Amaretto Amber (Franki Amato Mysteries Book 3) (19 page)

Veronica swallowed a sip of coffee. "I'm glad you understand it. There's a lot of information about the loas in the New Orleans context, but it's complicated because they all have so many different aspects. For instance, Erzulie isn't just a goddess of love. She's also a mother figure and a protector of lots of different groups, like children and prostitutes."

Dolly hadn't mentioned that, but the prostitute part fit in Amber's case. It also meant that she could've been appealing to Erzulie for assistance with an angry ex-john.

My cell began to vibrate on the table. David's name was on the display, so I put him on speaker. "Hey, man. Veronica and Glenda are here with me."

"Hello, ladies." He cleared his throat. "It's good that you're all there because I kind of have a situation."

Veronica frowned at the phone. "What's wrong?"

"Standish—I mean, the vassal—and I set up a fake profile on sugarshack.org for a twenty-five-year-old tech millionaire. And I found out this morning that he stayed up all night messaging with this chick from the site. I mean, girl." He coughed. "Woman."

"We get the picture," I said, trying to hurry him along. "What did he find out?"

"That this woman knew Amber." His tone sounded as astonished as Veronica, Glenda, and I looked. "She said Amber hooked up with the first guy she met at something called a sugar bowl party."

"Any chance she remembers the guy's name?" I prodded.

"I wish," he replied. "But I could tell the vassal to ask her to describe him."

Veronica furrowed her brow, probably calculating Private Chicks' legal liability. "This is great information, David, but we can't have him doing any work for us. Thank him and let him know that Franki will take it from here."

"But that's the situation," he said, his voice breaking slightly. "The woman invited him to a martini mixer at lunch today, and he's going. I told him it wasn't a good idea, but he's a man on a mission."

I couldn't help but smile. The sugar babies on that website were probably hotter than anything the vassal had seen since he'd been introduced to the Bunsen burner in high school science class. "Do whatever you have to do to keep him away from that mixer, you understand?"

He exhaled as though trying to stop the smitten Standish would be like taking on Mike Tyson. "I'll do my best."

I tapped
End
.

"Sounds like the killer could be Amber's sugar daddy," Glenda said, swirling the champagne in her glass.

"Or Nadezhda, or Eugene, or Shakey." I drummed my fingers on the table.

Veronica gazed at me over the rim of her mug. "What're you thinking, Franki?"

I looked her in the eyes. "That we might not figure out who the killer is until we make sense of the crime scene."

Glenda batted her lashes, looking like she was ready for a geriatric rave. "We already know what it means. It's an anti-hex witchcraft spell and a request to the voodoo goddess, Erzulie, for protection."

"Maybe. But there's one clue at the crime scene we haven't cracked—the mermaid that Amber carved into the tub." I glanced at the
Pay Me
message on Glenda's shoes. "And I think I know just the person to help me decipher it."

*   *   *

"It's just your imagination," I said to myself as I looked into the rearview mirror of my Mustang. Ever since I'd arrived in the French Quarter, I'd felt like I was being followed. Of course, my paranoia could've had something to with the fact that Veronica had mentioned the masked man. Nevertheless, I couldn't shake the sensation.

I turned onto Bourbon Street and checked the mirror again. Still nothing.

"Told you so," I intoned as I searched for a place to park and seriously considered psychotherapy.

Across the street from King Nation's corner, I spotted a rare parking space. When I pulled up, I discovered that it was occupied—by the wino who'd tried to steal from King's tip jar.

"Excuse me, sir," I called as I leaned from the car window. "Could you please move to the sidewalk so I can park here?"

He lifted his head from the stuffed black trash bag that he was using as a pillow. "Can't you see I'm trying to sleep off a hangover, lady?"

I blinked. "Actually, I
can
see that."

He lay back on the bag, and I laid on the horn.

After jumping a good three feet in the air, he shouted out a string of obscenities that would've made Glenda blush. Then he did as I'd asked.

"Some people are so grouchy in the morning," I grumbled as I parallel parked.

My phone began to ring as soon as I stepped from the car. I bit my lower lip when I read Ruth's name on the display. If she'd heard about Bradley, then the wino's diatribe would seem pleasant in comparison to this conversation. But on the off chance she'd spoken to him, I tapped answer.

"Hey, Ruth. What's up?" I held my breath and waited.

Silence.

I looked at the display to make sure the call hadn't dropped and put the phone back to my ear. "Hello?"

Then I heard it—the sound of heavy breathing, bull-about-to-charge style.

Clearly, Ruth had found out about Bradley. But based on her huffing and puffing, it didn't seem like the time to ask if she'd talked to him.

I glanced at King and saw that he'd started to roll up his red carpet.

Now, I knew that parishioners were hard to come by in the Quarter, not to mention at eleven thirty on a Friday morning. But judging from the way King was stealing sideways glances at me, I had a feeling that I was the reason he was closing up shop, i.e., church.

