Amaretto Amber (Franki Amato Mysteries Book 3) (6 page)

Mercifully, she turned back around. "Eugene? He's at the police station. Our bartender, Carlos, is in charge until he gets back."

I glanced to my right. "I don't see anyone at the bar."

"He's probably upstairs in the office. I'll take you up there."

Instead of leading me to the VIP Champagne Room staircase, Glenda led me past the main stage, and I noticed that the crime scene had been cleared.

Keeping my eyes fixed on the back of her head rather than on her backside, I asked, "Hey, do you know where the bathtub came from?"

"From the prop room," she replied, pointing to a door behind the stage. "It belonged to Lili St. Cyr."

"Who's that?"

Glenda turned and looked at me like I'd snapped her bra strap (if she'd been wearing one). "None other than the creator of bathtub burlesque, sugar."

As soon as she uttered the phrase, I wondered whether Amber had been recreating a sexy bathing routine for a lover who ultimately killed her.

"In the 1940s and '50s," Glenda continued, "Lili was as famous as Gypsy Rose Lee. Then she retired and ran a well-known lingerie business. Her deep plunge bra made Elvira a superstar. And on top of all that, she even got a mention in
The Rocky Horror Picture Show
."

"That's, uh, quite a list of credentials."

"You can say that again," she said, strutting toward a staircase in the corner. "When Lili passed in 1999, Madame Moiselle's started the 'Wash the Girl of Your Choice' service to honor her memory."

I started to say one of the usual clichés like "she would have been so proud," but I got distracted trying to envision how a client would wash a stripper when the club had a strict no-touching-the-merchandise policy.

Glenda pushed open a door marked
Strippers and Staff Only
and shot up the staircase in her gun-heel boots.

I climbed a few steps, and my message tone sounded. Grateful for the excuse to take a break, I pulled my phone from my bag and saw that the text was from Bradley.

"
What's going on? Why didn't you return my call last night
?"

My stomach did a belly flop. I should've called him back, but the past couple of days had been rough, to put it mildly. And after seeing Amber, I hadn't felt like talking. So, I sent a quick reply saying that I would meet him at the bank for lunch and explain everything—except for the part about me tarnishing his professional image, of course.

"Are you comin', Miss Franki?" Glenda called from above.

"Yeah, sorry." I shoved my phone into my bag, and when I finally reached the landing the tantalizing aroma of sausage teased my nostrils. "
What
is that
heavenly
odor?"

"That's Miss Eve cooking lunch for the girls."

"Wait," I said, holding out a hand to steady myself. "There's a kitchen?
And
a cook?"

She put her hand on her hip. "We don't call her a cook, sugar. She's a house mom. All the quality strip clubs have them."

I immediately began rethinking my career choice. Not that I was considering becoming a stripper. My parents and the Catholic Church had worked too hard to repress me for me to throw it all away by doing something as liberated as that. But an office with a house mom would be nice.

"C'mon," she said, gesturing for me to follow. "I'll introduce you to her."

As we walked down the hallway, I took note of the layout. There were two offices, one across from the other. Then came the kitchen on the left and the girls' dressing room on the right.

Glenda took me by the arm and pulled me into a sunny yellow kitchen where a short, plump woman in her mid-fifties was standing over a huge soup pot. "Miss Eve Quebedeaux, this is Miss Franki Amato, my private investigator partner."

"Well, hiii," Eve drawled, sounding remarkably like Blanche Devereaux from
The Golden Girls
. She wiped her hands on an apron adorned with peaches, possibly symbolizing the state of Georgia. "Miss Glenda's told me so much about yewww," she said, grasping my hands. "I'll bet you work up quiiite an appetite doin' all that investigatin'. Can I git you some chicken Andouille gumbo and a slice of Bananas Foster piiie?"

I blinked and looked for the halo above her graying blonde curls. Then I sunk into a chair at the dining table and managed to utter a faint, "Yes."

"Uh-
uh
, Miss Franki," Glenda said, wagging her index finger (and, unintentionally, her boobs). "You can't have that pie. Miss Ronnie told me that you gave up sweets for Lent."

I shot her a seething look. I knew this hiring Glenda thing was going to be a big bust, and I wasn't referring to her breasts.

