Prosecco Pink (16 page)

The vassal blinked but maintained his fraternity-imposed silence.

David stood at attention, more like a common footman than a feudal lord. "Uh, it's three french fry po' boys with gravy and two hot dog po' boys with chili, ma'am."

"Well, it smells like road kill," she snarled.

The vassal pushed up his glasses with his index finger and proceeded to stare at Delta in his mouth-breather manner.

She gathered her mink around her neck and scowled at him as though he were a vulgar voyeur. Then she turned to Veronica and me, her lips thinning into a straight line. "I don't know how you two can work in these appalling conditions."

The second she went out the door, Veronica shot me a wry smile.

David relaxed and resumed his fraternal-feudal air. "Vassal, I'm ready to be served."

I watched with envy as the vassal pulled the sandwiches from the bag and laid out a po' boy picnic on David's desk.

"What are you thinking, Franki?" Veronica asked.

"That I would kill to have the metabolism of a college male."

"Well, that goes without saying," she said, glancing at David as he licked brown gravy from his fingers. "I meant about the oleander in the lip gloss."

I sighed. "I don't know what to think. Nothing makes any sense."

"Let's go talk it out in my office." Veronica turned to David. "When you're finished feasting, could you research the effects of oleander poisoning on the body?"

David nodded with french fries protruding from his mouth like cigarettes.

I took one last longing look at the boys' po' boys and then followed Veronica down the hallway. I was starting to worry that I would never get to eat again.

"All right," she said, taking a seat behind her desk, "what do we know?"

I flopped into my usual chair. "That Ivanna was holding poisoned lip gloss she wasn't wearing. And unless she had some sort of lip protectors like Gilligan wore in his spy dream when Ginger kissed him on
Gilligan's Island,
then I seriously doubt that she was planning to wear it to kiss an enemy."

Veronica smirked and turned on her laptop.

"So, the way I see it," I said, kicking my legs over the side of the chair, "we have three possible scenarios. First, Ivanna was planning to poison someone with the lip gloss, but it backfired."

"How?" she asked as she twisted her hair into a knot.

"Maybe the person figured out what she was up to and killed her instead by making her swallow some of the lip gloss."

Veronica worked a pencil into her bun to hold it in place. "That's possible, I suppose."

I crossed my arms and sunk deeper into the chair. "The only problem with that is we don't know how much oleander it would take to kill a woman Ivanna's size. A little bit in some lip gloss may not be enough."

"Good point. I'll send David an email right now asking him to add that to his to-do list," she said, clicking the keys on her keyboard.

As she typed, I casually swiped a lone peppermint from the corner of her desk. I felt it was owed to me since she was delaying my lunch. "We also need to figure out where the poison came from."

Veronica looked up. "You don't think it came from Oleander Place?"

"It depends," I said, quietly unwrapping the peppermint out of view. "We know Ivanna was at the plantation before she was murdered, so maybe she took some oleander leaves. But—and this is my second theory—Adam could have added the oleander to the lip gloss with or without her knowledge. And if that's the case, it could've come from anywhere."

"Why would Adam poison the lip gloss?" she asked, cocking her head.

I discreetly popped the peppermint into my mouth and replied, "Either he was in on Ivanna's poisoning plan, or he wanted to poison Ivanna."

She folded her hands beneath her chin. "It sounds like it's time to have another face-to-face chat with Dr. Geyer."

I nodded, savoring the yummy peppermint flavor.

Veronica resumed typing. "What's your third theory?"

"That whoever killed Ivanna put the lip gloss in her hand to make a statement."

"Such as?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

I shrugged. "Maybe it's like Delta said about the flower Evangeline was holding. You know, that she was toxic or something."

"Or that her products were."

"I'm not so sure." I blatantly chewed the peppermint and wished it were a po' boy. "Remember, I looked at the ingredients Adam uses, and they're all harmless. Plus, the lip gloss tube didn't have the Lickalicious Lips label."

"So, what are you planning to do?"

"I'm finally going to track down Scarlett," I said, neglecting to mention that I'd be lunching at length first. "Then I'll pay a visit to Adam."

David cleared his throat in the doorway.

