Amaretto Amber (Franki Amato Mysteries Book 3) (5 page)

I stopped and gave my mouth a couple of squirts and then jogged to catch up with her. "That's right—sweets, not alcohol. You can hardly expect me to give up liquor when I don't have dessert to comfort me."

Veronica shook her head and climbed the steps to the main stage.

I followed close behind her without paying much attention to my surroundings. But when I stopped and processed the scene in front of me, my breath caught in my throat. I'd never seen anything like it—not as a cop, not as a PI, not even as a devoted crime show watcher.

At center stage was a vintage pink claw-foot tub with a high back, like the one in my bathroom. It was filled to the rim with water.

And a human knee protruded from the surface.

I averted my eyes, perhaps defensively, to the three items on the stage beside the tub—a wooden incense holder with a consumed stick of incense, which explained the sweet, acrid odor that I'd been unable to identify, a purple candle that had burned down to the base, and a bottle of amaretto with the seal intact. It was a brand I didn't recognize, Amaretto di Amore.

Mustering up my courage, I walked over to the tub while Veronica remained rooted near the steps.

Amber was below the water, seemingly looking up at me, with her long, brown hair billowing around her head like a cloud. Her arms were across her chest, and the leg that was protruding from the water was leaning to one side, obscuring her pelvic region. It was as though she was hiding her own nudity even in death.

I looked away—this time out of respect.

"How did Amber end up in a bathtub on a strip club stage?" I asked, breaking the somber silence.

"No idea." Veronica moved to stand beside me. "But if she brought the tub into Madame Moiselle's, then she had help. Or it could've been a prop for the dancers. Glenda would know that."

I focused my gaze on the bathwater.

Veronica turned to me, her brow furrowed. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," I replied, although I wasn't sure that I was. "It's just that the haze on the water looks like some kind of oil."

She sniffed the air above the tub. "It doesn't have a scent."

"Whatever it is, it makes me wonder whether Amber was taking an actual bath onstage."

She crossed her arms and rested her chin on her fist. Her eyes were fixed on the tub. "It could have been a romantic encounter."

"Or it could have been staged, quite literally, to look like one." I glanced again at the bottle. "I mean, why Amaretto di Amore?"

She cocked a well-groomed brow. "I'm not following you."

"Why not a common brand, like Disaronno?" I asked, gesturing toward the bar where a bottle of the famous almond liqueur was on display.

"Maybe this was her favorite kind?" she suggested in a questioning tone.

I pulled out my pad of paper. "Or maybe the 'amore' in the name is a sign from the killer."

"You mean to signal a love relationship."

"That or something we don't yet understand." I took a few notes and then knelt and smelled the candle. It was unscented, but the woodsy, vanilla odor from the incense holder was still strong. "Wait a second…I just realized that the incense is similar to the kind they always burn in places like Marie Laveau's and Reverend Zombie's."

Her blue eyes grew wide. "Do you think there's a voodoo connection?"

"We can't rule it out, not when incense and a candle are involved." I stood up and noticed that the CSIs were consulting with Detective Sullivan on the left side of the stage.

Veronica's eyes followed my gaze. "We should examine the body before they take it to the morgue."

I nodded and reluctantly looked into the water.

"When I spoke to Detective Sullivan earlier," Veronica began, "he said that it appears to be a pretty straightforward case of homicide by drowning."

I scrutinized the area around Amber's neck. There was some light bruising and scratch marks, either from the assailant or from Amber herself as she tried to break free. "There was clearly a struggle. The killer probably held her under the water."

"Ms. Maggio," Detective Sullivan interrupted.

"Speak of the devil," I remarked, my hackles rising at the sound of his voice.

"Can I talk to you for a minute?" he continued, ignoring my jab.

"Sure," Veronica said, going to join him.

My phone began vibrating in my bag. I pulled it out and looked at the display—Bradley. Without a second thought I tapped
Decline
. As much as I needed to talk to him, this just wasn't the time.

I shoved my phone into my bag and leaned closer to the bath water to study Amber's neck. My attention shifted to the gold chain that Carnie had been so concerned about. It was either really old or it had been treated to make it look antique. In the center of the chain was a gold filigree flower with a leaf and three gold loops beneath it. As I studied the design, I realized that something was missing.