"Listen, Ruth. It's been great breathing with you," I said, keeping an eye on King, "but I've gotta run." I closed the call and crossed the street.

King saw me coming and rose to his feet, practically glowing in head-to-toe peach. In theory, his fruit-colored suit should've been an improvement over his purple, green, and gold getup, but the pastelness of it all would've taken even Ruth's breath away.

I strode up to him and stared into his gold sunglasses. "I guess you heard that another dancer was murdered at Madame Moiselle's?"

He frowned and clutched his linen lapel. "Shame about that."

"Her name was Curaçao," I added, watching his face for any sign of recognition. "I don't suppose she was one of your girls?"

"We was not biniss associates, no." He hoisted his keyboard. "But with a name like that, I could've made her a star."

Of the porno screen
.

"Now, if you'll excuse me." He brushed past me. "I have an engagement elsewhere."

"Hold on a second." I started after him. "As a man of God, I know you'd want to help me find Amber and Curaçao's killer."

"You would think that," he said as he rounded the corner. "But the good Lawd doesn't want no misfortune ta befall me while I'm spreadin' his word." He stopped beside a Cadillac Seville that looked factory-made to match his ensemble, or vice versa, and popped the trunk.

"Wow." I shielded my eyes from the glare of his car and his gold teeth. "Someone's ready for Easter."

He stowed the keyboard inside the trunk and slammed it shut. "Peach is my favorite color."

"Huh," I said in a sarcastic tone. "I would've guessed green."

"Now that you mention it, I do enjoy green." He lowered his sunglasses so that I could see his eyes lower to my purse. "Particularly when I'm bein' pumped fo' information by a PI."

I could've kicked myself with one of his peach leather wingtips. I'd set myself up for that one.

"Without no cash, I've got to dash." He turned and headed back to his pulpit.

I trailed behind him and rummaged through my bag for my wallet, wishing I'd saved some of my stripping money to pay him off—and contemplating how sad that scenario sounded.

When we got back to his corner, he tossed the carpet over his right shoulder and grabbed his cane.

By some miracle, I found a twenty-dollar bill tucked in my coin purse—something that never happened when I needed money to spend on myself. I made sure King saw it, but I didn't want to hand it over until I'd asked a few more questions. "I noticed Baron Samedi on your cane. Do you practice voodoo?"

"Girl," he said, pulling down the brim of his peach pimp hat, "you been watchin' too many movies."

I was surprised that he would deny it, especially since it was common practice to mix voodoo with Christianity in New Orleans. I decided to offer him the cash to see whether that inspired some brotherly love.

When I held out the twenty, a breeze blew it from my hand. As I stepped into the street to retrieve the bill, a thought occurred to me. I turned and looked at King. "Amber learned voodoo from you, didn't she?"

His hands went to his face, and I read
Lawd
and
Gawd
on his rings at the same time I heard tires squealing.

Then I was down.

And out.

The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was a large crucifix. I would have thought I was in heaven, but I was fairly certain that the crosses in paradise weren't encrusted with cubic zirconias.

I raised my eyes and realized that the crucifix belonged to King, who was stooped over me. With his wide-brimmed hat and distinct front teeth, he looked like the Mad Hatter, only in peach and gold. In that moment, I knew exactly where I was—down the rabbit hole.

"What's going on?" I asked, pulling myself onto my elbows.

He squatted beside me. "You done had yo' bell rung."

It all came flooding back—the twenty-dollar bill, the squealing tires. I looked around for a paramedic or a policeman, but the only people in sight were tourists. "Didn't you call an ambulance?" My tone reflected my anxiety. "I got hit by a car!"

He lowered his gold sunglasses. "There's no need for nervous postrations, now. That car didn't touch a hair on yo' head. But you did get a nasty bump when Apollo pushed you out the street."

Of course, I knew he wasn't referring to the Greek god, but I was kind of holding out hope for a fireman. "Who's Apollo?"

In reply, the wino walked up and waved.

Talk about a misnomer
.

"Sorry 'bout that lump, lady," Apollo said, pulling his faded "Tales of the Cocktail" festival T-shirt over his exposed beer belly.

"No problem. Thanks for coming to my rescue." I felt the side of my head and looked at my hand. There was a trace of blood. "Did either of you get a look at the driver or any information about the car?"

The two men exchanged a look that I'd become all too familiar with since moving to New Orleans—one of a complicit silence that reined supreme among the Kings and Apollos of the city.

"It happened so fast." King spread his hands in a helpless gesture.

Apollo pushed matted brown hair from his puffy face, presumably so that I could see how honest he was trying to look. "And we were worried about you."

"Tha's right." King tipped back his hat. "After you hit yo' head, Apollo carried you ta safety. I couldn't do it myself, you understand, because this suit is dry clean only."

