Amaretto Amber (Franki Amato Mysteries Book 3) (21 page)

Glenda stubbed out her cigarette. "Miss Eve did tell us that King has been upstairs at Madame Moiselle's, so he knows his way around the place."

"Right." I swallowed and bit into the blanket. "I just have to verify that he goes by the nickname Peach."

"Peach?" Carnie echoed. "Gurl, I heard Amber talking on the phone to someone by that name about a month ago. That's why I thought she was hooking again."

I almost choked in mid-chew.

"Why?" Glenda slid seductively off the table. "What did she say?"

Carnie pressed flower-power fingernails to her pixie. "She said something about not being able to take on another client while she was in school. I figured it had to be a regular john."

I swallowed. "Or a second sugar daddy."

Either way, it was time to pay another visit to the pulpit.

*   *   *

Semi-convinced that I was being punked, I glanced in the rearview mirror and then turned to stare at my mother from my Mustang window. "Are you guys seriously going to watch the St. Joseph's Day parade from Madame Moiselle's balcony?"

"Well, what do you expect us to do, Francesca?" She flailed her arms like a drowning woman. "Santina just started walking again, and your nonna doesn't like crowds. It's the perfect place."

Sure, except for the nude women, the horny men, the simulated sex acts, the excessive drinking, the foul language, and the occasional fist fights
. "Uh, does this mean that you're okay with me stripping there?"

My mother's lips grew as thin as a switchblade. "I didn't drive all the way from Houston—with your nonna, no less—to have you smart off to me. Drop the attitude before you get back from parking the car."

"So much for the mental health day," I said as I pulled away from the curb, and I didn't care if she'd heard me. I wasn't big on parades, especially after I'd gotten arrested at the last one. And now not only did I have to go to a parade, but I had to watch it with my mom and the nonne from lap dance chairs on the balcony of a sex club.

If I ever made it back, that is. The parade was due to start at six, which wasn't for another hour. But the Quarter was already packed, and I had to make it the mile to the Private Chicks parking lot.

As I inched my way up Burgundy Street, I started to think about Bradley and the fact that he hadn't called. Attorney's orders or no, he should've contacted me by now, and I couldn't understand why he hadn't. He wasn't the type to blame me for his own actions, so the only thing I could guess was that he was embarrassed about punching Detective Sullivan.
Or…

My blood ran so cold that icicles pierced my heart.

…Jeff had sent him those pictures.

I shuddered and shook off the thought. Even though it didn't matter if he had seen the pictures since I was planning to break up with him, I couldn't go there, not now. To distract myself, I looked out the window at some members of the Italian-American Marching Club who were standing by their traditional ATV-drawn chariots. I took one look at their signature black tuxedoes with flashy red and green bowties and stacks of matching Mardi Gras beads around their necks, and I swerved onto St. Ann.

Forget the freakin' parade, I had a pimp-preacher to call on.

It took twenty minutes to travel the two short blocks to King's corner, but I was rewarded for my travail. He was standing in the pulpit in a silk dollar-bill suit—not with bills pinned to the fabric like Glenda did to me on my birthday but with solid dollar-bill print fabric.

And on the subject of bills, a buxom fifty-something woman in a bodacious blue spandex minidress was in the process of handing him a wad of them. It was too much to be a donation for a street sermon but enough to be a payout from a long day of hooking.

King looked over his shoulder when he pocketed the cash, as though making sure no one had seen him. By chance, our eyes locked through the windshield, and he broke into a run.

On autopilot, l whipped into a customer-service zone and hopped from the car. As I gave chase, he dashed up the street and darted to the right.

When I rounded the corner, he ducked into the last place I would've expected—Cathedral Academy, an old convent chapel that served as the site of St. Louis Cathedral's altar to St. Joseph.

I ran inside and saw David and the vassal standing by the altar as King hoofed it up the aisle on the right side of the building.

"Stop that preacher!" I yelled as I pointed at King.

Not known for their physical prowess—unless sugar baby boobs were at play—David and the vassal began pelting King with lemons, presumably those that my mom and nonna had bought to ensure my engagement.

At least they're serving some purpose
, I thought,
because my engagement odds aren't looking good.

King stopped running and shielded himself with his arms, and I shoved him stomach-down to the ground.

"You're Peach, aren't you?" I ground out as I straddled his back and twisted his arms behind him.

"What choo talkin' 'bout, woman?" he demanded with one side of his face pressed to the floor.

"You own the sugar baby company that Amber signed up with. Admit it," I ordered as I gave his wrists a twist.

