Amaretto Amber (Franki Amato Mysteries Book 3) (14 page)

My mouth went as dry as her demeanor. "What do you mean by 'compromising'?"

Ruth threw her hands in the air. "Well, if I don't know what's in the letter, then I don't know what's in the photos, do I?" She arched an over-tweezed eyebrow and moved so close that I could smell her minty fresh breath. "But evidently they have something to do with Bradley."

"Bradley?" I shouted, wondering whether the type of compromising we were talking about was the
corna
kind. "What makes you think that?"

"Because the board is convening on Monday to discuss his future with the bank," she replied with a know-it-all nod. "That's what."

The news hit me like a pair of bull horns. If Bradley lost his job over a scandal, he'd have to leave New Orleans to find another bank position. On the other hand, depending on what was in those photographs, I might run him out of town myself.

Bradley walked out of his office, and I noticed that his face was drawn and pale. "Hey, babe," he said, sounding tired. "I thought I heard your voice."

I shook myself from my shock and forced a fake smile. I couldn't let him know that I knew the scoop. "You were right," I said as jolly as Drag Dolly at a square dance. "I'm here."

He pulled me into an embrace, and part of me wanted to hug him to make everything all better, but the other half of me wanted to hit him—just in case.

In the meantime, I locked eyes with Ruth over his shoulder. "
Get me that letter and those pics
," I mouthed. "
ASAP
."

Bradley released me and brushed a lock of hair from my cheek. "You seem stressed. What's going on?"

I resisted the urge to reply, "That's the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, isn't it?" Instead, I said, "It's Mom and Nonna. They're expecting you to drop by tonight, and you know they'll be offended if you don't."

"Of course." He ran his hand through his hair and glanced at his watch. "I have to take care of some things here first. Would eight be too late?"

"Not at all," I said, sickly sweet. Then I scoured his face for clues to the content of those photos.

Bradley narrowed his eyes, obviously suspecting that something was up. "Franki—"

My ringtone sounded.

"I'd better take this," I gushed, pulling my phone from my bag.

"Okay, but we need to talk later." He gave me a peck on the lips. "Right now I've gotta get moving if I'm going to make it to your place on time."

"See you tonight," I said, wondering just what it was that we had to talk about. Then I glanced at the unknown number on the cell display and pressed answer. "Franki Amato."

"Is this Franki Amato?" a female asked.

I rolled my eyes. "That's what I just said."

"This is Bit?" she said in an up-talker tone. "From Madame Moiselle's?"

"Oh, right," I replied, realizing for the first time that she was using "O'Honey" as a surname. "What can I do for you?"

"Miss Glenda said that you're to get down here right away," she said, her voice descending like a dancer down a pole.

Apprehension filled my chest. "Can you tell me why?"

"Because we have a situation," she replied, matter-of-fact.

For some reason I got a sudden mental image of her boobs bobbing about and was instantly irked. "What kind of situation?"

She cleared her throat. "A few minutes ago I asked Iris to pull the honey pot from the storage room for my performance today."

I waited for her to explain the "situation," but apparently, she thought she already had. "And?"

"It wasn't full of honey!"

I sighed. Getting information out of Bit-O-Honey was like pulling pasties from a stripper. "What was it full of?"

"Curaçao."

My heart took a nosedive. I felt bad for suspecting her, and now I had to face the frightening possibility that there were more murders to come.

"Um," Bit-O-Honey hedged, breaking the silence, "you know I'm not talking about the liquor, right?"

"Yeah, I gathered that," I grumbled as I headed for the lobby exit.

"Good," she said sounding pleased as punch. "Because that pot wasn't made to hold real honey or liquid. But anyway, Miss Glenda said that I was to tell you one more thing."

I waited, but she said nothing. "And what would that be, exactly?"

"Curaçao is wearing an amber necklace."

My stomach joined my heart in a tandem free fall. "I'll be right there."

