Amaretto Amber (Franki Amato Mysteries Book 3) (20 page)

"Uh, I have," he said in an uncertain tone. "But I don't know how long it's gonna last."

That didn't sound good. "What have you done to the vassal, David?"

"Oh, uh, me and a couple of his dorm mates tied him to his Emperor Palpatine throne with a fifty-foot Ethernet cable."

The light turned green, and I hooked a U-turn. "I'll be right there."

*   *   *

"Open up!" I yelled as I stood outside the vassal's dorm room in Tulane's Monroe Hall. I was in a hurry to get inside—not so much because I was worried about the vassal, but because the hallway smelled like dirty socks.

The door opened to reveal a pasty-faced boy that I recognized from the first time I'd come to the dorm. Actually, it wasn't so much him that I recognized as his orthodontic headgear. "What's your name again?"

"Shorty." He was as solemn as a soldier as he stepped aside.

The room was so jam-packed with computer equipment and video consoles that it smelled like a Best Buy. But compared to the hallway, it was like perfume to my nose.

As I crossed the threshold, I spotted David sitting beside the vassal's
Star Wars
-themed throne. "Untie him this instant."

"But he'll try to escape," he protested as he rose to his feet.

I strode over to the throne and spun the vassal around to face me. Despite the stress of being bound, he still had his usual slack-jawed stare. "We can trust you to stay put, right Vassal?"

"Honestly," he began, "I'm probably going to make a break for it."

I bowed my aching head.
Why were men so difficult?

"I know how to handle this," Shorty announced. He reached for the crystal-studded Godric Gryffindor sword hanging on the exposed brick wall above the gaming console.

"Slow down, Shorty." I pulled him away from the sword by the back of his Dumbledore's Army of Tulane T-shirt. "There's no need for weaponry. Now is there, Vassal?"

He shrugged. "Well, if I'm gonna run…"

I pursed my lips. By this point, I was pretty sure that I was getting a headache on top of my migraine.

David looked from the vassal to me. "What should we do?"

"Don't worry. I got this." Resting my hands on the throne armrests, I bent over and leaned into the vassal's face. "You can't throw away your college degree on this girl because you're going to need a lucrative career to keep her in breast lifts. Trust me when I tell you that those implants are eventually going to drop." I straightened and added, "Not that I would know anything about that."

His magnified eyes blinked behind his thick lenses. "You make a valid point."

"All righty, then." I patted him on the thigh. "David's going to untie you, and then we're going to have a chat about the martini mixer. And if you try to run, or if you blow your college money on breasts at any point after I leave here today, then I'm going to get that Ethernet cable, hog-tie you with it, skewer you with your sword, and roast you over a spit like we do in Texas. Sound good?"

His slack-jaw slackened, and Shorty slipped from the room.

David dropped to his knees and began untying the cable at the vassal's feet.

I took a seat on the vassal's twin bed and opened a pizza box. I hadn't eaten a thing since the
pain perdu
, and seeing the vassal tied up like a roast reminded me that it was well past lunchtime. "What's this girl's name, anyway?"

"Sugar Cherie." The vassal sighed. "She's really sweet."

"I'm sure." I bit into an ice-cold slice of pepperoni. "So," I began, covering my full mouth with my hand, "did this, uh, Cherie give you any more info about Amber's sugar daddy? Like a name or a description?"

He shook his head, which was the only part of his body that he could still move. "She never saw the guy because she wasn't at the sugar bowl party Amber went to. Cherie only heard about him after the fact when she ran into her at the mall."

"Crap." I gnawed off a piece of crust.

David began to work a knot behind the vassal's knees. "Didn't she tell you that the guy turned out to be someone Amber already knew?"

The vassal started, as though coming out of a Sugar Cherie-induced stupor. "I almost forgot. Amber said that her sugar daddy was a man she'd known for a while. Apparently, she wasn't aware that he'd been in the market for a sugar baby."

It wasn't much of a lead given that Amber had regularly come into contact with men who spent money on her, but Shakey did come to my mind. "Did she tell you anything else about him? Any little detail?"

The vassal rubbed his freed knees. "Only that he rented her an expensive apartment."