"Ow!" He kicked his leopard-spotted shoes. "I don't own no damn comp'ny."

"Then what was that woman paying you for?" I leaned close to his ear. "And don't try telling me it was for a sermon, because if you do, you'll be preaching that song and dance to the police."

His body went slack. "I cain't be arrested. I'm in a sanctuary."

That explained the choice of the chapel
. I turned to David and the vassal. "Arm yourselves."

"That won't be necessary, now." King drew a deep breath. "If you mus' know, I'm often called upon by the female doubters in my congregation to help them find the divine—through sacred unity."

"I don't understand."

He grinned revealing his gold teeth. "I help them find Gawd with sex."

I cocked a brow as the reality of what he'd said dawned on me—and as I tried to comprehend how any woman could get past his suits. "You're a
gigolo
?"

"If you don't mind, I prefer the term
spiritual escort
."

I climbed off of him. "No more questions."

King stood up and straightened his pink dollar-sign tie. "I'd like to say it was a pleasure, but instead I'll wish you all a blessed day." He looked at me and winked. "And may the Lawd be with you."

For once, the vassal wasn't the only one with a slack-jawed stare. David and I watched equally open-mouthed as the pimp-turned-preacher-gigolo strolled from the chapel like a king leaving his castle.

"We'd better pick up those lemons," I said as I noted the whispers and scowls of a few churchwomen. "What're you guys doing here, anyway?"

David scratched his head. "Uh, your nonna said we had to test out the altar before you guys got here from the parade."

I rolled my eyes. "Thank God it's finally St. Joseph's Day so I can get back to my life, and you can get back to working on the case."

"Oh, I have something for you." He pulled a piece of paper from his back pocket. "I looked up Old New Orleans Traditional Witchcraft, but it's, like, lame."

"Why do you say that?" I asked as I bent over to retrieve a lemon.

The vassal pushed up his glasses. "Because the practitioners rely mainly on different colors of the same candle for all their witchcraft needs."

"Huh?" I stood up and looked at the color printout in David's hand, and my face turned as white as the image he was pointing to.

It was the candle of the nude woman I'd seen in the kitchen at Madame Moiselle's on the day Curaçao's body was discovered.

The one that Eve Quebedeaux had lit.

"Why did we have to visit this altar again?" Glenda asked as she wrestled with the blue and white tablecloths that the nonne had draped over her. "I'm sweatin' like a whore in church in this getup."

I refrained from commenting on her second statement given that a) the Cathedral Academy was owned by the Catholic Church, and b) she was dressed like the Virgin Mary. "You heard the nonne—because we're stripper sinners, you need to eat, and I have to steal a lemon."

"Oh, for heaven's sake." She grabbed a grissino off the table, bit off the tip, and chewed it like she was eating a dead cricket. "There." She choked down the breadcrumbs. "I've eaten. Now I'm heading back over to Madame Moiselle's."

I grabbed her by the garments. "Not without me you don't. You're my ticket out of this hell."

She rolled her eyes. "Then swipe a damn lemon already."

By this point, I was more than ready to steal a lemon if it meant getting my mom and nonna on the road back to Houston. The problem was that people were milling around all three tiers of the altar. "I have to wait until no one's looking."

Glenda frowned at a fig pie next to a platter of lemons. "Then you might want to gouge out the eyes on this pie."

The only eyes I wanted to gouge out were Bruno Messina's, because they'd been glued to my chest ever since he'd arrived with Santina to see the altar. "That's a St. Lucy's eye pie," I explained as I gave Bruno a go-to-hell glare. "They put eyes on it because she was blinded for refusing to renounce her Christian faith."

She blinked blue lashes. "That's an odd tradition."

What could I say? Obviously, since I was about to steal a lemon from the church to get a husband, the oddities in the Sicilian-American culture abounded.

"And what does '
prega per noi
' mean?" she asked, referring to the words written in crust on the pie.

"'Pray for us.' And frankly, I could use some prayers right now." I looked longingly at a bottle of Pinot Grigio on the altar. "Between my crazy family and this case, I don't think I'm going to make it to thirty-one."

As though reading my mind, Glenda picked up the bottle and popped the cork. "Well, your mom and nonna are leaving the day after tomorrow, and you're making progress in the case. You've practically ruled out Saddle and King as suspects."

"But I've added Eve, I think." I picked up a wine glass. "I mean, she's the house mom, so it makes sense that she could be Amber's mother figure. I just can't believe she's a witch. She seems so normal."

Glenda filled my glass. "Appearances can be deceiving, Miss Franki."

"I'll say." I glanced at her Virgin Mary look. "The thing is, Nadezhda could be a witch too."