I hung up and hurried onto Canal Street. As I jogged through the Jazzercisers, I wasn't worried about whether Curaçao was wearing the original necklace or the copy, nor was I thinking about witchcraft or voodoo. Because all I could think about was the curse that supposedly followed those who hunted the Amber Room.

Was the curse what had done Amber and Curaçao in?

"The cops are going to have to break the pot to get Curaçao out," Glenda said as I entered the prop room. "She's as stiff as a male member."

I shot her a you-didn't-just-go-there glare. "Couldn't you go with something predictable, like 'crystalized honey'?"

"I call it like I see it, Miss Franki." She struck a stripper pose. "And, child, I see a lot of it."

I knew for a fact that she did. "How do you know about the condition of her body? You didn't touch her, did you?"

"Lord, no," she said with a flip of her hair. "Iris tipped the pot, but she wouldn't budge."

I glanced around the room, and nothing seemed out of order. "Were you in here when he came to move it to the stage?"

"No, Bit-O-Honey was," she replied, taking a seat on the hay bale. "Eugene and I came in when Iris started to scream."

It figured that the burly bouncer would be the one to get emotional. "Has anyone else been in here?"

"Eugene kept the others out." She put her hands behind her and stuck out her chest. "And as you can see, the police are taking their sweet time."

That was okay by me, especially if Detective Sullivan was coming. He would kick me out of the club faster than Carlos could say, "closing time." "Did any of you notice anything unusual?"

"Just that." She pointed the toe of her boot toward the other side of the honey pot.

I walked over to where she'd been standing and saw an unopened pack of Pall Mall cigarettes beside a bottle of rum. There were whole peppers inside the bottle, and I would've bet my soul that there were twenty-one of them.

"It's an offering to—"

"Baron Samedi, the loa of death," I interrupted. In one way or another, the voodoo god of the underworld had been involved in all the homicide cases I'd worked since moving to New Orleans. I tried to remember where I'd seen his image recently but couldn't.

Glenda removed a flashlight from her PI belt and placed it in my hand. "Take a look in the pot."

Anxiety ate at my gut as I peered over the edge. Curaçao was wearing a crimson Juicy Couture tracksuit, and on her feet were beige Uggs. She was in a seated position with her knees drawn to her chest, presumably because of the cramped space, and her arms were hanging at her sides. The worst part was that her head was thrown back and her eyes were frozen with fear, and it seemed like they were staring straight at me. I switched on the flashlight and shined it on her chest. The amber pendant came to life as though emphasizing her demise—and the purplish marks on her neck.

"How long do you think she's been in there, sugar?" Glenda asked in a pensive tone.

I studied Curaçao's scratched arms and the porcelain skin of her legs. "I'm not a medical examiner, but I'd say at least ten to twelve hours. That's how long it takes rigor mortis to set in."

"Well, it's around three o'clock now," she said, checking the clasp on her handgun earring, "and I'm guessing that the murder took place when the club was closed. So it could've happened as late as five by your estimation."

I stepped away from the pot unable to stomach any more of the sickening sight and handed the flashlight to Glenda. "Will you find out who worked last night and who was here after closing?"

"I'll get right on it." She returned the flashlight to her belt and pulled a penis pen and pad from her holster. "Do you think she was strangled like Amber?"

"Most likely," I replied, massaging my temples after seeing that writing instrument. "But the crime scene is different. For one thing, Curaçao's not nude in a bathtub."

"But she
is
inside a stage prop," Glenda said, pointing at the honey pot. "And there's a bottle of liquor beside it."

"True." I stood up and started to pace. "And she's wearing an amber necklace or the copy. The thing that's missing is the witchcraft."

She scribbled a note on the pad. "What's that got to do with it?"

"Witchcraft was a big part of Amber's murder." I looked at Lili St. Cyr's tub. "The killer knew about the spell and brought a specific brand of Amaretto to complete the scene."

"Are you saying that you think Curaçao was killed by someone else?" she asked, toggling the penis pen back and forth between her fingers.

