Prosecco Pink (5 page)

I shifted in my chair. So, I wasn't wrong in assuming that the weather was bizarre, even for New Orleans. There was something unusual in the air today. But was it even remotely possible that it was a spirit?

"Hey, speaking of weird," he continued, "are you guys expecting a client?"

I looked at Veronica, who was crouching in the doorway and sopping up the water.

"There's nothing on the books," she replied. "Why?"

"Because there's this really creepy lady out front in a black Cadillac DeVille," he replied.

I felt my stomach lurch as I thought of Chandra. "She's not, by any chance, a doughy little woman with a Dallas-style do, is she?"

"Nah," David replied. "From what I could tell, she's way skinny, and her hair is black and white and spiky. Oh, and she's got a crapload of dogs."

Veronica stood up and walked to the window overlooking Decatur Street. "I see the car, but I don't see her."

"That's because I'm right here," a deep feminine voice drawled from the doorway. "I've been waiting in the lobby for the past five minutes."

We all turned, and I stared open-mouthed at the woman. Not because she'd startled me with her brash manner of speaking but because of her imposing appearance. She was sixty-ish and rail thin with skin as pale as the pearls around her neck. But her high cheekbones and prominent chin, not to mention her blood-red lips and fingernails, made it clear that she was anything but delicate.

"I'm sorry about the wait," Veronica said as she walked over to greet the woman. "We didn't hear you come in. I'm Veronica Maggio and—"

"Delta Dupré," she interrupted, extending her hand like she was expecting it to be kissed rather than shook.

Veronica took her hand and awkwardly shook-raised it up and down. "What can we do for you, Ms. Dupré?"

Delta cocked an eyebrow à la Cruella De Vil. "That's 'Mrs.' And the first thing you can do is have your boy take my coat."

"Uh, yes, Mrs.—I mean, uh, ma'am," a red-faced David stammered as he took her white floor-length fur and scurried away.

Delta frowned. "I hate to be cliché, but it's just so hard to find good help these days."

I was fuming at her rudeness. "Actually, David isn't our servant."

She turned and looked me up and down. "And you are?"

"Franki Amato."

"Interesting name," she said in a decidedly disinterested tone. Rather than extending her hand, as she had for Veronica, she began toying with a Gothic black cameo brooch that was pinned to the bodice of her red silk dress. It was framed in diamonds and depicted a skull in a top hat against a backdrop of guns and roses.

I glanced at Veronica and realized that she was oblivious to Delta's arrogance. Whenever jewelry was in the vicinity, she zoned out on her surroundings and zoomed in on the sparkly object.

"What an unusual brooch!" Veronica exclaimed. "Who is that supposed to be on the cameo?"

"It's Baron Samedi, a degenerate voodoo god who leads depraved souls to the underworld. I wear it because it reminds me of my late husband, Jackson Dupré."

Must have been some guy
, I thought.
Much like his wife
.

Veronica cocked her head to one side. "That name sounds familiar. Was your husband in local politics?"

"He was the chief of police for twenty-five years. And now that I need him, the SOB isn't around. That's why I'm here."

"Please, have a seat," Veronica said, ignoring Delta's jab at her not-so-dearly departed. "I'm sure we can help you."

"I think you can too," Delta said, taking a seat in one of the two chairs facing Veronica's desk. "I saw that skinny old prostitute on the evening news a few months ago—the one who did all the interviews after you girls solved the murder of that shop girl?"

"Her name is Glenda, and she's an ex-stripper," I said as I reluctantly sat down beside her.

Delta waved her hand. "Prostitute…stripper… Same damn difference. Anyhow, I have an unusual case on my hands, so I need investigators who can think outside the box, unlike the ones currently employed by our police department. And since you two outsmarted the cops on the shop girl strangling, you're perfect for my predicament."

"Can you tell us more about your, uh, predicament?" I asked.

"I'm the executive director of Oleander Place, the antebellum plantation on River Road?" She looked at Veronica and me for signs of recognition.

I recognized it all right. It was the very plantation home that had distracted me and caused me to swerve into the swamp. "I just drove past it yesterday. You've got a really eye-catching place there."