So, the apartment was courtesy of the sugar daddy, and not the mystery mom.
"Did you learn anything at all about how the business works?"

"Not really." He stood up so that David could untie the cable at his wrists. "You create an account, and then you can browse the sugar babies' profiles and exchange messages with them. Plus, they have the parties."

"Cherie invited you to the mixer today, right?" I popped a piece of pepperoni into my mouth.

"Yes, but I also got an email invite from the owner—some guy who goes by the name Peach."

I started choking on the pepperoni, and the vassal, whose hands were now free, whacked me on the back, knocking the food from my throat. Personally, I suspected that he was paying me back for my earlier threat, but I couldn't worry about that at the moment.

Because all I could think about was King and his favorite color.

Peach.

It was a long shot, but it wasn't out of the realm of possibility that the preacher was the owner of the sugaring service given his pimp past.

Was it?

"If you ask me, Craig escaped through the bathroom window," Ruth said, looking in the direction of the men's room at Cochon Butcher where Craig had gone a good fifteen minutes before.

"Well, I didn't ask you." I rested my elbows on the butcher-block table and massaged my temples. After doing some fleeing of my own—from my family—and spending the night on a couch at Private Chicks, my migraine was gone. But breakfast with Ruth was bringing it back.

She slurped through her straw and jabbed it in the ice. "You probably ran him off with the way you've been beating around the bush about the business at the bank."

I glared at her through my hands. "That's ridiculous, and you know it. He just overdid it with the meal."

The old-world market-style restaurant was a butcher shop, sandwich counter, and wine bar, and within forty-five minutes of arriving, Craig had taken liberal advantage of all three.

I glanced at Ruth's empty whiskey glass—the third of the morning. "That cherry bounce is alcoholic, you know."

"Oh, pshaw." She shooed me and swayed slightly on the tall metal stool. "It's made from cherries."

"Uh, and brandy." I widened my eyes for emphasis.

"And that's made from grapes, which makes this a fine fruit punch." She raised her glass in a salute. "It was one of George Washington's favorite drinks. He used to make it all the time."

"That explains the cherry tree—and the false teeth." I looked around the renovated warehouse and spotted Craig en route to our table.

I turned to Ruth. "Here he comes. Remember, I'm doing the talking."

"All right, but if you don't find out why he's closing his account in the next five minutes…" She made a slicing motion across her neck with one of her plastic cocktail swords.

I rubbed my sweaty palms on my jeans as Craig took his seat.

"I thank you ladies for the nice meal and the pleasant company." He pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his beige button-down and wiped sweat from his brow—courtesy of the pint of Covington Pontchartrain Pilsner and side of hot boudin sausage he'd had for dessert. "Now why don't you tell me what it is that you need my help with?"

"Actually…" I paused and licked my lips. "Bradley's the one who needs your help."

Craig looked from me to Ruth. "Are you sure this is about him?"

That was an odd question
. "Of course I am." I hesitated as I weighed whether to mention Jeff, but then I decided that it was best to be vague in case he and Craig were friends. "Someone at the bank is intentionally sabotaging Bradley."

"And outside the bank too." Ruth pointed her sword at me.

I was tempted to kick her, but it was too much of a risk. She wasn't known for keeping her lips locked, especially when she was liquored up.

"Franki, I don't think anyone at the bank has it in for Bradley." Craig folded his hands. "If he's in trouble, he's either brought it on himself or…" His voice trailed off.

"Or what?" I pressed.

"Well, maybe Ms. Walker's right." His normally booming tone had grown subdued. "Bradley's troubles could be due to someone outside of work."

Ruth grinned behind her glass.

Of course, I suspected that he was referring to me, so I decided to turn the tables on him. "If you're referring to longtime clients like yourself taking their money elsewhere, then yes, his problems stem from the outside."

He pursed his lips. "That's not what I mean."

My eyes narrowed. "What exactly
do
you mean?"

Craig looked down at his empty plate. "A man in Bradley's position needs—"

He stopped short as the bald, bespectacled bartender hand-delivered Ruth's fourth cherry bounce.

When the bartender had left, I asked, "Needs what?"

"A good secretary behind him," Ruth replied, raising her glass and drinking to herself.

I snorted and rolled my eyes.