"Yes?" Veronica asked.

"The mail just came," he said, depositing several envelopes on her desk. "And I found out that acute oleander poisoning causes cardiac arrest."

I sat up in my chair. "What about respiratory failure?"

"Nope." He consulted the printout he was holding. "It affects the heart, the gastrointestinal system, and the nervous system."

Veronica and I exchanged a look.

"So," he continued, "it could make you puke, give you the runs—"

Veronica held up her hand. "Thank you, David."

"But it wouldn't cause the lungs to fail," I muttered.

"This is getting more and more interesting," Veronica said.

"You mean, confusing." I stared at the pink Post-It notes on Veronica's desk and thought of the diamond. "David, have you ever heard of a nineteenth-century pirate called Beau the Black?"

He scratched his forehead. "I think we studied him in, like, the seventh grade, but I don't remember anything about him."

"His real name was Beauregard Patterson, and he used to be a confederate army soldier. I need you to try to locate any of his descendants. Do you think you can do that?"

"Aye aye, captain," he said with a salute and then limped away like he had a peg leg.

I had to smile at his pirate persona.

Veronica tore open an envelope. "Why do you want to find Beau's relatives?"

"It's time to look into the legend of the pink diamond. Something is off about this case, starting with the cause of death."

"I think you're right." She pulled a card from the envelope and put her hand to her mouth. Then she looked up at me with fear in her eyes.

I glanced at the envelope lying on her desk. Noting the shiny purple of its interior flap, I froze in my chair. I had only one question, "What did Nonna do?"

"Now, stay calm," Veronica said, gripping the sides of the card as though hanging on for dear life. "It's a little thing, really."

I ripped the card from her hand. It was an invitation to a cocktail party celebrating my engagement to "Bradli Artman," the Italian phonetic spelling of "Bradley Hartmann" minus the
h
(which is always silent in the Italian language and never begins a word). My first thought was that maybe the name looked just different enough to convince Bradley that it wasn't actually him I was getting engaged to. But then it occurred to me that another man wouldn't make the outcome any better.

Fueled by a burst of rage that would rival that of Rocky Balboa on steroids, I marched into my office and grabbed my purse and cell phone. Then I pressed my parents' number and headed for the lobby.

"Franki!" Veronica called, her high heels clicking behind me. "What are you going to do?"

"What I do best—fight with my nonna and then stress-eat," I shouted as I stormed from the office. I ran down the stairs two at a time while the phone was ringing. When I got to the parking lot, the answering machine switched on. Certain that Nonna was dodging my call, I climbed into my car and pressed my parents' work number. I was about to start the engine when someone picked up.

"Amato's Deli," my mother responded in a shrill, singsong tone.

To avoid the delay of our usual name game, I blurted out, "Mom, this is Francesca."

"Well, of course it is," she said in an offended tone. "Are you suggesting that I don't know my own daughter's voice?"

So much for saving time
. "Mom, I—"

"Well, what else am I supposed to think when you tell me your name, Francesca?"

I sighed and leaned my head against the window. I couldn't win where my family was concerned. "You're right. That was silly of me. Now, can I talk to Dad?"

"He's making Italian sausage, and he's up to his elbows in ground pork."

And I'm knee-deep in poop
, I thought. "I need to talk to him about Nonna. It's urgent."

"It's not a good time, dear. Your nonna is here."

My radar went up. There were only three reasons my nonna would ever leave the house: Sunday mass, a papal visit, or a secret mission related to one of her meddling schemes. "What's she doing at the deli?"

"She said she wanted to help your father make the sausage," my mother whispered. "But between you and me, I think she really wanted to get out of the house. Right now she's holding court with Rosalie Artusi, Crispino DiRuggiero from the ceramics store, Agostino Fossati from that new chocolate shop—"

"Okay, Mom?" I interrupted. "I don't need the whole list. Just let me talk to Nonna."

"She's talking to Father Will and Father Roman. I'd hate to disturb them."

"Wait." I paused to collect my thoughts. "Did you say 'Father?'"

"Twice, dear. They're new priests at Holy Rosary Church, and they've become regulars at the deli. They said they've been assigned to teach the marriage preparation classes. Isn't that nice?"

