Amaretto Amber (Franki Amato Mysteries Book 3) (16 page)

Bradley looked at me. "There's been more than one murder?"

"Another dancer was killed this morning," I said in a hushed tone, hoping it would minimize the massive damage unfolding before me.

"
Madonna mia
!" the nonne shouted.

Bradley's face lost all expression, kind of like the calm before the storm. "And you didn't tell me about it?"

"Oh, Francesca!" My mother threw her arms into the air. "You really should confide in your boyfriends."

"Boyfriend,
singular
," I stressed. I wasn't surprised that my mom was more worried about my relationship than the homicide, but I was completely unprepared for her contribution to the "plural" party.

"Now everyone stay calm," I semi-shouted as I stomped around Detective Sullivan and headed for the door. "This is just business."

The detective followed me out, and the second we were alone on the porch I spun around to face him like a Tasmanian devil in a tornado. "What're you doing here?"

He squared his stance. "I came for the credit card bill and the vial."

I crossed my arms. "I told you I'd bring them by the station."

He leaned into my face. "And I told you I needed them within the hour."

I pointed at his pecs. "No, you didn't."

"Yes, I did." He gestured toward the door. "Now hurry up. I've got something you'll want to see."

I lowered my lids. I wasn't sure I trusted him to share evidence with me, but I needed all the breaks in the case I could get. "Be right back."

When I went inside, all nine nonne jumped away from the window, while Bradley, my mom, and Veronica pretended to be busy the kitchen. Without a word, I ducked into my bedroom and pulled the plastic bags containing the items from my nightstand, and then I rushed back to the porch.

"Here." I thrust the bags into his hands. "This is everything I've collected."

"Make sure you don't collect anything else." He turned and headed down the walkway.

"Hey!" I ran after him. "What do you have for me?"

"Right. My bad." He stopped and pulled a wad of fabric from his back pocket.

It took a second for my brain to register what it was. When it did, I felt my chest and realized that I was still wearing the scarf halter-top that Glenda had made for me at the club.

"Looks-a like you got-a some competition," my nonna announced from behind me.

A tightness wrapped around my torso like the bra I wasn't wearing as I turned and saw her and Bradley standing in the doorway.

Bradley's eyes were fixed on the bra dangling from the detective's hand.

I snatched the offending undergarment. "I can explain."

"Just business, eh?" Bradley said as he set off across the yard toward his car.

"Wait!" I yelled. "I know this looks bad—"

The door to his BMW slammed, and the engine roared.

I watched helplessly as he sped away.

"It may look-a bad to Bradley," Nonna said as she sized up Detective Sullivan, "but from-a where I'm-a standing, it's-a lookin' pretty good-a."

*   *   *

Bradley's phone went straight to voice mail.

In the ten minutes that I'd been locked in my bathroom, I'd called him at least twenty times with no luck. Reluctantly, I opted to heed Veronica's advice and give him some space—but only until tomorrow.

To drown out the noise of the nonne, who were all abuzz about the
scandalo
that had gone down between Bradley, Detective Sullivan, and me, I put in my earbuds. Then I tossed back half of my highball of Lazzaroni Amaretto, desperately wishing that Lent were over so that I could top off my drink with a little chocolate cheesecake. In times like these, stress drinking alone wouldn't do. After all, I'd been trained to eat my emotions since birth.

With my laptop in one hand and my drink in the other, I climbed into the claw-foot tub fully clothed. I leaned my head against the back and felt something rubbery and cushiony, like an inflatable plastic bath pillow, so I settled in and got semi-comfortable.

Then it occurred to me that I didn't own a bath pillow.

I turned to take a look, and the screechy
Psycho
music went off in my head.

It was my nonna's enema bag.

After I'd scrubbed my hands for five solid minutes, washed and dried my hair, and lined the tub with towels, I got back inside and prepared to do some online research. Since sleep was out of the question and my nonna was monopolizing David's time, I decided to try to find out for myself whether the amber necklace was a component of the spell or the voodoo.

A half an hour passed. Various search combinations of
amber
and
Old New Orleans Traditional Witchcraft
and
New Orleans voodoo
produced nothing. Frustrated, I entered
amber amaretto
to see if I could find anything to connect the two items.

To my surprise, I got a hit—
Amaretto Amber
.

I clicked the link, and what I saw prompted me to drain my highball glass.

Now I knew how Amber had been making her money.

"Amber was
what
?" Veronica asked, her phone voice gravelly with sleep.

"Sugaring," I whispered into my cell, glancing across the dentist lobby at a twenty-something tech nerd absorbed in an issue of
Wired
. "You know, Lisa Ling, CNN?"

She was silent. "Did Dr. Lessler give you laughing gas?"

"I haven't even seen him yet," I replied, annoyed. "I was talking about a TV show on sugaring."

"Oh." A cabinet door slammed. "Is that the thing where young women date wealthy men for money?"

"Uh-huh." I picked at a crack in my thumbnail. "The women get rent or tuition or whatever, and in exchange the men supposedly get
companionship,
i.e., sex."

The man's head snapped up, as did his bushy brows.