"You laugh," Craig said in an admonishing tone. "But Ms. Walker's onto something."

"Ain't that the truth, Ruth?" She cackled and drank to herself again.

It took me a second to figure out what he was getting at, but it soon became painfully clear. What Bradley needed wasn't a good secretary—it was a good woman. And, apparently, I wasn't one. "Why don't you just come out and say it, Craig?"

His ruddy complexion turned as red as Ruth's cherry bounce. "You know I've always liked you, Franki—"

"But what?" I interrupted as I crossed my arms.

He slid off his stool and pulled a manila envelope from the side pocket of his briefcase. "It's only right that you know. I got these pictures in two emails—the most recent came last night."

My hands were shaking as I took the envelope and pulled out the pictures. As I flipped through them, so many things began to make sense, starting with the reason I'd been followed. Based on the images, I gathered that the photographer could've also been the driver of the car that had almost clipped me and possibly even the man in black.

There were seven photos in all—me being released from Central Lockup, holding a pentagram at Erzulie's Authentic Voodoo, drinking booze from a bag in front of Vieux Carré Wine & Spirits, hanging out with a preacher who looked like a pimp on Bourbon Street, wrestling with a drag queen outside a drunk stripper's house, stripping with a snake at Madame Moiselle's, and, the coup de grace, lying unconscious in the arms of a wino.

With each picture, Ruth's breathing had grown heavier.

But I refused to look at her—or at Craig, for that matter. Instead, I took a minute to fight back the angry tears stinging my eyes. I couldn't imagine what I'd done to deserve such a hateful attack, or how I was going to undo the damage to Bradley. Because even though I could explain the pictures, they were still proof enough that I was a professional and personal problem that Bradley needed to wash his hands of if he wanted to save his job and salvage his career. It was time for me to walk away so that Bradley could make things right at work and move on.

When I finally had my emotions in check, I looked at Craig. "I'm assuming that the sender of those emails was Jeff Payne?"

He bowed his head in reply.

Ruth bowed her head too, but she wasn't mad. She was as juiced as a jackrabbit on a wheatgrass farm.

*   *   *

Glenda opened her apartment door strutting her stuff to the RuPaul song "Supermodel (You Better Work)." Even though it was past noon, she was still in her pajama pasties. "Hello, Miss Franki." She shook her
Playboy
bunny tail. "Do we have investigating to do?"

"It's St. Joseph's Day, so I'm calling it a mental health day," I replied, fully conscious of the fact that I had to carry out the lunatic act of stealing a lemon from a church that night. "But I was hoping to talk to Veronica. Is she around?"

"She went to lunch with Dirk, sugar." Her eyes narrowed as she scrutinized my face. "Why don't you come in so we can chat?"

I really wanted to vent to Veronica about what Jeff had done, but if I had to choose between talking to Glenda and the nonne, it was a no-brainer. "Okay, but are you having a party or something?"

"A few of the girls from Lucky Pierre's are here," she replied as I stepped inside. "And Miss Carnie's on her way."

That explained the music selection.

Glenda closed the door behind me. "We're cooking for Amber's funeral tomorrow. And between you and me," she said in a low voice, "those women are slave drivers. I've worked on my feet, knees, and hands for years, and I can barely keep up with them."

Probably because they're really men
. "Hey, where's Maybe?"

"Still asleep." She gestured toward the giant champagne glass in the center of her all white living room, and I could make out Maybe curled up in faux fur blankets inside.

"Must be nice," I muttered, thinking about my bedtub and that blasted enema bag as I followed Glenda into the kitchen.

After days of seeing the nonne baking in black at my house, the scene at Glenda's was disorienting. With Céline in a sheer Cher-style number, Dolly in a crystal country costume, and Gaysia in a geisha-inspired gown, I felt like I was backstage at Cirque du Soleil—or The Grand Ole Opry—instead of in a kitchen. "Hey guys, er, gals. What're y'all making?"

"A chocolate-cherry piecaken," Dolly chirped as she stirred cherries in a saucepan. "It's a drag dessert."

I opened the cabinet and got a champagne flute—the only glassware Glenda kept in the house. "How is that drag?"

Céline cocked a silver-glittered brow as she kneaded dough. "Because it's a pie baked inside a cake."