Veronica climbed the steps to the stage, typing something into her phone. "Detective Sullivan asked that we not speak about the incense, candle, or amaretto to anyone. The police plan to keep them out of the news."

I nodded. "They should keep the necklace out of the news too."

She stopped typing and stared at me. "Why's that?"

I pointed at the gold filigree. "Because someone ripped a charm or a pendant from below the flower."

She held her hair behind her head and leaned closer to the water. "You're right. The middle loop is scratched and bent. I'll let the detective know. But are you thinking that this was some kind of robbery gone wrong?"

"There are so many different ways to interpret this scene, I haven't decided what to think," I replied.

But deep down I knew one thing for sure—Amber's murder was tied to something much more sinister than a simple robbery.

"You're kidding me, right Veronica?" I asked, gripping my Krewe du Brew coffee mug for support. It was only eight forty-five on Monday morning, so I was hoping that this was some sort of poorly timed office prank.

She reclined in the armchair facing my desk and crossed her arms. "I didn't say that I was planning to hire a permanent investigator—just a temporary consultant."

"Don't get me wrong. I'm glad that Private Chicks is finally solvent enough to afford us some help, but…" I looked at my hands as I struggled to find the right words. "Why in the name of all that is rational would you hire
Glenda
?"

"It's just for this case, Franki." She stood up and clasped her hands behind her back, pacing like she used to do in court when she was presenting opening arguments. "Keep in mind that Glenda has worked at Madame Moiselle's off and on for close to fifty years. Not only does she know all the employees, she's also got a grasp of the inner workings of the club and the entire stripping industry. So, she can offer us a unique perspective on Amber's murder."

She most certainly can
. "Okay, but can she investigate?"

Veronica stopped pacing and looked me in the eyes. "I don't think I need to remind you that she's had great insight about some of our hardest cases."

That I couldn't deny. Glenda might seem a little out there, but she was actually as sharp as a stiletto (the dagger, not the heel), and she'd bailed Veronica and me out of a serious jam when we were working our first homicide. But there was one thing I couldn't reconcile myself to—her potential PI outfits. Just imagine Charlie's Angels in their sixties and in stripper/birthday suits and you'll understand my concern.

The bell on the lobby door rang.

"I'll bet that's Carnie," Veronica said, retrieving her laptop from my desk.

I picked up my mug and followed her down the hallway to the lobby, and I was immediately transported to the 1940s.

Standing by the reception desk was a brunette with victory rolls so large they were practically the size of the World War II fighter plane exhaust that had inspired the hairstyle. To complete her vintage
Life
magazine look, she'd selected a navy blue dress with white polka dots, a beaded white clutch, and chunky white peep-toe heels.

But a pinup girl she wasn't. For starters, the woman was a forty-something-year-old man, and a big one too, at six foot four and three hundred fifty or so pounds. Not only that, she was built like the Abominable Snowman from
Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer
, and she was wearing enough cosmetics to make up the entire Broadway cast of
Priscilla, Queen of the Desert
.

"Hi, I'm Veronica Maggio, and this is Franki Amato. Are you Carnie?"

Her overdrawn lips à la Lucille Ball spread into a smile. "Why yes I am," she replied in a forced falsetto. "Carnie Vaul."

I mentally repeated the syllables. "As in 'carnival'?"

She eyed me warily from beneath her Mimi-from-The-Drew-Carey-Show eye shadow. "It's my drag name. I used to be a carnival clown."

That explained the creepy makeup. But what I couldn't understand was why a man dressed as a woman would want to associate with an institution known for its strong men and bearded ladies. "What's your legal name?"

"Ben Dover," she replied, smoothing a roll—on her head, that is.

I pursed my lips and then muttered, "You're not giving me much to work with."

"What did you say?" Carnie barked. Gone was the falsetto, and in its place was a brash voice that had a quack-like quality similar to that of the Aflac duck.

"She said that you'll be a pleasure to work with," Veronica intervened. She gestured to the lobby couches. "Why don't you have a seat, and I'll get you something to drink."