"We're actually trying to find Carlos," Glenda continued, planting her bare bottom in the chair across from me. "We've got to question him about Amber's murder."

"Oh, that poor girl," Eve lamented as she fixed me a heaping helping of gumbo. She placed the bowl in front of me and poured me a glass of milk. "I didn't get to know her all that well because she only worked here for two months, but I feel just awful about what happened."

"What was she like?" I asked and then inhaled a huge spoonful of the Cajun goodness.

Eve sat down at the head of the table. "She kept to herself, mostly. Some of the other girls thought it was because she was uppity, but I think she just didn't know how to act in a family setting."

I would've had a hard time seeing a strip club as a "family setting," but now that I knew they had kitchens complete with house moms like Eve, I was a believer. "I've heard that Amber was essentially an orphan. Did she ever mention any relatives to you?"

"Never." She rested her chin on her fists. "The only person I ever saw her with was her pimp."

I almost choked on a piece of chicken. "She had a pimp?"

"Uh-hu-h," she replied in three syllables. "He came here right before she quit the club."

So, Carnie might have been right about Amber working as a prostitute after she left Madame Moiselle's. "Do you know what he wanted?"

"He came to pick her up. And while Amber was changin' into her street clothes, I served him a plate of sauce picante, and we got to chattin'. He said his name was King, and I could see that deep down he was a nice man. So I encouraged him to repent his sins and let Jesus into his heart."

I smirked as I took another bite. The chances of a pimp finding God were about as high as Glenda joining the Cloister.

Eve touched my arm. "And would you believe that right after our conversation he became a minister?"

I lowered my spoon, openmouthed. "How do you know that?"

"Because when I'm coming to work I usually see him at the corner of Bourbon and Dumaine, preaching the gospel to passersby."

Eve's angel status just got elevated to saint, but I wasn't so sure about the status of the pimp preacher. I planned to find that out after lunch.

A Hispanic male who looked to be around twenty-five entered the room and removed a bowl from a cabinet. "Are the girls ready to go, Eve?"

"Oh!" She jumped up from the table. "I'd better go see. Be right back, ladies."

"Carlos, this is Franki, my PI partner," Glenda said. "We wanted to ask you some questions about Amber."

He glanced in my direction. "You're talking to the wrong person. I barely knew her."

"Any information might be important," I said in an encouraging tone. "But could I ask what time you left on Saturday night? It would help to know when the doors were locked."

"Eugene would've been the one to lock up." His thick, black brows furrowed as he spooned gumbo into his bowl. "I had to leave at four fifteen when the club closed because Iris and I got arrested."

"Good grief, Carlos," Glenda exclaimed. "How'd you two end up in the hoosegow?"

He removed a spoon from a drawer and sat beside me. "Things got a little rowdy with some customers who didn't want to leave after last call. So we all went to the tank."

By this point, I was seriously starting to wonder if I'd missed the memo about using euphemisms for "jail." "Who's Iris?"

Glenda flipped her hair. "The bouncer, sugar."

This Iris must be a big girl
. "When did you get out of jail, Carlos?"

He splashed Tabasco sauce on his gumbo. "At one o'clock yesterday afternoon after Eugene posted our bail."

So, he and Iris had airtight alibis. "Did you notice anything unusual before you got arrested?"

"Nah, it was business as usual," he replied, stirring his food. "And I haven't seen Amber around here in a few months."

I looked up from my bowl. "I thought she quit a year ago."

He took a bite and then shifted the food to one side of his mouth. "She did, but she came in sometimes for a drink."

On a hunch I asked, "What did she typically order?"

"The same thing she did when she was dancing here," he replied, resting his elbows on the table. "Amaretto, neat."

Glenda's two-inch false eyelashes opened wide. "It wasn't Amaretto di Amore, was it?"

He shook his head. "We don't carry that brand. Even though it's made here in New Orleans, it doesn't sell as well as Disaronno."

As I'd suspected, there was something weird about that bottle of amaretto beside the bathtub, but I still wasn't sure what. "Is that the kind Amber drank?"

"No, she used to tip me to keep a bottle of Lazzaroni Amaretto under the bar for her."

"Any idea why she wanted that particular brand?" I asked as Eve returned to her place at the table.

