Amaretto Amber (Franki Amato Mysteries Book 3) (22 page)

Santina shoved a shawl at Glenda. "
Dai, prendilo!
"

"She's telling you to take it," I explained in an apologetic tone.

"No ma'am." Glenda gestured to her cage dress with one hand while holding her cigarette with the other. "This is proper attire for strip clubs and jazz funerals. I draw the line at a habit."

Nonna raised her chin, and Santina lowered her lids.

Sensing a Sicilian storm on the horizon, I said, "They're not habits. They're mourning dresses."

Glenda forced a smile. "I'm not saying I don't like them. In fact, I think they're…well…
convenient.
You didn't even have to change for the funeral."

"You know us-a," Nonna said, pointing a thumb at herself and Santina. "At-a our age, we're always-a mourning something!" She chuckled as though enjoying her grieving status. And from the way she talked about my late nonnu, I was pretty sure that she was.

Santina nudged my nonna. "
Il limone
."

"Oh, that's-a right!" Nonna turned to me. "Show us the lemon that you stole-a last night."

Refraining from an eye roll, I fished the fruit from my purse and noticed that it was bruised.

Nonna planted her hands on her cheeks with a smack. "
Oddio!
You stole a
lemon
lemon?"

A bitter taste filled my mouth like I'd just bitten into the bad lemon. "Is that a problem?"

"Sorry to interrupt," Carnie boomed as she bounced up in a black Elizabethan bustle dress and a hat with a bulky black bow. "But we need to chat."

I glanced at my nonna, anxious for her reply. With my luck, the bum lemon meant that Bruno would be the one to propose to me instead of Bradley.

"
Pronto
," Carnie pressed, yanking me from my seat to the end of the bar.

Prying my arm from her manly grip, I huffed, "What's the matter with you?"

She crossed her big biceps over her bigger bosom. "Glenda says you know where the pendant is, so I'm wondering why I don't have it. Are you trying to squeeze a few extra paychecks out of me or something?"

"No one wants to squeeze you."
Least of all me
. "When you hired me for this case, you said you wouldn't feel right if you didn't try to find Amber's killer. I think I have a way to do that."

The muscles in her jaw relaxed. "I'm listening."

Even though she seemed calm, I took a few steps back to keep a safe distance between us. "Since the funeral is closed casket, you start the rumor that your amber pendant has been found, and you say that given the tragedy now associated with it, you've decided to let Amber be buried in the necklace. Then we wait and see who tries to open the casket before it goes into the ground, and we have our killer."

"It's morbid, but I like it." She put her hands on her hips. "Is there someone specific you want me to tell?"

"The queens," I replied without missing a beat.

Her blue lids dropped like metal shutters. "Are you implying that we're gossips?"

"Yes, I am."

She nodded, and the bow on her hat did too. "Fair enough."

I exhaled as she turned and bustled back to her table.

When I returned to my stool, a tiny, forty-something man dressed in a dark green suit, black boots, and a black Stetson entered the club.

I patted Glenda's shoulder. "Is that western-style leprechaun Shakey?"

She turned and lifted her veil. "Sure is, sugar. I've never met him, but I've seen him around."

Shakey's spurs jangled as he approached the bar. "Miss Glenda O'Brien?"

"The one and only." She extended a gloved hand, and he didn't have to bow to kiss it.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," he drawled in a high-pitched voice. "Milton Presacco, but my friends call me Shakey."

Glenda gave a sly smile. "As in,
The Shakiest Gun in the West
?"

"With all due respect, ma'am," he replied, removing his hat, "there's nothing shaky about my gun."

She cocked a brow. "Duly noted, cowboy."

"Um," I interjected to break the awkward sexual-weapon vibe, "why do they call you Shakey?"

He placed his Stetson on the bar counter, which was as tall as he was. "Because I used to own a chain of Shakey's Pizza Parlors. Now I'm in olive oil. Got a grove outside o' Austin."

Texas oil baron, my eye
. "Well, my name is Franki Amato, and I was contracted to investigate Amber's murder with Glenda."

He ran a hand through his reddish wisps of hair. "I heard through the grapevine that Miss O'Brien was working with a PI, so I wanted to tell y'all what I told the police."

"You have information about the case?" I asked as I reached into my bag for a pad and pen.

"Indeed I do, ma'am." He straightened his bolo tie. "Like I told that detective, Amber got mixed up in some bad business on account o' her mama—not her real mama, mind you, but kinda like a stepmama."

I glanced at Glenda. "What kind of bad business?"

"She went and got herself a sugar daddy," he said in a low tone.

Glenda crossed her legs. "We know all about that, Shakey."

"Hang on, though," I said, holding up my hand. "What does her mother have to do with the sugar daddy?"