"Yes, well, I'm afraid its beauty has been marred by a rather unfortunate incident," she said, fiddling with her brooch. "You see, three days ago, a twenty-eight-year-old woman named Ivanna Jones was murdered there. I found the body when I opened the plantation at eight o'clock the next morning."

"I heard something about that on the radio last night," Veronica said.

"Unfortunately, it's all over the news," Delta replied. "As you can imagine, the cancelations have already begun—weddings, craft fairs, even a TV show. And the problem is that Oleander Place isn't just my livelihood—it's my heritage. I'm a descendent of the original owner, General Knox Patterson. So, I'll do whatever it takes to protect my income and my family name."

I had no doubt she was telling the truth. She was no sweet Southern belle. She was a surly Southern beast. "Do you know how the victim got to the plantation?"

"She drove. Her car was in the parking lot, unlocked, with her purse on the front seat." Delta reached into her black Louis Vuitton and pulled out a manila envelope. "This is a copy of the police report and photos from the scene."

I looked at her in surprise. "How did you get those?"

"Thanks to my Jackson, I still have important connections on the police force."

Veronica took the envelope and began to examine its contents. "This will be a tremendous help to us."

I turned to Delta. "Did you know the victim?"

"No, but she took one of our plantation tours a few weeks ago. I'm sure it was her, but I can't prove it because she didn't pay with a credit card or sign the guest registry."

"Was anyone with her?" I asked.

"I don't know. Our tour groups are often fairly large, and I wasn't really paying attention."
I looked at Veronica. "Anything interesting in the report?"

She scanned the information on the first page and then looked at Delta. "The cause of death is listed as 'undetermined.'"

"Which is why I need your help," Delta said. "The police are dilly-dallying around with this investigation because they think the woman committed suicide. And as a business owner, I don't have time to waste. Every day this crime goes unsolved is a day I lose money."

By now it was clear where Delta's priorities lay. This woman was a real steel magnolia. "What makes you think it wasn't suicide?"

"It has to do with the placement of the body and the plantation's history," she replied.

"Take a look," Veronica said, handing me a photo.

It was a shot of a beautiful young woman with long, golden-blonde hair and rose-red lips. If I didn't know better, I would have said she was asleep. "Wow," I breathed, "she looks just like Sleeping Beauty."

Delta shook her head. "No, she's the spitting image of Evangeline Lacour."

"Who's that?" I asked.

"She was Knox's second wife. He spent a fortune building Oleander Place for her, and then the tramp went and cheated on him. You know how those French women are," she said with a knowing look.

I couldn't resist asking, "Are you related to her, as well?"

"Certainly not!" Delta replied, her eyes wide with alarm. "I'm descended from Knox and his first wife, Caroline Landry. He and Evangeline had no children, thank heaven."

Veronica cleared her throat. "Why do you say the victim looks like Evangeline?"

"Well, for one thing, she's the spitting image of the oil painting Knox commissioned of Evangeline when they were married. And for another, she was found lying in Evangeline's bed in the exact same position Evangeline was in when she died in 1837, and she was wearing her pink crinoline dress."

I immediately thought of the woman I'd seen on the balcony of Oleander Place. But I knew that it couldn't have been Ivanna Jones, because she was killed the day before.

"You mean, the dress Evangeline was wearing when she died?" Veronica asked.

Delta nodded. "We have it in storage at Oleander Place. It's the one we always see Evangeline wearing when she appears."

Now
my
eyes opened wide in alarm. "Come again?"

"Evangeline's spirit still resides in the house," she replied.

I swallowed hard. "The plantation is haunted?"

Delta raised her chin and gave a smug smile. "As haunted as they come. Oleander Place ranks among America's top ten most haunted buildings."

To say that my mind was reeling would be putting it mildly. I simply couldn't process the possibility that I'd seen the ghost of Evangeline Lacour on the balcony of Oleander Place yesterday. Surely it was one of the plantation tour guides, right? And then I thought of Chandra. Despite my better judgment, I wondered whether there was any connection between the spirit she'd claimed she was talking to and Evangeline.
Or was it just one big transcendental coincidence that two people had approached me about incidents involving spirits on the same day? Either way, I was starting to get the distinctly ominous feeling that the inhabitants of the netherworld—or their earthly representatives—were trying to tell me something. And I didn't like it. Not one bit.

