don't even have-a no date with-a Bradley? Francesca Lucia Amato, you
never
turn-a down a date when you don't have-a no date!"

Fine man, my rear
, I thought. "
Nonna
, Bradley said he would call me this week, and he will. Have some faith, okay?"

"
The only-a man I have-a the faith in, Franki, is-a the Pope," she replied solemnly.

When
nonna
mentions the Pope, it's time to end the call. Period. So, I gushed, "I've gotta run,
nonna
! I'll call you right after the date! Bye now!" I hung up before she could say another word.

Next, I did what I should have done three phone calls earlier: I pressed the off button on my phone. Then I immediately turned it back on, of course, because there was always the
possibility that Bradley would call. Although, after talking to my
nonna
, I wasn't feeling all that hopeful. Maybe I really did "have-a no date." It wasn't like Bradley had set a time and place, or anything. The more I thought about my dating prospects, the better that mimosa Veronica mentioned was starting to sound. But not the onion rings.

I could actually agree with my
nonna
on one point, though: I shouldn't be counting on a date until I knew for certain that I had one lined up. But I wasn't ready to believe that the Pope was the only man a girl could trust—at least not yet. And I couldn't afford to give in to defeat. Bradley Hartmann was going to call me whether I had to resort to Vulcan mind control, Jedi mind tricks, or even voodoo to make it happen.

The flash of sunlight that greeted me when I opened my front door at noon seared into my eyes like a laser. I recoiled into my apartment, rummaged around in my purse
, and pulled out my tortoiseshell sunglasses for the walk across the street to Thibodeaux's. After donning my shades to block the glaring sun—and the harsh reality of the cemetery—I set off gingerly on the one hundred-foot trek. The street was completely deserted, and all was going well until I stepped from the yard into the street. Right at that moment, a twelve-year-old kid on a bike appeared from out of nowhere and passed not two inches in front of me at breakneck speed. I tottered backward on my heels, flailed my arms like a tipsy tightrope walker, landed squarely on my rear end, and then, voluntarily, lay down in the grass to regroup.

"
You're lucky I have extra cushioning, kid!" I shouted after the boy from my supine position with a clenched fist raised in the air. Otherwise, it could have gotten ugly between him and me.

After a few minutes of quietly contemplating the clouds, I stood up, brushed the dead grass off my clothes, and then walked my bruised behind to the bar. Before entering, I paused for a moment to summon the strength
needed to endure Veronica's ever-effervescent Sunday afternoon chatter. When I pushed open the door, I immediately spotted her sitting at the bar with her back to me. She was sporting a Madonna ponytail a la The Blond Ambition Tour, a sunny yellow velour tracksuit, and matching yellow tennis shoes. As I approached her, I noticed that she smelled revoltingly of fresh air and sunshine.

"
Hey Veronica." I slid onto the bar stool next to her.

She looked and me and raised an eyebrow.
"Wow. What happened to you?"

"
What do you mean?" I feigned ignorance as I placed my purse on the bar.

"
You look a little rough," she said with a smirk as she took a dainty sip of mimosa from a straw. "Have you been rolling in the hay with anyone I know?"

I looked at her uncomprehendingly for a few seconds and then realized that I
'd forgotten to brush the grass out of my hair. "Give me a break, all right?" I asked as I combed the grass out of my hair with my fingers. "Within the past twelve hours, I've had run-ins with a voodoo priestess, Ryan Hunter, a Sicilian guy, a crazy kid on a bike, a bottle of Limoncello, and my
nonna
." I neglected to mention the jar of Nutella because it just made me look pathetic.

"
Oh wow, your
nonna
?" Veronica asked, clearly unfazed by the mention of the voodoo priestess et al. "What did she want?"

"
To alert me to the earth-shattering news that my womanly honor was besmirched after I jilted one of her saintly Sicilians." I started to remove my sunglasses and then quickly thought better of it. Even the dimly lit bar seemed excessively bright.

"
Your womanly honor." Veronica laughed. "That's a good one."

Before I could shoot her a look of death, Phillip the bartender approached me.
"What can I get ya?" he asked.

The thought of alcohol made me feel like crawling back to that spot in the grass to lie down.
"I think I'll just have a club soda and lime."

Phillip walked away, muttering to himself.

"So what did Ryan say about London?" Veronica fished a piece of orange out of her mimosa with a toothpick. "I've been dying of curiosity ever since you called me."

"
He said that he came home one day and found Jessica on the phone with someone whom he thought was an Italian girlfriend. She was really angry and reminded whoever was calling that she wasn't in London when something or other happened."

"
When what happened?" Veronica pressed.
              I gave her a look. "Don't you think I would have mentioned that if I knew?"

She shrugged and popped the orange into her mouth.
"So, why does Ryan think she was talking to an Italian woman?"

I nodded my appreciation at Phillip as he passed me my drink.
"Because she said an Italian woman's name."

"
Well, that doesn't mean anything. She could have just been gossiping about the woman or mentioning her for some reason."

"
True." I nursed my club soda. My brain was in no mood to hypothesize about the case today.

"
Hey, Phillip, can I get an order of onion rings?" Veronica shouted directly into my ear.

"
Sure thing, Ronnie! One order of onion rings, coming right up."

"
Sometimes, you just need a little greasy food in your diet, right Franki?" Veronica asked.

I nodded, but I felt a queasy feeling in my stomach at the mention of grease, and not just because of my hangover.
My first impression of Phillip was that he looked a little greasy himself. And since the last time I was in the bar, I'd learned through the neighborhood grapevine that he was in an environmentally conscious grunge rock band that didn't believe in showering more than once a week, to save water. Unfortunately, Phillip also did double duty at Thibodeaux's as the cook.

"
You know, normally I would say that Jessica's phone call was probably nothing," Veronica said. "But it
is
interesting that London keeps coming up, and in such negative contexts. By the way, I'm going to call the London College of Fashion first thing in the morning. I sure hope they have some information for us, because as of right now, we've got nothing on Jessica's past."

"
David hasn't been able to find anything?"

"
Oh, he's found some things all right. Too many," she said, gesticulating with her drink toothpick as she spoke. Veronica might not look Italian, but her habit of talking with her hands gave her heritage away.

"
What do you mean 'too many'?"