Prosecco Pink (26 page)

"You're right. I'm sorry. But I'd like you to remember that while you're working your two cases, I'm juggling six."

"Oh, so are you implying that I'm lazy now? Because if you are, then I'd like
you
to remember that I'm working seven days a week."

She sighed. "I wasn't implying anything. All I was trying to say is that I'm drowning in work, and I could use a little understanding and support from you too."

"Okay, okay," I said. "We'll talk about this later. I really have to go."

I closed the call and shoved my phone into my bodice. I felt bad cutting Veronica off like that, but I had a full-fledged crisis on my hands, and I needed to concentrate.

I zoomed in on Bradley and Pauline's table, looking for clues that this dinner was strictly business. There was nothing to indicate otherwise, unless you counted the candles, the empty bottle of Dom Perignon, and the crème brûlée they were sharing.

Bradley raised a spoonful of the creamy mixture to Pauline's lips, and she licked the spoon with her tongue.

I stood back and blinked hard, just in case the absinthe had caused me to hallucinate that little scene.

"Hey, can I bum a cigarette?" a guy standing next to me asked.

When I turned and saw that he was wearing a swamp creature costume for Shore Leave, I knew I hadn't hallucinated Bradley's romantic gesture. This was just an average day in New Orleans. "Sorry, I don't smoke," I replied. Then I gave Pauline a hard stare.
At least not inanimate objects.

I began pacing in a circle—I couldn't go back and forth because my dress would get ahead of me. I only had a few minutes to decide whether to confront them or leave. But that only took a second since I'm hardly the go-quietly type. The real issue was
how
to confront them. Let them see my pain and hurt? Or inflict pain and hurt on them?

"Blimey! Who do we have here?" the exact voice of
Spongebob's
Patchy the Pirate exclaimed. He pointed his fake hook hand at the hole in my skirt. "Little Bo-Peep?"

Arrgh! Not another perverted pirate
, I thought. "Well, you got the 'peep' part right, Patchy. Now beat it."

"Come again?" he asked, dropping the pirate parley.

"You heard me—scram,
smamma
, as they say in Italy. Or I'll sick my dress on you." I tugged just enough on the cord to raise the dress by a foot.

He looked at me like I was the swamp creature and split.

I turned back to the window and saw Bradley place his hand on Pauline's bare back as he pulled out her chair.
The inflict-pain-and-hurt option it is
, I muttered.

Bradley, oblivious to my presence, opened the restaurant door for Pauline as she made a triumphant exit.

She took one look at me and burst out laughing.

Bradley stepped away from the door and stopped dead in his tracks. I wasn't sure whether it was from the shock of seeing me or my dress.

"I've always questioned your taste in clothing, Franki," Pauline sneered. "But super-sized Shirley Temple? Really?"

Ignoring her taunt, I searched Bradley's face for a reaction. I saw nothing but surprise.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, still frozen in place.

"Actually, that's what I was going to ask you," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "I thought you had to work all weekend long."

"We
are
working," he insisted. "Pauline and I were just taking a break from the office."

I glanced at Pauline, who was staring stone-faced at Bradley. Apparently, she didn't view their dinner as a break from the office but rather as a break from me. "Some break," I said, "especially considering that you couldn't even spare fifteen minutes for me."

Bradley held out his hand. "Look, Franki—"

"I wonder," I interrupted, putting my hand to my cheek in mock reflection, "were the two of you discussing business when you spoon fed each other that crème brûlée?"

He looked at me with a blank stare. "Can I call you later so we can talk?"

Pauline shot daggers at Bradley and crossed her arms. "What are you waiting for?" she hissed. "Tell her!"

"Tell me what?" I asked, looking from Pauline to Bradley. Although I had a feeling I already knew the answer.

Bradley opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

"For crying out loud!" Pauline exclaimed, turning to face me. "You might as well know. I mean, it had to come out sooner or later." She put her hands on her hips. "Bradley and I have feelings for one another."

Bradley stood as still as a statue.

"Is that true, Bradley?" I asked softly. "Do you have feelings for her?"

He exhaled a long, slow breath and looked at the ground. "Yes."