Apollo nodded as though saving the suit was the logical concern.

"Uh-huh." Clearly, I wasn't going to get anywhere with these guys. But if the driver of the careening car was the masked man, he was going to get away with attempted murder.

As I pulled myself to my feet, both men offered their hands. After weighing the two options, I took King's hand, albeit with reluctance. When he let go, I wobbled.

"Hold on ta this." He handed me his cane.

The Baron Samedi topper glinted in the sunlight, and I remembered what I'd asked King before losing consciousness. "We still need to talk about Amber and voodoo."

He turned to Apollo. "Why don't you get the lady somethin' ta calm her nerves? You'll find a selection of beverages in my Caddy."

Apollo's eyes lit up like a neon bar sign, and he hurried around the corner.

Although I couldn't see King's eyes through his dark lenses, I stared straight into them. "I was right about you teaching Amber voodoo, wasn't I?"

"F'true, but it wadn't no big thang." He adjusted his suit coat. "Tha's jus' how we do in New Awlins."

He was right about that—voodoo was an integral part of the local culture. "What did you tell her about a mermaid voodoo goddess?"

"La Sirène?" He pulled a gold toothpick from his pocket. "She's the goddess of the sea and all its treasures. But she's also the goddess of love, motherhood, and protection."

I remembered my earlier conversation with Veronica about Erzulie's three aspects. "Are you sure you're not talking about Erzulie Freda?"

"La Sirène
is
Erzulie," he said, pointing the toothpick at me.

My head was starting to throb—both from the accident and from this conversation. "I don't get it."

He sucked his teeth. "You know how tuna is the Chicken of the Sea?"

I blinked, unsure if he was really referring to the fish or if that bump was getting the best of me. "Uh, I guess?"

"La Sirène's like that." He slipped the toothpick into a corner of his mouth and smiled. "The Erzulie of the sea."

Okay, so it wasn't the bump
. "Is it possible to appeal to the gods for more than one thing at the same time? Or maybe to use witchcraft to ask for one thing and voodoo for another?"

His lips protruded. "It's not advisable, no. You got ta put all yo' energy into a request for it ta work. Plus, if you axe fo' mo' than one thing, the gods might think you bein' greedy."

That corresponded to my suspicions about the crime scene. Amber hadn't left that amaretto—the killer had. "If someone is invoking a god, can another person undo it with their own voodoo?"

"F'sure." He nodded. "It's called red magic."

The color red got my attention since the Amaretto di Amore label was red and even the amaretto was a reddish-amber. "Not black magic?"

"Tha's Hollywood." He clutched his bedazzled cross. "In real voodoo, we don't have no black nor white."

I hated to mention the amaretto to King, especially since I'd already asked him about it once before, but he was the best chance I had of deciphering the killer's message. "What if a red magic practitioner gave La Sirène a bottle of amaretto?"

"She'd drink it." He collapsed with laughter and slapped his knee.

While King cracked himself up, I glanced around for Apollo, wishing he'd hurry up with my drink. In the meantime, I decided to try another tack. "If I wanted to ask La Sirène for help, how would I do that?"

He rubbed his eyes beneath his sunglasses. "Lots o' ways—pray to her image, light a candle, hold her
veve
, or jus' take a baf."

I leaned forward. "A what?"

"A baf. You know." He lowered his lenses and winked. "Rub-a-dub-dub?"

I tightened my grip on the cane both because Amber had been taking a bath with La Sirène's image etched into the tub and also because I wasn't sure what that wink was about. "What does her
veve
look like?"

"It's shaped like a diamond about yay big." He rings sparkled as he approximated the size. "And it sits on top of an upside down triangle—"

"With scrolls on each side?" I interrupted.

"You seen it?"

"No, but I've heard about it," I replied, recalling my conversation with Dr. Lessler about the
veve
Amber had worn.

"Tha's good." His head bounced up and down as he straightened his suit coat. "Because you don't want ta mess around with La Sirène."

I thought about Erzulie D'en Tort, Erzulie Freda's Petro manifestation. "Does she have a vindictive side?"

"Her Petro nation aspect is La Baleine, a whale disguised as a nice piece o' tail." He broke into a glittering gold smile. "Like what I did there? The rhyme and the tail thang?"

I wrinkled my lips. It was as close as I could come to faking a smile. "Why does she disguise herself?"

He snorted. "To trick the ones that offended her. She lures 'em inta the deep and drowns 'em."

The drowning didn't quite fit with Amber's murder. Even though she was in the bath, she didn't drown—she was strangled. And Curaçao wasn't anywhere near water when she was killed.

Apollo rounded the corner carrying a black chalice that looked a lot like a pimp cup—except for the word
preacher
written in rhinestones. "This'll make you feel better."