"Okay?" I turned on the faucet and filled my glass.

Glenda lit a cigarette in a pink holder. "It's all in the imagery, Miss Franki. Think of it as beef cake but with cherry pie."

For the first time I was grateful that I'd given up sweets for Lent. I took a sip of water and pulled out a chair, but there was raw poultry on the seat cushion. "Ugh! Who put these chicken cutlets here?"

Gaysia turned off the mixer and picked them up with her bare hands. "Uh,
hello
, Hunty! It's not like they're the kind you eat."

"What other kind is there?" I asked, bewildered.

"The kind you make boobies with," she replied, stuffing them into her bra.

I poured out my water and grabbed an open bottle of champagne.

"What's eating at you, sugar?" Glenda sat on the kitchen table trucker-girl-mudflap-style. "Are you having more man troubles?"

"You could say that." I flopped into the chair. "Jeff Payne, the manager at Bradley's bank, has been sending pictures of me in compromising positions to the bank clients."

Glenda gave me a half-lidded look. "You took nudie pics?"

"Werk it, girl," Céline said as she rolled out the piecrust.

Gaysia licked chocolate cake batter from her finger. "Sounds like Ms. Cheesecake could teach us a thing or two in the dessert department."

"It wasn't like that." I filled my champagne glass to the brim. "Out of context the pictures look incriminating, but they're not."

"Mm-hmm," the queens intoned in unison.

"I'm serious," I protested. "Jeff set me up so that he could get Bradley fired and take his position as president."

Dolly stopped stirring. "Now why in the heck would this man sabotage you to get your beau's job?"

"Because women have been exploited by men throughout herstory," Gaysia replied, jabbing the mixer at an invisible enemy.

Céline shook her rolling pin. "Someone needs to make this Jeff guy RuPaulogize."

"He'll get what's coming to him, girls." Glenda took a deep drag off her cigarette. "'Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.'"

My jaw dropped as my injured brain wondered whether it had hallucinated that Bible quote. If it hadn't, then forget Cirque du Soleil and The Grand Ole Opry—Glenda's kitchen was
The Twilight Zone
.

As if to reinforce my theory, Carnie entered the room sporting a blonde pixie wig and a shift dress with long, puffed sleeves covered with pink, yellow, and orange daisies. She looked like the 1960s model Twiggy, only trunky.

"Sorry I'm late." She spotted me and put a hand on her chest. "Well, look what the tiger cat dragged in. I haven't heard from you in so long that I thought you'd run off to the jungle to live among your kind—the snakes."

I sighed. Carnie was no hippie at a love-in, no matter what her outfit implied. "Um, I saw you three days ago, and I've been working on your case ever since."

She sniffed and eyeballed my champagne. "Doesn't look like you're working now."

"It's Saturday, Miss Carnie." Glenda gave her a reproachful look. "Miss Franki's taking a well-deserved day off."

Carnie glanced at her mod Mary Janes and managed to look quasi-contrite. "I was shocked when I saw the news about Curaçao's murder. Glenda said she was wearing an amber pendant. Do you think it was mine?"

"I'm no Dirk, but I'd say it was the fake," I replied. "Real amber doesn't sparkle the way that pendant did when I shined my flashlight on it."

Céline placed a platter of pigs in a blanket in front of me and winked. "The weenies are tucked extra tight."

"Awesome," I said, because it seemed like the appropriate reply.

"You know," Carnie began as she took a seat, "I can't say I'm surprised that Commie waxer is a killer."

"We don't know that Nadezhda killed anyone." I helped myself to a pig in a blanket. "Eugene is still a suspect, and so is Amber's ex-pimp."

Glenda exhaled a puff of smoke. "This is the first I've heard of you suspecting King. What gives?"

I blew on the piping hot pig. "Yesterday I found out that he might be the owner of the sugaring company Amber was working for."

Carnie shrugged her psychedelic shoulders. "So, he found a new way to exploit her. That doesn't make him the killer, either."

"I know, but preaching for tips on Bourbon Street has to be the world's worst way to make a living—second only to begging at a homeless shelter." I pulled the pig from the blanket and popped it into my mouth. "He needs another source of income, and your necklace could've set him up in suits for a long time."