I felt like a cannon ball had just been fired through my stomach, and I wanted to drop to my knees from the pain. But I stood firm. "And this is how I find out?" I demanded, my voice no longer anything even approaching soft. "You didn't have the decency to tell me in private?"

A couple stepped out of the restaurant and briefly looked at us before walking away.

"Oh, stop your sniveling," Pauline snapped. "You're causing a scene."

"Pauline," Bradley intervened, putting a hand on her arm.

She shrugged him off. "From the moment I met you, you've done nothing but drag Bradley down with your jealous antics—spying on him, breaking into his bank."

When she put it that way, even I had to admit that I sounded like a less-than-ideal girlfriend.

"It's time for you to face it," she continued, getting right in my face. "A man in his position needs to be with a woman of class and distinction, and not with—"

"That's enough, Pauline," Bradley interrupted, grabbing her roughly by both arms. "It's time to go."

"No, let her finish," I said with surprising calm. My eyes narrowed. "Go on, Pauline. And not with what?"

She sneered. "And not with a trashy Texan guidette like you."

The definition of
guidette
flashed before my eyes: n. (derived from 'Guido')
A loud, promiscuous, overly made up Italian-American party girl from the North with a fake tan, a fake rack, and an all-too-real nose
. And that's when I finally pulled the cord.

*  *  *

I dragged myself out of Jean Lafitte's and leaned against the wall. Glenda was nowhere to be found, and I was sorely tempted to drive home—to Houston, that is. Bradley and I were over, Veronica and I were on the outs, and my cases were at a standstill. Suddenly, living and working in New Orleans didn't seem like such a good idea anymore. But I knew what my mom would say to me if I showed up on her doorstep. "Francesca Lucia Amato, I did not raise you to be a quitter."

I sighed and dialed Glenda's number. As I waited for her to answer, I watched a parade float, designed to look like The Black Pearl, making its way down Bourbon Street.

"Ahoy thar, Miss Franki!" Glenda called.

I squinted at the float and saw her. She was standing up top in the crow's nest waving a spyglass.

"Wanna party on the poop deck?" she shouted.

I considered the prospect of going back to my apartment and spending the evening sulking about Bradley while being stalked by a killer. It didn't sound at all appealing.

I walked over to the massive float.

"Need a lift, lassie?" a pirate with a fake peg leg asked as he clung to a rope, extending his hand. "Long John Silver, at your service."

Why not?
I thought as I let Long John lift me onto the ship. For tonight, at least, it was a pirate's life for me.

My eyes popped open. It was dark, and I wasn't in my bed. I was curled up in a fetal position inside a cramped space, and I felt like I'd been hit over the head. I held out my hand and touched the cool, slick side of my enclosure with a rising sense of panic.
Had the killer knocked me out and dumped me in his bathtub?

No, wait. There was something furry beneath me, and the ceiling was way too close to my face. I sat up and looked around. And then I held out my arms for balance. I was inside Glenda's giant champagne glass.

It was bad enough to wake up with a hangover, but waking up in a glass was a new low.

I massaged my temples as the events of the previous night came flooding back to me. After weighing anchor with Glenda's merry band of men, we went to John Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop where I followed up my green fairy with a purple voodoo, courtesy of the swamp creature. Then I discovered that when you mix green and purple you get brown, so Glenda and the pirates took me home—by car, not by ship. When I drunkenly babbled that I was afraid to go inside because a killer was after me, Glenda hid me in her champagne glass while the pirates raided my apartment for my necessities—pajamas, a toothbrush, a jar of Nutella, and Napoleon.

Napoleon!
I peered over the edge of the glass.

He was staring up at me with narrowed eyes. Clearly he hadn't enjoyed his stay in the pirate den.

"I'll be right down, boy," I fibbed. I didn't know how I'd gotten into the glass, much less how I was going to get out. And I didn't want to disturb Glenda, because if I recalled correctly, she had a gentleman pirate caller—or two. Best to let sleeping sea dogs lie.

Realizing that the only way to get out of the glass was to jump, I stood up with the precision of a surfer on a surfboard and threw myself onto a pile of pillows below. When I landed, the whole house shook. And then it kept shaking. I was well aware that I was no petite flower, but this was just insulting.