I felt a stabbing sensation in my chest as the reality of what was going on came crashing down on me.
Holy mother of God, Nonna's arranging my wedding
.

"Francesca, are you all right? You sound like you're choking."

"Mom," I said through clenched teeth, "why the hell didn't you tell me Nonna was communing with clergy?"

"You said you didn't want the whole list," she replied, clueless to my priestly plight.

My heart was pounding out the rhythm of
the
tarantella
. "Never mind that. Just put her on the phone."

I heard the receiver crash down onto the counter.

"Carmela!" she shouted, even though the tables were all of five feet from the deli's phone. "It's Francesca!"

Next came the usual murmur of the customers, who, upon hearing my name, began asking what I knew to be prying questions about my personal life—questions to which my mother would respond in lavish detail.

"
Pronto
," Nonna responded with the customary Italian
ready.
And I could tell from her tone that she was indeed ready—for battle.

"Nonna," I rasped, breathless from stress, "I saw the invitation. How could you do this?"

"What's-a the big-a problem?"

I gasped. "The 'big-a problem' is that Bradley hasn't asked me to marry him. And if he sees that invitation, he never will."

"He will-a, he will-a," she reassured. "You leave everything-a to me."

I laughed in disbelief. "If I do that, I'll end up a
zitella
for sure. Now please tell me that you did
not
send him that invitation."

"
Calmati
, Franki," she reassured. "I only send it-a to Veronica."

I bowed my head on the steering wheel and silently thanked God, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph for their divine intervention. But then curiosity got the best of me. "Why did you only send it to her?"

"Because it's-a just a sample, and I want-a her opinion."

"Why
her
opinion?" I asked, admittedly a little put out. After all, it was an invitation to
my
engagement party.

"It's-a simple," she said matter-of-factly. "Veronica's got-a class."

The woman sends out clandestine purple invitations to my non-engagement with the name of my non-fiancé misspelled, and she implies that I'm the one who's unrefined?
"Class or no class," I hissed, "there is no engagement. So do not send out any more invitations,
capito
?"

"I can't-a make-a you no guarantees," she replied without missing a beat.

I wanted to scream, but I remained calm because I knew I had Catholicism on my side, er, sort of. "Nonna, even if Bradley and I do decide to get married one day, we can't have a church wedding because he's divorced. If you have any questions about that, I'm sure Father Will and Father Roman would be more than happy to explain the Church's policy regarding divorcees."

She chuckled softly. "It's a like-a we say in Italy, Franki, 'rules are just-a suggestions.'" Then the line went dead.

*  *  *

"As God is my witness, I'll never be hungry again," I vowed à la Scarlett O'Hara before I popped the last bite of po' boy into my mouth and pulled into the parking lot of Oleander Place. I cut the engine and climbed out of my car, slamming the door as I mentally cursed my nonna. Thanks to her Machiavellian machinations, I'd eaten not one but two po' boys and a whole bag of Spicy Cajun Crawtators—the family size, not the individual serving. But what did it matter? It wasn't like I was watching my figure because that was a full-time job, and I was far too busy for that. And besides, with Nonna in my life, I was destined to grow old alone, anyway.

Speaking of being a
zitella, I thought as I walked up the path to the back porch,
I could really go for some baked ziti
. I climbed the steps to the porch and pulled my second-hand Burberry scarf tightly around my neck. The sky was still overcast, and the temperature had dropped by at least twenty degrees. I approached the back door, and the magnolia tree quaked violently in the wind as though warning me not to enter. Shaken from my nonna ruminations, I suddenly realized that the plantation appeared to be deserted. I glanced at the time on my phone. It was only two thirty. But since there was no "closed" sign on the door, I turned the handle and went inside.

"Delta?" I called. I peered into her office, but it was empty.

A pall of silence hung in the air. And for the first time, it occurred to me that the plantation home was actually kind of spooky. Because of the cloudy day, it was particularly gloomy inside. The house smelled of must and decay, and the antique furniture and old family portraits seemed to cast dark, deathly shadows on those who entered, i.e., me.