He smiled as though remembering something funny. "She liked it because it's the only kind made from an infusion of the Amaretti di Saronno cookies."

I memorized the name Lazzaroni, both because it was pertinent to the investigation and because it was as close as I was going to get to cookies during Lent.

"What are the other amarettos made from?" Glenda asked, twirling her cape tie around her finger.

Carlos swallowed and wiped his mouth with a napkin. "Almond essence or apricot pits."

Eve rolled her eyes. "Amber definitely didn't like that kind."

My body tensed because I sensed that she was about to say something important. "Did she talk to you about amaretto?"

"No, but one time an anonymous admirer had a bottle of amaretto delivered to her here at the club. When she opened it, she got really mad and threw it across the kitchen. It took me hours to clean up the mess." She gestured toward the kitchen window. "And the worst part was that it ruined my chiffon curtains."

My pulse started racing. "Do you remember the brand?"

"Yes, because it was such a pretty name. A-muh-rhet-toe dee Uh-more-ay." Eve sighed and squeezed her shoulders together. "Doesn't it just remind you of a romantic trip to Italy?"

Actually, it reminded me of a senseless killing at a strip club.

And of a murderer with a message.

"You must have been starving," Bradley said as he topped off my champagne.

"Mm-hm." I chewed the last piece of a fourteen-ounce prime rib eye steak smothered in pepper-cream bourbon sauce. Of course, I hadn't been all that hungry since I'd eaten Eve's gumbo before coming to the bank. But Bradley had gone to the trouble of having Dickie Brennan's Steakhouse deliver lunch to his office as a belated birthday surprise, so who was I to disappoint him?

Dabbing my mouth with my napkin, I discretely scoured the room for any sign of the restaurant's famous creole cheesecake. "What's for dessert?"

He looked at me from beneath thick, dark lashes, and the corner of his mouth lifted into a sexy half smile.

I met his gaze, and a warmth spread through my body.

"I was going to order the praline chocolate mousse," he began in a husky voice, "but then Veronica called and told me you'd given up sweets for Lent."

That warmth turned as cold as Veronica's gelid heart.
Just who did she think she was, anyway? A Catholic cop?

"However," he continued, his blue eyes twinkling, "I do have this for you." He pulled a rectangular box from his desk.

I covered my mouth with my hands. "What is it?"

"You'll have to find out," he replied, sliding the box in front of me.

I opened the lid and gasped. Inside was a gorgeous ruby and diamond necklace. The pendant was teardrop shaped, which, given that this was a thirtieth birthday present, seemed particularly appropriate. "It's stunning," I whispered. "Thank you."

"You're stunning," he said in an earnest tone. "Especially in red."

My chest swelled with happiness. Bradley and I had been dating for a little over a year, and even though I'd had reason to doubt him—actually,
two
reasons considering that he'd neglected to tell me he was married when we started dating and that he once broke up with me to hook up with his evil ex-secretary—it was times like these that I remembered why I was so crazy about him (and, obviously, when I found out that there were logical explanations for the above discretions). But as I gazed at him from across the table, I sensed that something was on his mind. "Is everything okay?"

His jaw tensed, and he glanced at his half-eaten steak. "The bank lost a couple of its biggest accounts last week."

"I'm sorry to hear that," I said, concerned. "Do you know why?"

"I don't." He rubbed his eyes. "I thought that I had a solid relationship with both of the clients too."

I hated to see Bradley upset. It always made me feel helpless, which I didn't like. "Have you tried contacting them?"

"They haven't returned my calls," he replied, depositing his napkin beside his plate. "But enough about business." He clasped his hands in front of his mouth. "Let's talk about you."

Just one more reason that he was the best boyfriend on the planet
. "Well, I wanted to explain about—"

There was a knock at the door, and Jeff Payne, the over-ambitious bank manager Ruth had warned me about, entered without waiting for an invitation. With his brown brush cut and perpetual sneer, he looked more like a drill sergeant than a banker. "Sorry to interrupt your tête-a-tête."

I could tell from the smug look on his face that he wasn't sorry at all.

"What can I help you with?" Bradley asked in a polite but strained voice.

Jeff tossed a document on the table. "I need you to sign off on this loan contract."