"It's a possibility." I sat beside her on the bale. "But what I mean is that this doesn't seem like a killer who's targeting a coven. The Amaretto di Amore suggests that Amber's murder had something to do with love, but Curaçao was probably killed because she witnessed the killing. After all, we know that she was here the morning it happened."

Glenda tapped the pen on her lip. "Then she went into hiding, and he found her."

My mind went to the masked man, and I shuddered as I wondered whether he'd been hunting me. "It looks that way, doesn't it?"

She chewed the tip of her pen. "But if he was just killing her to cover his bases, why the offering to Baron Samedi?"

I stared at the rum and cigarettes. "Maybe just to let us know that the crimes are connected."

Police sirens sounded in the distance, and I leapt to my feet. That was my cue to get some last-minute questioning done before they made their way through the bacchanalia on Bourbon Street, and I knew exactly where to start. "Is Saddle here?"

"She's in the dressing room." Glenda stood up in her stiletto thigh-highs. "Eugene told the girls to wait there until the cops came."

"Good, because Saddle's got some splainin' to do," I said as I exited the prop room.

As I climbed to the second floor with Glenda in tow, I could smell the aroma of Eve's cooking. And my stomach—which remained steadfast in times of sorrow, strife, stress, even sickness—reminded me that it hadn't eaten lunch.

"You should say hello to Miss Eve, sugar," Glenda prompted, sounding worried. "She's devastated about Curaçao, but she's staying strong for everyone else. I tell you, that woman is pure Southern steel."

Although I was pressed for time, I wanted to show my support for Eve. "I'll meet you in the dressing room."

I popped my head into the kitchen.

Eve had her back to me at the stove, and Iris was at the table with his head in his hands.

"Oh, I'm so glad you've come, Miss Franki," Eve said, turning to greet me. "Isn't it just awwwful? We haven't even buried Amber yet."

I put my hands on her shoulders and looked into her grief-stricken eyes. "I promise I'll do my best to find whoever did this to her."

"Thank yewww." She clasped her face. "I can't wrap my mind around the fact that she's gone."

Iris burst into tears, and Eve rushed to his side. "There there," she cooed as she patted his back. "It's gonna be all right. You just sit tight while I git you some Hoppin' John."

For a second I considered crying to get some of the spicy black-eyed pea and rice mixture, but I had a dancer to question, and quick.

"Here you go, hon," Eve said, preparing Iris's plate. She put the food in front of him and then pulled a lighter from her apron pocket and lit a white candle.

I couldn't help but smile as I exited into the hallway. It was just like a Southern woman to worry about table ambience at a time like this, even if the candle was shaped like a nude woman.

The door to the dressing room swung open, and Saddle stepped out looking like a pole-dancer Pocahontas in a skimpy suede number with Native American jewelry. "Glenda said you were looking for me?"

Time was of the essence, so I got down to turquoise tacks. "You told me that Amber wasn't the superstitious type, and yet Bit-O-Honey said that Amber always lit a magick candle before going onstage. How is it that you managed to miss that?"

She smiled, but her eyes didn't. "I come here to work. I don't pay attention to what the other girls are doing."

I nodded to make her think that I believed her. "From what I hear, it's common for dancers in New Orleans to perform some sort of ritual for luck before a show. I take it you don't subscribe to that sort of thing?"

She gazed at me as she toyed with her long, black braid. "That kind of BS is for the weak."

"Is that because you don't believe in it, or because you're into something more powerful?" I paused for effect. "Like witchcraft?"

Her lips parted. "What are you talking about?"

"That crescent moon tattoo on your calf," I replied, pointing to the area that was once again covered, this time by moccasin boots. "It's a pagan symbol popular with witches."

"It's also the symbol of my company logo, Crescent Moon Saddles," she said, her voice slick with sarcasm.

Glenda popped her head out of the dressing room. "Miss Franki, we need you in here."

