Limoncello Yellow (Franki Amato Mysteries) (8 page)

He look
ed confused. "Did you come for confession?"

"
Oh, no," I said with forced nonchalance as I scratched a spot on my left elbow. "I'm good. I'm here with a friend. She needs to confess, though," I added spitefully to pay her back for disappearing.

"
Oh, well, we can certainly help her with that," he replied and then flashed another gorgeous smile.

"
Gr-great," I stammered, feeling increasingly anxious and itchy. The icky combination of his handsomeness and his holiness was really freaking me out. "I don't remember learning about Saint Expedite in Sunday school," I said, desperately trying to think of something to say as I scanned the church for Veronica and scratched my right side.

"
You didn't learn about him in Sunday school because he's not officially recognized by the Catholic Church." He cast a doubtful look in Saint Expedite's direction. "But the Church occasionally tolerates the veneration of local saints."

"
What's he the patron saint of?" I asked, mentally cursing Veronica and then feeling guilty for thinking profanity in a church.

"
Anyone who's looking for a quick solution to a problem, who needs money, or wants to stop procrastinating."

Me, me and me
, I thought, developing a sudden interest in this saint. "So, why are those people leaving him pound cake? I mean, I can kind of understand the flowers, but cake?"

"
Well, in recent years, Expedite has become the patron saint of people who need to win court cases. They leave him a slice of pound cake as an offering so that he'll be more inclined to help them stay out of jail or—"

"
Wait," I interrupted. "They leave him pound cake so that he'll keep them out of the slammer?" I asked, now feeling a pang of guilt for cutting off a priest.
              "It has its origins in voodoo. In New Orleans, voodoo and the Catholic Church are closely related. The fusion of the French and African cultures in Louisiana resulted in an association of the voodoo spirits with Christian saints. Some people call Saint Expedite the 'Voodoo Saint' because he represents Baron Samedi, the voodoo loa of death."

"
The voodoo loa of death," I repeated, shocked that a saint would be associated with voodoo. "What's that?"

"
A 'loa' is a voodoo deity. And Baron Samedi is a shady voodoo god who wears a top hat and tails. Voodoo legend has it that when people die, he digs their graves, greets their souls, and leads them to the underworld. He's also a sexual loa who loves to swear, smoke, drink rum, tell filthy jokes to the other spirits, and chase women." Father John winked at me, and I could feel my cheeks flaming anew.

Awk-ward
, I thought, now feeling downright uncomfortable as I furiously scratched my neck. "I still don't understand what Saint Expedite has to do with voodoo," I said, trying to act natural as I looked for Veronica out of the corners of my eyes.

"
It works like this: Followers of New Orleans' legendary voodoo queen Marie Laveau, who died in the late 1800s, visit her tomb in Saint Louis cemetery #1 to ask her for help with a problem. Since the cemetery is right behind the church on Basin Street, afterward they come into the church and leave a slice of pound cake for Saint Expedite so that he'll fast track, or
expedite
, the favors asked of Marie Laveau. It's really a fascinating mixture of religions."

"
So, voodoo's a religion." I scratched my head. "I thought it was just like dark magic or something."

He smiled.
"That's how pop culture has painted it, but it really is centered around religious themes and a desire to do good in the world by channeling saints." He paused and added, "Hey, do you like James Bond?"

I slowly shook my head, wondering if God would approve of priests watching James Bond movies.

"No?" he asked, sounding shocked. "Too bad, because Baron Samedi is a character in
Live and Let Die
with Roger Moore."

Just then I saw Veronica beckoning to me like a saving angel from near the altar. She was standing next to what could only be described as the anti-Veronica: a young woman with short, dark hair tucked behind her ears, black rectangular glasses, a thin mouth
, and no makeup. She looked surprisingly like a real-life Velma from Scooby Doo.
Has to be Betty
, I thought.

"
Well, thank you for the information, Joh—, er, Father," I faltered. It was hard for me to think of a good-looking young guy as a priest. "I need to join my friend," I said, thanking heaven that I had finally found an avenue of escape.

"
Anytime! I hope you'll join us for mass this Sunday."

"
Sure," I replied, knowing there wasn't a chance in hell I'd show up.
Great
,
I just lied to a priest
, I thought. I turned and hurried up the aisle to the altar, almost at a run.

When I got to the altar, I turned right and walked to the end of the first pew where Veronica and Betty were sitting.
"You must be Betty," I said, extending my hand.

She opted to pass on the handshake to take a moment to size me up.
"Who are
you
?"

Before I could respond, Veronica introduced me.
"Betty, this is Franki, my new partner I was telling you about. She's a super smart ex-cop," she added, playing up my credentials.

"
Oh, okay," Betty replied disinterestedly. Then she pulled a large manila envelope from a worn, brown leather bag and handed it to Veronica, who was inexplicably her favorite of the two of us. "So anyway, here's the information you asked for. You won't find much in the report that hasn't already been leaked to the press, but the pictures should be useful."

Veronica, in turn, produced Betty
's payoff, which she had cleverly disguised by placing it into a church-offering envelope. "Thank you so much, Betty," Veronica said handing her the envelope. "This is going to make a huge difference in our investigation."

"
No problem, V. I just hope you catch the sorry son of a bitch who committed this crime," Betty said.

"
You know, it might've been committed by a woman," I interjected, playing devil's advocate.