Bradley turned and put the document on his desk. "I'll take a look at it after lunch."

Jeff's eyes narrowed, and he opened his mouth to say something. But then he turned and stalked from the room.

I looked at Bradley to see his reaction.

"You were saying?" he asked, picking up his champagne glass.

Following his cue to let the Jeff issue lie, I said, "I was just going to apologize for not calling you yesterday. Honestly, it was one of the worst days of my life."

He stopped in mid-sip. "What could be worse than going to
jail
on your birthday?"

There was something about the way he said "jail" that made me wish he'd used a euphemism like everyone else. "Oh, I don't know," I replied, irritated. "Seeing a young woman's dead body, having to investigate her death with Glenda…"

He frowned and put his glass on the table. "You're working on another murder case? And with
Glenda
?"

"Yeah, the victim used to strip at Madame Moiselle's." I almost added that I thought she'd been killed by a real freak, but I stopped myself in time. Bradley worried when I worked homicides, and I didn't want him focusing on my safety when he had problems at work to deal with.

"Strip clubs can be dangerous places," he said, his brow knit with worry. "Do you have any idea why she was murdered?"

"I'm not sure," I hedged. "But listen, I need to get back to work. How about dinner at my place tonight?"

He leaned back and ran his fingers through his hair. "I'm flying to New York later today for an impromptu meeting with the board in the morning. What about tomorrow night?"

"Perfect." I forced a smile as I wondered whether the sudden meeting had something to do with the loss of his clients. Or with me.

Bradley's office phone began to ring. He stood up and glanced at the number on the caller ID. "I need to take this. It's one of the board members I'm meeting with."

"That's fine," I said, rising to my feet. "I'll see myself out."

He reached over the desk and picked up the receiver. "Hey, Bob. What's up?"

While Bradley listened to Bob on the other end of the line, I took one last look at my beautiful necklace before tucking it carefully into my purse. Then I drained my champagne, and Bradley pulled me into his chest with his free arm, and his mouth descended onto mine. It was a slow, probing kiss that made me want to lie down and keep kissing—for starters.

When Bob stopped talking, Bradley released me. "No problem at all," he replied into the receiver. "I'll have the report ready."

After a kiss like that, I needed a drink. So, I grabbed the half-empty bottle of champagne from the table and filled a go-cup. This
was
New Orleans.

Raising my drink as a farewell, I turned and opened the door.

Jeff recoiled in surprise as though he'd been eavesdropping and stepped quickly from the doorway.

But not quickly enough.

I tripped over his foot and went flying into Ruth's chair, spilling my drink on her desk in the process. When I regained my balance, I turned to give him a piece of my mind, but he was gone.

As I mopped up the spilled champagne with some tissues, my tooth began to throb. Although the sudden aching could've been a result of all the chewing I did eating those two lunches, I blamed Jeff for my pain. And now that I'd caught him listening at the door, I was certain that Ruth had been right—he wanted Bradley's job, and he struck me as the type who would do whatever it took to get it. What I needed to know was whether he'd had a hand in costing the bank those accounts to make Bradley look bad.

And I had every intention of finding out.

*   *   *

When I exited Vieux Carré Wine & Spirits in the French Quarter a half hour later, I wasted no time unscrewing the cap from the bottle of Lazzaroni Amaretto I'd purchased. I hadn't had a dessert in weeks, so I couldn't wait to taste the liquid cookie liquor. Normally, I didn't drink on the job. But as long as I was working a case with Glenda, I had a feeling that I was going to stay semi-sloshed. So I tipped my head back and took a swig, and I understood why Amber liked the stuff. It was amaretto ambrosia.

Reluctantly, I replaced the cap and headed back to Madame Moiselle's. Then I remembered that King, Amber's pimp, preached near the club, and I decided to make a detour. Glenda didn't have to be with me every second of the investigation, especially if she was going to persist in wearing those stripper sleuthing suits. And with any luck I'd find King holding court on his corner, because it was time for the alleged pimp-turned-preacher and I to have a come-to-Jesus talk about Amber.

I hooked a left on Dumaine, and I caught a glimpse of someone darting from view behind me. Certain I was being followed, I stopped and backtracked a few steps, but the only person in my vicinity was a guy in a gator costume.