"Why don't you call Witchiepoo?" she asked as she poured herself a drink.

I almost gagged on my wine. "Theodora?"

"No, sugar," she replied drily. "The witch from
H.R. Pufnstuf
."

I looked at her like she'd lost it. "Why would I want to call that whacked witch?"

"Because she might be able to tell you whether Eve is a witch." She tipped her glass toward me. "And Nadezhda too, for that matter."

As much as I wanted to avoid Theodora, I knew she could help. After all, she was a
witchcraft consultant
, according to her business card. "I guess I could ask her to stop by Amber's funeral in the morning. I'm sure Eve and Nadezhda will be there."

"Perfect." She took the wine from my hand. "Why don't you go pick your fruit and then give her a call?"

"All right. Here goes nothing." Glancing from side to side, I approached the lemons. When I reached the table, the platter raised to the level of my hand. Astonished, I looked around and spotted my nonna—holding a remote control.

Now I knew why she'd had David and the vassal design the altar.

"Franki, baby!" Bruno shouted from behind me.

I jumped as though my hand had been in the collection plate instead of the lemon platter.

He lowered his mirrored shades. "Or should I call you
Tiger Eye
?"

As smooth as his slicked back hair
, I thought. "You don't call me anything after throwing me under the bus to your mother."

"Hey, it was nothing personal." He straightened the black collar of his
Saturday Night Fever
shirt. "I had to tell her something after she found a receipt from the club in my pants pocket."

No doubt when she was doing your laundry
.

"By the way, Mamma said you liked those peanuts." He gave a self-assured sneer. "Consider them a belated birthday gift."

I rolled my eyes. The peanuts reminded me that I still had to go back to the dentist to get my permanent crown, which was yet another reason to dislike Bruno. "Yeah. Thanks."

He nudged me with his shoulder. "I hear you're gonna swipe a lemon."

"Why would I do that?" There was no way I was going to let this creep think I was looking for a proposal.

His beady black eyes widened. "Because you're not getting any younger, and I've seen you strip."

Before I could react, Glenda stepped between us and pointed at a platter with twelve whole fried trout, symbolizing the twelve apostles.

"Move it on along, mister, or you'll be sleeping with the fishes." She picked up a loaf of bread shaped like a cross and held it like a club. "You got me?"

Bruno backed away and ran to his mother.

"Now's your chance, sugar." Glenda pointed the cross at the altar. "Go get yourself a lemon."

I saw my nonna and a short, dark-haired woman headed in our direction. "I can't. My nonna's on her way over here with someone."

Nonna shuffle-strutted up wearing a tricolored sash that one of the parade marchers had bestowed on her, as well as the "Kiss me, I'm Italian" beads that she'd wrenched from the grip of Swedish tourist. With her black mourning dress, the red and green accessories made her look like Miss Elderly Italian-America.

"Glenda," Nonna began as she took her by the arm, "my friend-a Mary, she want-a to meet you."

I smirked and wondered if it was because of Glenda's Virgin Mary garb.

"How nice." Glenda smoothed her tablecloths.

"She say you bake-a the best-a man hands she's-a seen," Nonna said with an approving nod.

Mary put a hand on her bosom. "The detail! I don't know how you do it."

Oh, I did. Glenda had intimate knowledge of the male hand.

Mary turned to me, wide-eyed. "If you haven't seen her work, you really should take a look at it."

"Eh, she's-a no gotta time for that." Nonna shoved me toward the altar. "She's-a gotta get a lucky fava bean. Right, Franki?"

Of course, lucky fava bean was code for lemon. But, I figured I could use a fava bean too since it was supposed to give you good luck in the coming year. "Sure, Nonna." I sighed. "Whatever you say."

While they continued to talk man hands, I made my way around the altar looking for a bowl of the beans. I passed the
pasta milanese
topped with
mudica
, which was browned breadcrumbs representing Joseph's sawdust, the fried
pignolatti
pastries reminiscent of the pine cones that Jesus played with as a child, and, my favorite, the
pupa cu l'ova
bread baskets baked with dyed eggs inside as a reminder of the coming of Easter.

I found the fava beans next to the
cucchidati
fig cookies at the base of the life-sized statue of St. Joseph holding the baby Jesus, which was on the main tier of the altar. I pocketed a bean, hoping that it would undo the effects of the curse I'd been living under.

Thinking of the curse reminded me of the one allegedly on those who hunted for the missing Amber Room. Logic told me that the people who had died searching for the priceless treasure had probably been killed by accident or by the hands of greedy individuals, and not because of any curse. Was that what had happened to Amber and Curaçao? Had they been killed for the amber pendant? Or were their murders tied to a love gone horribly wrong, as the bottle of amaretto suggested?