"
The odds are against it," Betty said. "Statistically speaking, this is likely an open-and-shut case of femicide—a man killing a woman just because she's a female—and we women need to come together to prevent this type of thing from happening." And with that she stood up, pushed her glasses up her nose, and added, "Let me know if you find the asshole who did this." Then she walked away, clutching her leather briefcase to her chest.

"
Wow, that Betty's a real charmer," I said.

Veronica rose to her feet.
"It's just that she takes crime very seriously, Franki. Now let's get going. I'm dying to look at the police report."

As we walked out of the church, I saw Father John waving goodbye to me. Instead of simply waving back, I tried to duck all 5
' 10" of me behind Veronica's tiny frame. I must have looked like I was having a seizure.

The second we got into the car, Veronica tore open the envelope and began studying one of the photos.
"Look at this," she said, pointing to a picture of Jessica's body at the scene of the crime.

I looked at the photo and saw a gruesome sight. Jessica was lying on her left side in the middle of four racks of scarves that were situated in the shape of a square. Her face was directed toward the ceiling, and her eyes were open in a look of shock. She had been strangled with a black-and-white checked scarf with a bright yellow border.

Veronica, who owned a different scarf for every day of the year, was intently focused on the murder weapon. She pulled out the police report and quickly scanned the pages. "I knew it!"

"
What?"

"
The scarf used to strangle Jessica isn't from LaMarca!" Her eyes were dancing with excitement.

"
How do you know?"
              "It's a cheap cotton-polyester blend! Everyone knows that LaMarca only sells silk scarves."

I didn
't, in fact, know that, but I did know that LaMarca's signature scarves were the most sought after in the fashion industry. "So, the killer brought a scarf to a store that's famous for selling scarves." But why?

* * *

On the way back to the office, Veronica and I agreed that I would pay a visit to LaMarca posing as a client to see what I could find out about the crime. But first I had her drop me off at nearby Ponchartrain Bank on
Canal Street so that I could make a withdrawal—in case I needed to buy something as part of my cover, of course. After my move to Nola, I was pretty sure that there wasn't enough room left on my credit cards to shop at the Dollar Tree, much less LaMarca. Thankfully, my parents had made a deposit to my account as a belated Christmas gift to help cover my moving expenses.

"
Next!" I heard the teller shout as I was putting the pen I'd used to fill out my withdrawal slip back into my knockoff Gucci shoulder bag. As I approached the window, I couldn't help but notice that the teller—who couldn't have been more than 4' 10"—looked remarkably like Tinker Bell sans bun and wings.

"
May I help you?" she asked in a heavy accent. I quickly glanced at the name on her nameplate—Corinne Mercier—to confirm my suspicion that she was French. New Orleans, I knew, was a popular city among French immigrants because of its historical ties to France.

"
Yes, I'd like to make a withdrawal, please." I slid my withdrawal slip toward her. "I haven't gotten my ATM card yet."

She looked at me.
"Oh,
mademoiselle
, I am so sorry. Are you new to the bank?"

I noticed that her big blue eyes were rimmed with red like she
'd been crying. Guessing that she was having man trouble, I sympathized. "Yeah, I just moved here from Austin to take a job as a private investigator. Where are you from?"

"
I come here from Toulouse to start a new life. My mother, she is
américaine
, but I was raised in France."

"
Really? I moved here to start a new life too. Besides getting a new job, I wanted to get away from my cheating ex-boyfriend."

"
Ah! My boyfriend, Thierry, he cheat too! I come home yesterday, and I find him wis a woman." She struggled to enter my transaction into the computer as her eyes welled up with tears.

"
I'm really sorry to hear that. The same thing happened to me. I'm Franki, by the way. You're Corinne, right?"

She nodded, wiping her nose with a tissue.
"You too? Men! Zey are so…so…
volages
,
non
?" She blew her nose with a very un-Tinker Bell-like honk, and then handed me my money from the teller cash dispenser.

"
Exactly." I put the money into my wallet. I had no idea what she'd just said, but I agreed with the tone of her voice one hundred percent. "All they think about is sex! You know, I really believe the old saying that a man thinks with his penis is true."

As I was speaking, Corinne
's big blue eyes suddenly got even bigger, and then she started fiddling with her pixie-style blonde hair. At first I thought it was because I was coming on a little strong for a stranger and all, but then her eyes darted to something—or someone—over my right shoulder. I turned around and saw one of the most handsome men I've ever seen in my life. He had dark brown hair, a chiseled jaw, and a sensuous mouth.

"
Is this yours, miss?" he asked.

He was holding up my birth control case
—with an annoying twinkle in his eye. I must have dropped it when I was standing in line digging through my bag for the pen I'd used to fill out my withdrawal slip. I felt like my whole body was turning red with embarrassment. Not only had he probably heard my cutting remarks about men, but now he also knew I was having sex with at least one of them.

I realized that I
'd been staring at him slack-jawed. I closed my mouth and swallowed hard. "Oh, gosh! Those? They belong to a friend. I'm just holding them for her." I laughed falsely and added, "While she's out of town." I'd never been one to stop while I was ahead.

He flashed a
devious smile. "I'd better check the pharmacy label on the back to be sure. It says they were prescribed to—"

"
Don't read that," I snapped, snatching the package from his hand. "You wouldn't want to violate the HIPAA Privacy Rule."

"
Certainly not. My apologies," he said with a mock bow. "To your friend, of course."

Clearly
, he was enjoying this.

I pretended to check the label.
"They're hers, all right," I said, shoving the pills into my bag. "Thank you, Mr.…?"