"Nothing for me, thanks," Carnie replied, giving me the stink eye as she sank into the sofa.

I, in turn, cast her a suspicious eye as Veronica and I took our places on the opposing couch. I'd been duped by a homicide client once before, so I had no intention of falling for any of this ex-clown's antics.

"Do you mind if I vape?" Carnie asked as she opened her clutch.

For a second I was worried that "vape" was some sort of variant of "vamp," but then I saw her remove an e-cigarette. "Have at it."

"Let's get started, shall we?" Veronica asked, opening her laptop. "Carnie, tell us how you knew Amber Brown."

"For the past two years she was my tenant and neighbor," she said, exhaling vapor. "She rented the other side of a duplex I own in The Marigny until about a week ago."

The Faubourg Marigny was an artsy, bohemian neighborhood next to the French Quarter. Tourists flocked to its jazz clubs and art galleries, but I went for the food. "Did she leave a forwarding address?"

She shook her head. "Nothing."

Veronica typed a quick note. "Were the two of you ever close?"

Her lips thinned, highlighting the exaggerated lines of her lipstick. "We were friends, but I wouldn't say we were close. I do drag shows at Lucky Pierre's, and when she was still at Madame Moiselle's we used to get home at the same time and have the occasional nightcap together. Then she quit stripping last year, and we didn't see each other as much."

I swallowed a sip of coffee. "What did she do for a living after she left the club?"

Carnie hefted one chubby leg over the other and draped her arm across the back of the couch. "She said she was leaving the sex industry, but I never saw her going to any job. Honestly, I thought she was hooking again because she'd told me that she used to make extra money that way."

Veronica and I exchanged a look. If Amber had worked as a prostitute, it would complicate the hunt for a suspect.

I crossed my ankle over my knee. "Did she ever bring men to the duplex?"

"Not that I was aware of," she replied with a shrug. "As far as I know, she didn't even have a boyfriend. Amber was a loner, and she didn't have any family."

It always made me sad to hear that someone was alone in the world. As crazy as my family was, I couldn't imagine life without them—well, most of the time. "When did you see her last?"

Carnie took a long vape and thought for a moment. "Friday at around two. I ran into her when I was leaving the duplex to run errands. She came by to pick up some mail. She said she was on her way to a dentist appointment, and since she didn't have a car I offered her a ride. But she opted for the bus."

Veronica looked up from her laptop. "Do you happen to know the name of the dentist?"

"We go to the same guy. Mitchell Lessler."

"Franki, when you talk to him about Amber," Veronica began, "you should make an appointment for yourself."

I rubbed my cheek, sorely regretting ever telling Veronica about my tooth. Now that she knew about it, she wouldn't let up until I had it looked at. And I liked dentists about as much as I liked gynecologists, which was to say not at all. "Did she have any enemies?"

Carnie arched a Bozo-the-Clown brow. "There was one—a platinum blonde from Madame Moiselle's. She used to get as drunk as a skunk and pound on Amber's door in the middle of the night, screaming at her for stealing her best client. I never found out her name, but she had a tacky tattoo of a stripper that covered her back." She scratched her five o'clock shadow. "So unladylike."

I thought of the platinum blonde I'd seen leaving the club, but I hadn't noticed a tattoo. "What did Amber do about it?"

"Well, she never opened the door. But the girl kept coming around, as recently as two weeks ago."

I twisted my mouth to one side. "That's weird, considering that Amber had stopped stripping."

"It's one of the reasons that I thought she'd gotten back into prostitution," she said with a knowing look. "Maybe the client wasn't interested in blowing his money on a stripper anymore when he could get straight up sex."

Veronica stopped typing. "Glenda said that you asked whether Amber was wearing a necklace."

She nodded. "That's why I'm here. A month ago I inherited an antique necklace—a gold chain with a flower and an emerald-cut amber pendant—and it's missing. I showed the necklace to Amber when I first got it, and if what Glenda told me was correct, then I think she stole it from my apartment and was wearing it when she was killed."