He must've thought that I was checking him out, because he lowered his snout and leered at me.

The animal
. I turned around, and even though I knew that no one in their right mind would tail a person in a gator getup, I quickened my pace. This was Louisiana, after all.

A block from Bourbon, I heard the strains of a church organ, which was as out of place on the infamous party street as a harpsichord. It didn't take long to spot the source. Behind an electric keyboard stood a tall, thin man in a purple velvet suit with green silk lapels and a frilly gold shirt. Apart from his square white sunglasses and thick rope chain with a giant, jeweled crucifix, he either looked like a Mardi Gras pirate or Prince during the Purple Rain tour.

As I approached, he let out a scream worthy of James Brown.

I jumped backwards as his fingers crashed down on the keyboard.

"Temptation! Intoxication! Fornication! Pregnation!" He pointed at his audience of one, i.e., me. "Brothas and sistas, avoid damnation," he implored, sinking to his knees and raising his arms to the heavens. "God is elevation! So seek salvation at The Church of King Nation." He bowed before a fur fedora filled with cash. "Donations kindly accepted."

To use a –
tion
word, the man was a sight and sound sensation. Actually, "
sin
sation" was more appropriate, because I wasn't buying his religious bit for a second. "I take it you're King Nation?"

He sprung to his feet and smiled like a Cheshire cat, revealing gold front teeth engraved with the letters K and N. "At yo' spiritual service."

I held out my card, and he clasped my hand between his, both of which were adorned with three-finger rings that read "Lawd" and "Gawd," respectively.

Giving him a half-lidded look, I said, "My name's Franki Amato, and I'm a private investigator."

King dropped my hand like it was a counterfeit bill.

It was my turn to smile—like the cat that ate the canary. "I need to ask you a few questions about Amber Brown."

"God rest her soul," he said in a perfunctory tone. "I heard about that nasty biniss at Madame Moiselle's."

"Yes, well, speaking of nasty business," I began with a devil-may-care stare, "rumor has it that you were prostituting Amber."

He jutted out his lower lip. "I ain't seen her in over a year. And in case you couldn't tell, I quit the pimpin' profession. I'm a man of Gawd now."

I glanced at his outfit. "Judging from that suit you're wearing, I'd say you were still a pimp."

"Be easy." He gave me a sideways look as he tugged on his lapels. "The clothes don't make the man. What you cain't see is that I went through an inner transformation."

This I had to hear. "How so?"

"Six months ago, the good Lawd came ta me in a vision. I was in an alleyway, jus' waitin' on my friends and smokin' some grass when the street lamp went out. So I had me a drank ta calm my nerves, and the light done came back on. Then it happened agin—I had a smoke and a drank, the lamp went on and off—and that's when I knew that Gawd was showin' me the light."

Not to be a doubter, but I would've sworn on a stack of Bibles that drugs and a faulty light bulb had more to do with that vision than God. "Do you mind if I ask what you were drinking?"

"Crown Royal, the beverage fit for a King," he replied as his eyes shifted to my left hand.

I suddenly realized that I was talking to a pimp-preacher while holding a bag of booze. "Did you or anyone you know ever send Amber a bottle of amaretto?" I asked as I stuffed mine into my purse. "Amaretto di Amore?"

He grabbed a cane from beside the keyboard. It looked suspiciously like a pimp stick, thanks to the bejeweled voodoo god topper. "I don't know nothin' about no amaretto. My girls only drank the best—Hpnotiq."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes as I pulled out my pad and pen. "Would you mind telling me where you were between the hours of four a.m. and two p.m. yesterday?"

His eyes narrowed to the size of coin slots. "At my church."

"You were there at four a.m.?" I asked, giving him a get-real glare.

He raised his chin. "I got there early ta write my Sabbath sermon."

Somehow I doubted that. "And where is this church, exactly?"

"You're standing in it," he replied, tapping the toe of his gold platform shoe on the sidewalk. "The streets are my pulpit."

I wrote "no church, no alibi" in my notes. "Okay then, do you have any idea who might've killed Amber?"

"It was the devil's doin'," he exclaimed with a flourish of his cane.

"Yeah, I got that part," I said drily. "I was thinking more along the lines of one of her ex-clients. Any chance you could provide me with a list?"