I cocked my head to the side. "When you say 'as haunted as they come,' what do you mean, exactly?"

"What do you think I mean?" Delta snapped. "I mean we have a lot of ghosts floating around Oleander Place."

"Whoa!" David exclaimed—from a safe distance in the hallway.

"You can say that again," I muttered. I was starting to feel like I was in a speeding "doom buggy" on Disneyland's Haunted Mansion ride, and I wanted it to slow the hell down.

"Besides Evangeline," Delta continued, "Knox and Beauregard are the main spirits on the plantation."

"Who's Beauregard?" Veronica asked as she began typing notes.

"He's Knox's brother, and he was a decorated army colonel," Delta said with pride. "But then when Knox made general before him, he turned pirate."

"Pirate?" I squirmed in my seat. Of course, I'd never met a pirate, alive or dead. But if I were a betting girl, I'd wager that a pirate ghost was not the friendliest of souls.

"They called him 'Beau the Black,' and he was notorious for his ruthlessness." Delta touched her pearls, and the corners of her mouth turned upward into a Joker-like smile. "I'm assuming you girls have heard of him?"

I looked questioningly at Veronica.

"I'm sure he's very infamous," she began politely, "but I'm afraid we're not well versed in pirate lore."

Delta frowned. "He was one of the pirate Jean Lafitte's right-hand men. In fact, Beau and Lafitte helped General Andrew Jackson defeat the British at the Battle of New Orleans. You
have
heard of Lafitte, I presume?"

"Oh, sure," I replied as I grabbed the stack of photos from Veronica's desk. "When I went to that bar 'Jean Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop' in the French Quarter a month or so ago. And if he was anything like that purple voodoo drink they serve there, then he must have been a real swashbuckler."

The room fell silent. I looked up from the pictures and saw both Delta and Veronica staring at me. I felt my face flush, probably similar in color to that drink. "So…how was Evangeline killed?"

Delta raised her brow. "She was poisoned."

Veronica's fingers began flying over her keyboard. "How do you know? Are there any records?"

"Yes, the
Times-Picayune
reported on her death. And we also have Knox's journal in our plantation archives. Both sources indicate that Evangeline was found with an oleander flower in her hands. At first, everyone thought it was because she loved oleanders. It was well known at the time that she was the one who had them planted on the grounds." She looked hard at Veronica. "And for the record, she just insisted on that coral pink. Had it been me, I would have selected a less vulgar shade."

Veronica nodded. She'd always turned up her nose at coral jewelry because she didn't approve of orange in her pink.

"But then they discovered oleander in a half-empty cup of tea on the table beside Evangeline's bed." Delta paused and curled her lips. "As far as I'm concerned, that flower was a message that Evangeline was as toxic as the oleander plant."

Talk about the pot calling the kettle black
, I thought as I flipped through the pictures.

"Who did they think poisoned her?" Veronica asked.

Delta exhaled deeply. "Knox blamed Antoinette, the house slave who'd served her the tea, and the police agreed. Of course, she fled the plantation, and the case was closed. Nevertheless, a rumor persisted that Knox had done it."

I looked up at Delta. "Why would anyone suspect Knox?"

"Because the day before the French tart was killed, he found out that she was planning to run off with his brother," she explained with a pointed look. "Apparently, he came across a letter she was writing to Beau that detailed their sordid affair. And everyone knew about it, too, because Knox woke the whole plantation that night."

"What for?" I asked.

Delta snorted. "He was tearing the place apart looking for a pink diamond Beau had given Evangeline."

Veronica leaned forward, her eyes sparkling like a precious gem. "There was a pink diamond?"

"Yes. In the letter Evangeline mentions an emerald-cut diamond that Beau had secretly given her as a promise of his intent to marry her. Like her beloved oleanders, it was that tacky coral pink," she said with a dramatic eye roll. "He told her he would come for her as soon as he'd made enough money from smuggling to buy some land and build her a house."

Veronica sighed. "That's so romantic!"

Delta threw her head back and gave a raucous laugh, revealing a row of yellow teeth that clashed with her alabaster skin. "Foolish, if anything. But men are blind when it comes to a beautiful woman."