I leaned forward with my coffee cup between my hands. "We saw the chain, but there was no pendant. That could either mean that she was killed for the necklace or that the killer took it as a memento."

Carnie frowned like a sad clown. "That's what I was afraid of. That amber was priceless, and I made the mistake of telling that to Amber."

"But amber is fairly inexpensive," Veronica said. "What was so special about this piece?"

She hesitated. "It was from the Amber Room, the one that the Prussian King Frederick William I gave to Tsar Peter the Great in 1716."

Veronica gasped, and her eyes lit up like amber in sunlight. "That's the room the Nazis stole from Catherine Palace during World War II."

"Yes, and it has never been found. Experts say that it's worth at least three hundred and eighty-five million dollars."

After I recovered my ability to speak, I asked, "If the room is missing, how did you get a piece?"

"My grandmother was from Russia, and she was a maid in the palace." She twisted a crown-shaped ring around her French-manicured finger. "When the Nazis dismantled the room, small pieces of amber broke off. They picked up every piece they could find, but they overlooked one that had been cut like a gemstone. My grandmother took it and intended to return it after the war, but her family fled the country. And then when the Soviets began work on a replica of the room in 1979, my mother had the amber made into a necklace."

I swallowed the last of my coffee and placed the mug on the table in front of me. "So, technically, that pendant belongs to the Russians."

Carnie's face flushed, and her bulbous nose turned as red as Ronald McDonald's. "My mother believed that the Soviets were evil like the Nazis, and she didn't trust them to return the amber to the palace," she huffed. "Besides, after the replica of the room was unveiled, it didn't seem as important."

"Just to clarify," Veronica began in a high-pitched, we-can't-afford-to-lose-this-client tone, "are you hiring us to find the pendant or to investigate Amber's death?"

"Both," she replied. "As soon as I report the theft of the necklace, which I intend to do today, I figure I'll become a suspect in her murder."

She figured right. I knew from my time on the force that she would be questioned, especially now that someone had ripped the priceless pendant from Amber's lifeless neck.

"And even though Amber and I weren't close," she continued, pressing a hand to her ample bosom, "I wouldn't feel right if I didn't have you try to find her killer. I inherited some money with the necklace, so I can cover your expenses."

"It's very admirable of you to honor Amber that way," Veronica said, her voice soft. "We'll do our best to see that the killer and the necklace are found."

I was thinking that we should do our best to find that three hundred and eighty-five million dollar room too. "Is there anything else we should know?"

Carnie bowed her head, causing her double and triple chins to bulge. "Amber felt like bad things had been happening to her since she'd quit Madame Moiselle's, and she was getting really paranoid and superstitious about it."

"Can you give us some examples?" I pressed.

"Nothing specific. But I noticed that she'd started carrying around good luck charms, wearing talismans, things like that."

Veronica nodded. "You've given us some great information. We'll start by questioning the employees at Madame Moiselle's, and we'll check with Dr. Lessler to find out whether he saw or heard anything unusual during Amber's appointment. We'll be in touch in a few days."

Carnie rose to her feet. "I've got a show in an hour." She offered her baseball mitt-sized hand, bending daintily at the wrist. "You've been so kind."

I noticed that she didn't extend the same courtesy to me, but no matter. Because as Veronica saw her out, my mind was already fixated on Amber's superstitious side. And I wondered what, if anything, it had to do with the bizarre murder scene at the club.

*   *   *

I stepped inside Madame Moiselle's at a quarter after eleven and stopped dead in my tracks.

Glenda stood before me dressed like a stripper Sherlock Holmes.

"Howdy, partner," she exclaimed, adjusting her deerstalker cap.

"You're wearing the wrong hat for that greeting," I said, trying to hide my inner panic as I took in the tiny cape cropped well above her magnifying glass-shaped pasties. "Is that tweed?"

"Yeah, and it's itchier than poison ivy on your privates, so I had to make a costume change." To my dismay, she spun around to reveal her bony buttocks protruding from the round holes she'd cut from the seat of her boyshorts. But on the bright side, she'd left the crotch intact.

"Well, I guess that about took care of it," I said, scanning the club to avoid checking out her cheeks. "Is the manager in yet?"