"Bury your treasure deeper, Quartermaster!" Glenda shouted from her boudoir.

Oh
, I thought wryly.
So that's the cause of the quake
.

I scooped up my belongings and dashed downstairs with Napoleon. I cautiously entered the apartment, and we checked each room—me with my Ruger, Napoleon with his food bowl.

"All clear," I said, removing the bowl from his mouth. "Let's get some grub."

I grabbed my laptop from the living room and headed for the kitchen where I was relieved to discover that it was only eight a.m. I needed time to pull myself together before facing Veronica at the office.

I fed Napoleon and then looked in the pantry. I was craving Cap'n Crunch but had to settle for cold pizza from the fridge. As I chewed my pepperoni and sausage slice, I wondered whether Pauline had been right about me being a guidette. In less than twenty-four hours, I'd gotten into a cat fight (or, at least my dress had), partied with pirates, and woken up in a champagne glass. And now I was eating Italian food for breakfast.

"Better a guidette than a thief," I muttered as I opened my computer. I checked my LinkedIn page, but none of the Brehman Bank managers had responded to my InMail. Of course, it was just after nine in New York, but I couldn't wait any longer. Pauline had already stolen Bradley—I would be damned if I was going to let her steal more money from Corinne.

I went to the bank's home page and dialed the main number, setting the call to speaker.

"Brehman Bank," a youthful-sounding male answered. "How may I direct your call?"

Reading the first name from the LinkedIn list, I replied, "Steve MacDonell, please."

"One moment."

I picked at my purple nail polish as I waited for Mr. MacDonell's secretary to answer.

"This is Steve," a tired voice replied.

I wasn't prepared to get him on the first try. "Uh, my name is Franki Amato."

"How can I help you, Ms. Amato?"

Now what?
For lack of a better plan, I went with honesty. "I'm calling about a woman who used to work for your bank. Her name is Pauline Violette."

There was silence on the other end of the line, which told me that he recognized the name.

"If this is regarding a reference check," he began in a stiff tone, "you'll have to contact our Human Resources department."

"It has nothing to do with a reference," I said. "I'm a private investigator, and I've been contracted to look into whether she's embezzling money from a bank in Louisiana."

He snorted. "I can't—"

"She may be stealing from a charity for children," I interrupted. "So if you know anything that could help—"

"Good day, Ms. Amato."

The line went dead.

"
Mannaggia,
" I cursed.
"Damn" indeed
. I was sure he knew something about Pauline, and now I was going to have to call all the managers on LinkedIn.

I decided to target the women first since they might be more empathetic to a case involving theft from children. As I was scanning the list, my phone rang. I didn't recognize the number, but I knew the 212 area code was from New York. "Hello?"

"Franki, this is Steve MacDonell," he said in a low voice. "I'm calling from my personal cell. I could lose my job for this, so I need to make it quick."

My stomach was in knots. "I'm listening."

"The woman you mentioned, Pauline Violette? Well, her full name is Pauline Violette Malaspina, and she was terminated in December of 2012."

I was stunned. That explained why she had a nonna and why she'd been such a pain in my behind—her last name was Italian for
bad thorn.
"Why was she fired?"

"She was the assistant of a manager who's serving time for embezzling from a charity our bank was representing. She was in on his scheme, but she got total immunity in exchange for information. I can't tell you any more."

"I really appreciate you sticking your neck out to help me."

"Yeah, well, I've got kids, so it's the least I could do," he grumbled. "Don't call again, though."

"I won't," I said. But he'd already hung up.

So, I was right. Pauline had a past and probably a present. Of course, embezzling from a Brehman Bank charity didn't prove that she was stealing from Corinne, but it sure made her a suspect. It also raised serious concerns about her involvement in the Shoot for the Moon charity event. The only problem was that I didn't know what to do with the information. I couldn't go to the police because I didn't have any evidence against her. The main person this news would be of interest to would be the president of Ponchartrain Bank. One Bradley Hartmann. But chances weren't good that he'd listen to me, not now that he was Pauline's prey. Nevertheless, I had to tell him. Somehow.