"Is it wine?" I asked as I took the cup from his hand. I wanted to know because I was worried that it had come from Apollo's personal stash.

He smiled, revealing purple-stained teeth. "It's red drink."

"Ah." Red drink was the local name for Barq's Red Creme Soda.

"I tol' you to get her somethin' ta calm her nerves, and you get her creme soda?" King pulled the hat from his head and whacked the wino who stepped backward and knocked the
preacher
cup from my hand.

"Boy!" King stomped a peach wingtip on the sidewalk. "Now look what choo done."

I watched with dismay as the red liquid trickled into the gutter. Make no mistake—I was glad that I didn't have to drink it. But as it drained away, I felt like my hopes of understanding the meaning behind the Amaretto di Amore were draining away with it.

*   *   *

Once I was safely in the Mustang, I pulled a bottle of aspirin from my purse. The headache from my hangover was kid stuff compared to the post-accident migraine assailing my brain.

While I wrestled with the child safety cap, I glanced at my phone. Bradley hadn't called, but Ruth had. Twelve times. I wondered if she'd ever calmed down enough to find her voice, but I didn't really want to find out.

When I finally got the cap off the bottle, Ruth brought the call count to unlucky thirteen.

I put her on speaker and placed the phone on the center console. "You still mad at me?"

There was no heavy breathing, just a series of choking noises.

"I'll take that as a yes." I popped four aspirin and started to chew. Now I had two reasons to need pain relief.

The gagging turned to gurgling.

"Maybe try saying just one word," I suggested as I gingerly laid my head against the headrest.

"Jeff," she gasped.

My head shot up, along with my pain level. "What about him?"

Silence.

"Speak, Ruth," I urged. "You can do it."

"Acting president," she said through clenched teeth.

I grabbed the phone. "Was Bradley fired? Spit it out, woman!"

"On leave."

More choking noises followed, but this time I was the one making them. Jeff might've gotten Bradley's job temporarily, but if he thought that he was going to keep it, he had another thing coming—from me.

Gripping the steering wheel, I ground out, "Get me Craig Burns's phone number ASAP."

*   *   *

After convincing Craig to meet Ruth and me at ten a.m. the next morning, I was on my way home to treat my head wound and wash my hair. Craig had been reluctant to agree, but luckily Ruth had told me that his favorite restaurant was Cochon Butcher on Tchoupitoulas Street. It had taken considerable coaxing—the promise of a Le Pig Mac and a Cajun Pork Dog as well as a vow of silence if his health-conscious wife ever got wind of the forbidden feast—but in the end his hankering belly had beaten out his hesitant brain.

I could understand why Craig wouldn't want to meet his banker's girlfriend and secretary for breakfast, but there was one thing that I couldn't wrap my hurt head around—he hadn't once reminded me about my lips blowing up like two blowfish at his crawdad boil. And if you knew Craig, then you knew that he was the guy who was going to jokingly remind you of that thing you'd rather forget every time you talked to him for the rest of your life. And his silence about that sensitive subject spoke volumes. Craig was upset with me.

But why? Did he think that I was a professional problem for Bradley too? If so, where would he have gotten such an idea? No matter how upset Bradley got with me, he would never talk about me behind my back. And Ruth wouldn't betray me, either—not because she was loyal to me, mind you, but because she wouldn't want to jeopardize her job. The obvious source was Jeff. But what could he have told Craig about me that would cause him to sever his friendship with Bradley and pull his money from Ponchartrain Bank? Was it about me breaking into the bank's security room the year before and those other minor incidents that Ruth mentioned? Or was it something else?

As I pondered this puzzle, my phone began to ring. To my relief, it wasn't Ruth. But it wasn't Bradley.

With a sigh, I pulled up to a stoplight near Tulane University and pressed answer. "Hey, David. Whaddya got for me?"

"An epic fail."

My gut tensed. David didn't use gaming terms lightly. "This isn't about the vassal and that sugar baby, is it?"

He took a couple of deep breaths, frat-boy-prepping-to-chug-a-forty style. "They hooked up at the martini mixer."

I slammed my fist on the dashboard. "I thought I told you to stop him from going?"

"I tried," he whined. "But he had, like, meta strength. I stood in front of his door to block him, but he picked me up and moved me out of the way."

My eyes almost popped from my head. The vassal was at least a foot shorter than David, and thanks to a lifetime of computer programming and video games, he had the muscles of a newborn babe. "Where is he now?"

"In his dorm room." He cleared his throat. "That's where I'm calling from."

The tension in my belly relaxed somewhat. "So what's the problem?"

"Yeah. About that." He paused. "He wants to clean out his college account to pay for the sugar baby's boob job."

My stomach bounced like a silicone breast implant on a strutting stripper. Not only was the vassal jeopardizing his own future, he was also laying Veronica's and mine on the line because his parents would surely sue. "This time you've got to stop him."