I gave Saddle a long, hard look. "For your sake," I said as I stepped into the room, "I hope that business brand checks out."

Before the door closed behind me, I stole a glance at Saddle.

Her face was expressionless, but the suede fringe on her costume was shaking.

*   *   *

"Uh-uh. No. Not a chance," I said, staring at my reflection in the dressing room mirror.

"But it's the perfect solution, sugar." Glenda looked up from her kneeling position at my feet. "The Saints, Sinners, and Sluts Revue is tomorrow night, and you have Amber's coloring and height."

"I don't care if I'm her clone. There's no way I'm going to strip to lure a potential killer." I tried to think of a solid justification—other than the extra twenty pounds I was carrying around my waist—but nothing was coming to me.

"You might want to reconsider," Bit-O-Honey advised as she tied a halter-top fashioned from scarves at my back. "Tomorrow's St. Patrick's Day, and those Irish guys lay out a lot of green." She met my gaze in the mirror. "You know I mean cash, not clover, right?"

"Yeah, I got that." I struggled not to roll my eyes and then seized on the holiday as my excuse. "But Catholics aren't allowed to strip on saint's days."

Bit-O-Honey leaned around my side, her bare breasts bumping into the back of my arm. "You should become a Unitarian. We can do whatever."

I fought off the urge to add, "like going topless in public, apparently."
I mean, I realized that I was in a strip club and all, but was it too much to ask for the woman to cover herself?

"Shakey had a weakness for Amber, Miss Franki," Glenda explained as she wrapped an orange and black scarf around my hips. "If Madame Moiselle's advertises you as Amber's Texan cousin, Tiger Eye, I'm sure that would draw him to the club."

I didn't want to admit it, but her argument made sense. And now that I had a couple of homicide investigations under my belt I
was
starting to feel more comfortable in my own skin—but not so much so that I wanted to bare it onstage. On the other hand, I did need to question Shakey, especially since he'd been involved with both Amber and Curaçao. And if stripping could prevent another murder, I was in no position to refuse. "But I can't even dance. How could I perform a routine?"

"Don't think of it as dancing." Glenda inserted a pin into the fabric. "Stripping is a series of seductive poses set to music."

"Miss Glenda and I could teach you," Bit-O-Honey said brightly. "And since you've got the whole tiger thing going on, we could do a desert theme."

I didn't bother to correct her.

Glenda picked up her pincushion and rose to her feet. "This should give you an idea of what your costume will look like." She stepped back to admire her handiwork. "Keep in mind that I'll make a few adjustments when I sew it."

I stared at myself in the mirror. The skirt looked a lot like a loincloth, and based on the way my belly was bulging over it, I was glad that I hadn't had any of Eve's Hoppin' John. "Could you add a panel of fabric to cover my stomach? I look like a tubby Tarzan."

Glenda stuck out her hip and her lip. "Tarzan didn't have breasts like yours, sugar. At least, not the one on TV."

Bit-O-Honey giggled, and I looked from her to Glenda to get in on the joke.

"I was talking about one of our VIP Room regulars, sugar."

"Yeah, he's got big ol' man boobs." Bit-O-Honey cupped her breasts for emphasis. "But we call him Tarzan because he asks us to wear chimp masks and pound on our chests while he feeds us bananas."

My mouth fell open. If I didn't solve this case soon, these VIP Room escapades were going to drive me bananas.

Veronica opened the door. "Hey, ladies."

I covered my halter top with my hands. "What're you doing here?"

She looked at my loincloth and blinked hard. "Glenda called me. But the question is, what are
you
doing here?"

"That
is
a good question, Veronica." I glowered in Glenda's direction. "Why don't you ask the consultant you hired?"

"Never mind that now." Veronica motioned with her eyes to the hallway. "Detective Sullivan is outside, and he'd like to interview the dancers. Is everyone decent?"

"Let me check." Glenda inspected her posterior in the mirror.

Bit-O-Honey glanced at everyone's body but her own. "We're good."