I gave him a get-a-life glare, and his eyes lowered to his magazine.

"How do you know Amber was doing it?" Veronica asked over the banging of pots and pans.

"I found her profile on a sugaring website, sugarshack.org. And get this—" I shifted the phone to my other ear and shielded my mouth with my hand. "She went by
Amaretto Amber
."

Veronica gasped. "Do you think that's why the amaretto was left at the crime scene? As a clue that she was sugaring?"

I scooted to the far end of the couch to get out of earshot of the gawking geek. "I still think the
Amore
part of the brand name is significant, but, yeah, I've been wondering if it was some kind of statement from a jilted sugar daddy."

The man peered at me over the top of his magazine, and I narrowed my eyes into an I-can-see-you stare.

"Wait a second." Silverware jangled as she closed what I assumed was a kitchen drawer. "Didn't Carnie say that Amber was leaving the sex trade?"

"I know what you're thinking—this sounds like prostitution." I paused and shot the man a preemptive dream-on smirk. "But in the eyes of the law it's not because both parties consider it to be dating."

"Yeah, that would be tough to prosecute." She yawned, and I heard water running. "Have you tried calling this company?"

"I can't because they don't have any contact info listed. I did a
Whois
search on the website, but nothing came up."

"They're using a masking service, obviously." The water sound stopped. "Your only option for information is to infiltrate the company somehow."

"If you're suggesting that I pose as a sugar baby, you can forget it." I crossed my ankle over my knee. "Stripping is as far as I'm willing to go."

The man's mouth dropped open and, to my dismay, stayed that way.

"Read your magazine, will ya?" I yelled, waving my arm Italian-style for emphasis.

He leapt up and left the lobby.

"I don't get it," Veronica said in a bewildered tone. "Why do you want me to read a magazine?"

"Never mind," I muttered. "Anyway, what would you think about me asking David to investigate the company? He could create a fake profile as a prospective sugar daddy to see what he can find out."

"I don't have any problem with that, but your nonna will if it interferes with that altar." She giggled.

"You let me handle her," I said, even though we both knew that I couldn't.

"Listen," she began, "have you talked to Bradley yet?"

I frowned at my broken nail. "No, but it's only seven thirty. If he hasn't surfaced by lunchtime, I'll call him."

Dana, the hygienist, entered the lobby holding a patient file. "Franki?"

I stood up, and my stomach fell. "They've come for me."

"Have fun," Veronica said as though I were redeeming her spa gift instead of getting a crown.

I was tempted to reply with a choice word or two, but I would've felt dirty swearing in front of a hygienist. So I tapped end—hard.

As soon as I was settled into the dental chair, Dana sat on a stool and clipped a bib around my neck. Then she rose to her feet and pulled a bleach wipe from a Clorox canister.

"Dr. Lessler will be here in a few minutes," she said as she disinfected the seat.

"Wow." I watched her swab the stool. "Now I get why they call you a hygienist."

She laughed. "Dr. Lessler's kind of a germophobe."

The doctor entered the room, pulling on a rubber glove. "I see how it is," he said in a joking tone. "I'm a few seconds late, and you two talk about me behind my back."

Dana's face turned a shade shy of the purple on the doctor's LSU scrubs.

I smiled as I semi-sat up. "We were discussing what a clean freak you are."

"Well, we see an awful lot of spit around here." He winked and pulled a surgical mask over his face. "How's that filling?"

"Fine, I guess." I reclined, resigned.

"Let's take a look before I start the crown." He took a probe from Dana's hand.

I opened my mouth and stared at a poster on the ceiling of a dolphin that was leaping carefree from the sea as if to mock me.

"How's the investigation going?" he asked, poking my tooth.

"Uh, ohay," I replied, mainly because it was only thing I could safely say with a pick between my lips.

"I have some information for you." He prodded my gums.

My eyes widened. "Reary?"

He placed the probe on an instrument tray. "I just talked to my office manager, and she said that a woman called a couple of times over the past year to make sure Amber didn't have any outstanding bills."

I rose to my elbows. "Does she know her name or her relation to Amber?"

The corners of his mouth turned down. "The only thing she remembers was that the woman had a strong Texan accent."

At the mention of Texas, Shakey came to mind. It was possible that he had a secretary paying Amber's bills, but the woman could have also been an associate of a sugar daddy Amber had met through the website. Either way, someone had to be covering her expenses, especially the rent on that Uptown apartment she'd moved into. "Is there anything else you can tell me about Amber? Or about that necklace you saw her wearing?"

A memory dawned on his face. "I can't believe I almost forgot." He turned to Dana. "Can you give us a minute?"

She nodded and exited the room.

"Yesterday was my daughter's fifth birthday, and my wife gave her an Ariel doll. It reminded me that Amber had said something about the
veve
being associated with a mermaid."

I was so excited by this revelation that I almost forgot the reason I was in Dr. Lessler's office. If there was a voodoo mermaid, that would explain the one on the bathtub since the Lithuanian legend had never quite fit with the crime. "You might've just provided me with a missing link I needed."

"Glad I could help." He picked up a Q-tip.

"What's that for?" I asked, holding up my hand to keep his at bay.