And where was the pendant? I had a hunch that whoever had broken into Maybe's house had been looking for it. But was it there?

I gazed up at the statue of St. Joseph and the baby Jesus. As I looked to them for divine inspiration, something whizzed past me and knocked a statuette of the Virgin Mary to the floor. Startled, I looked down.

It was a lemon.

I looked back at St. Joseph as another lemon shot from between his feet and hit me hard on the arm.

Then I clenched my teeth. Either St. Joseph was trying to tell me that the answers to my questions lay in finding a husband, or Nonna had David and the vassal put an air cannon underneath the statue that she was now using to pelt me with lemons.

Clearly, it was the latter.

Crouching into my old softball outfielder stance, I caught the next lemon and slipped it into my pocket. Then I turned and looked around. Incredibly, no one seemed to have noticed.

Cursing my nonna all the while, I knelt to pick up the statuette and saw that it had broken. I was pretty sure that breaking an image of the Virgin Mary negated the effects of the lemon and the fava bean and ensured more years of bad luck than a broken mirror. But hey, I'd been living this way for thirty years. What was ten or so more?

The statuette had broken in half, and it was hollow. I fit Mary's upper and lower half together to see whether they could be glued, and I flashed back to another hollow figurine I'd seen.

A jolt went through me as though God were striking me down. And no, I hadn't been hit by another lemon. I'd been struck by a shocking realization.

I knew exactly where the amber pendant was hidden.

*   *   *

From my stool at the Madame Moiselle's bar, I rubbed my eyes and looked at the stripper pole clock. It was ten forty a.m., and I'd spent a sleepless night thinking about Bradley and the case. Now everyone I'd questioned was gathered near Amber's casket in front of the main stage—Carlos, Iris, Bit-O-Honey, Saddle, Maybe, Eugene, Nadezhda, Eve, King, and even Dr. Lessler. It felt like the culminating scene in an Agatha Christie novel. I just wished that Miss Marple or Hercule Poirot would show up and solve the murders.

Other guests included Detective Sullivan, who, like me, was keeping an eye on the situation. He was seated at a table in the middle with his men, as was Carnie with hers. My mother was sitting in the back with the nonne. She'd insisted on attending to show her support since Amber didn't have any immediate family. And the nonne had come because that's what little old Italian ladies did in their spare time.

One thing that struck me was the mood in the room. No one was sad, and everyone was tense. The dancers didn't know what to make of the cops being there, the cops didn't know what to make of the drag queens being there, and none of them knew what to make of the nonne being there. But the nonne didn't seem bothered by the odd assortment of people. They were too busy trying to cover all the exposed flesh with their shawls, and I, for one, was grateful that they'd bundled up Bit-O-Honey and her boobs good and tight.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Glenda coming downstairs from the dressing room in a black cage dress and a matching mourning hat with a veil. She paused and placed her hand on the closed casket and then strutted up to me. "Is Glinda the Good Witch here yet?"

"Pfff," I scoffed. "She's more like Elphaba with a healthy dose of Endora. And I left her a voice mail, but I haven't heard back from her."

Glenda slid onto a stool. "Well, I hope she flies in on her broom soon, because we have to start at eleven o'clock sharp. The jazz band has another funeral after this."

I took a sip of the obituary cocktail that Carlos had prepared for me. "What's the agenda?"

"We'll process with the hearse to the cemetery for the burial, and then we'll process back to the club for the food and stripperoke." She pulled a pair of black funeral gloves from her bag. "You know, a proper funeral."

I tilted my head to one side and then the other, unsure where to start. "What's stripperoke?"

"Karaoke with strippers," she replied as she pulled a glove onto her hand. "They strip to try to distract the singer."

By this point, I knew better than to question Glenda's logic, but I had to ask. "How is that proper at a funeral?"

She slipped on her other glove. "Amber was a stripper, sugar. And the mourners need some form of release."

Oh, they'll get it
, I thought as I took another drink of my cocktail. "Any word from Shakey?"

"Not so far." She lit the cigarette in her
Breakfast at Tiffany's
-style holder and exhaled. "But he's still got fifteen minutes."

Someone tapped me on the back, and I turned to see Nonna and Santina armed with shawls.

"Ciao, Franki." Nonna turned to Glenda. "I see you got-a your face all-a covered up." Her gaze lowered to the straps that barely covered her body. "But it look-a like you forgot-a your dress again."