His shoulders relaxed. "I have to anesthetize your tooth so that I can prepare it for the crown."

If I'd known about this part of the procedure, I would've anesthetized myself to prepare
me
for the crown. I sighed and gripped the arms of the chair. "All right. Let's get this over with."

He swabbed my gums with the topical anesthetic. "I take it you're not surprised that she was into voodoo and witchcraft given the, uh, sordid life she'd been living."

I turned my head to look at him. "You mean, the stripping?"

He gave an apologetic grimace. "I knew about the prostitution too. If her attitude hadn't given it away, her outfits would have." Dr. Lessler glanced at the clock and picked up the syringe. "I'd better get a move on. We've got a full schedule today. Ready?"

"No, but shoot." I opened my mouth but squeezed my eyes shut.

As the needle pierced my flesh, my eyes popped open. But it wasn't because of the prick. It was because I finally remembered where I'd seen the image of Baron Samedi.

It was on the top of King's cane.

*   *   *

I opened my eyes, and a slack-jawed face came into focus. Fearing that the dude from the dentist had followed me to Private Chicks, I bolted upright from the lobby couch and knocked him in the nose with my noggin.

"Ooof!" His head flew back, and he pinched his nostrils.

I blinked and realized that he wasn't the nosy nerd but rather "the vassal," a fraternity brother of David's who'd earned the feudal nickname when he'd been appointed as a pledge to serve David the year before. "Sorry I hurt you," I said, rubbing my forehead. "But why were you staring at me like that?"

"You were breathing all weird, and then you stopped," David replied, removing a tissue box from the reception desk. "We thought maybe you'd died."

"I almost did," I muttered, recalling the horror of having my bad tooth filed down for the crown.

"Whoa." He handed the box to the vassal. "What happened?"

"The dentist appointment from hell." I touched my tongue to my temporary tooth. "Anyway, I have an urgent assignment for you."

David glanced at the vassal, who was inserting a tissue plug into his nostril. "But Standish and I are working on a St. Joseph's Day project."

I snorted. "Standish? Who's that?"

The vassal inserted a wad of tissue into the other side of his nose. "Mbe."

Trying not to peer at those plugs, I said, "First of all, you should stick with the vassal. And second, I know all about my nonna and that altar, but Veronica and I agree that the case takes priority. So, I need you to create a fake profile on a website for sugar babies."

The vassal's already Coke-bottle-lens-magnified eyes grew even larger. "I'm not allowed to eat caramel. Mother says dairy isn't good for me."

"It's not for the candy," I said dryly as I looked from him to David. "It's called Sugar Shack, and it advertises young women seeking platonic and sexual relationships with men in exchange for money or goods."

David doubled over, and the vassal exhaled so hard that the tissue plugs shot from his nostrils like rockets.

I curled my lips as I contemplated David's collapsed form. "Maybe you're not the man for the job."

He held up a hand. "Just…give me a second."

"No, now that I think about it," I said, shaking my head, "this won't work. To get the kind of info I'd need, you'd probably have to attend one of the meet-the-girls parties that prospective sugar daddies are invited to."

David's back seemed to give out, and he placed his hands on his thighs for support.

"And since you work for Private Chicks," I continued, "that could expose you unnecessarily."

The vassal clenched his fists at his sides and took a step forward. "I know how to party with girls."

I bit my lip. I'd been to a so-called "party" at the vassal's dorm the previous year, and the only women in sight were the ones on the surveillance video I'd brought for him to analyze. "I can't let you do that since you're not our employee."

My message tone chimed from my office.

"I need to see who that is." I pushed myself off the couch. "You two go ahead and work on that altar design, and then David, you get me anything you can find on a voodoo mermaid."

"Can't we at least do the profile?" David croaked.

He looked so broken that I decided to throw him a bone.

"Why not?" I said and then hurried down the hallway for my phone.

As I'd hoped, the text was from Bradley.

We need to talk. Can you come by my place at 8?

I started to confirm, but then I remembered that I had to strip at around that time. Of course, there was no way I was going to tell him that, so I opted for a kinder, gentler version of the evening's event.

I have a stakeout at the club. Is 10 too late?

While I waited for him to respond, I unlocked my lower desk drawer and pulled out my emergency bag of Elmer's Green Onion CheeWees
and
my crisis can of Zapp's Spicy Cajun Bean Dip.

I used a cheese curl to scoop a dollop of the dip and tossed it into the good side of my mouth. No sooner had I begun to chew than my "Shake Your Booty" ringtone sounded.

Tapping
speaker
to keep my hands free for snacking, I answered, "Hey, Glenda."

"Miss Franki." She exhaled what had to be a puff of smoke. "What are you doing right this minute?"

"Oh, just stress eating." I chewed another CheeWee. "Why do you ask?"

"Because we've got prep work to do before your performance."

I licked dip from my lip. Something in her inflection sounded ominous. "I've got to learn the routine, right?"

"Not only that," she said, sounding stressed. "I imagine we have quite a bit of waxing to do."

I almost choked on a cheese curl. "And why would you imagine that?"

"Are you or are you not Italian, sugar?"