He tucked a thumb inside his silver-buckled belt. "She had a rough view of relationships. Told Amber that all women exchanged their bodies for money, even wives with their husbands. Said she might as well get a man to pay her bills and keep her freedom."

Precisely the kind of thing I could imagine Nadezhda saying. "Do you know anything about her mother or her sugar daddy?"

Shakey scratched his clean-shaven cheek. "I can't say I know anything about the man, but her mama goes by the name o' Peach."

I sunk onto my stool.

Amber's mother owned the sugaring company.

"Did you see that?" Gaysia shrieked as she stood in the cemetery with her hands pressed to her wig cap. "That hoochie mama ho pulled off my hair!"

The jazz band abruptly halted their rendition of "The Stripper" as Saddle waved Gaysia's black-and-blonde wig like a handkerchief.

"
Your
hair?" Saddle laughed like a coyote. "You got this fur piece off a German Shepherd."

Gaysia gasped and swiped at Saddle with panda-adorned claws.

A scuffle broke out between the queens and the dancers. And as Detective Sullivan and his men set about breaking up the brawl, feathers and sequins began to fly.

"So much for a 'proper' funeral," I said under my breath, although nothing about it had been proper. Before the procession had gotten underway, the dancers announced that they would be the "first line," traditionally reserved for family, and that the queens would be the "second line," reserved for friends and passersby. A catfight ensued, and rather than "processing" to the cemetery, the strippers and queens had scratched, slapped, and shoved each other the entire way—that is, when they weren't voguing and vamping for onlookers.

"I've had enough of this nonsense," Glenda huffed as she high-stepped onto a tomb in black stripper shoes that said
Pay Your Respects
. "Ladies! Where are your manners? We're in a place of rest."

The scuffling ceased.

Gaysia retrieved her wig from the ground and arranged it on her head. "I know Amber was a stripper, Miss Glenda, but we queens feel that the strippers should walk in the second line on the way back to the club." She smoothed her mofuku kimono. "We belong in the first line because we have style." She turned to Carnie. "Except for you, Lady-boy Macbeth. With those garage doors, you belong in the second line."

"Garage doors?" Carnie's face turned purple. "This blue on my eyelids is a blend, not a single shade."

King stepped between the querulous queens. "There's no need ta fight, ladies…" He turned to Carnie and her crew. "…and gentlemen. Cuz, like our Lawd and savior hisself, King Nation is here ta save the occasion." He grasped the zebra-striped lapels of his black velvet suit. "If it's style y'all want, then I'll lead the procession back ta the club."

I halfway agreed with him. He
was
wearing red leather shoes reminiscent of a previous pope—but his were crocodile, not cow.

"You and I need to talk," Detective Sullivan growled over my shoulder. "Now."

Although I had no intention of speaking to the detestable detective, I followed him down a path, away from the gossip-prone guests. "Until you drop the charges against Bradley, I've got nothing to say to you."

"Well, I have something to say to you." He placed a hand above his holster. "There's a rumor circulating that the missing pendant is on the body. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

As a former cop, I knew that he would be obliged to open Amber's casket if I didn't tell him the truth, and I didn't want it to come to that. "I started the rumor to flush out the killer."

His ice blue eyes turned stone cold. "And you have no idea where the amber is."

I hesitated, and he stepped forward.

"Save your breath," I said, holding up my hands. "I'll tell you where the pendant is when the funeral's over."

Glenda strutted down the pathway with her cigarette holder. Scowling at the detective, she flicked her ash and turned to me. "The service has started, Miss Franki."

"We'll resume this discussion at the end of the ceremony, Amato." He straightened his tie and stalked off toward the gravesite.

She thrust out a hip. "You all right, sugar?"

"Yeah, thanks for coming to get me," I said as we headed back. It wasn't that I didn't want to deal with the detective—I just didn't want to miss the eulogy. Bit-O-Honey had obtained ministry credentials online for Amber's funeral, and it wasn't every day that you got to see an ordained stripper minister.

As we made our way back, Theodora emerged from a burial vault like a zombie from a grave.

I swallowed a scream to avoid causing a scene.

Glenda gave her the onceover. "You must be the witch."

"My name's Theodora." She brushed dirt from her black caftan. "It means God given, which is kind of ironic, don't you think?"

On a couple of levels
. I cleared my throat. "Uh, we need to get back to the service. Theodora, I'll point out the two women I left you the message about."

"Sounds like a plan." She extracted a root protruding from a broken crypt and took a bite.

My belly began to bubble like a cauldron. "Do you have to eat here?"

"Yes, we're serving pigs in a blanket and piecaken after the service," Glenda said in a helpful tone.

Theodora spat, and it was red from the root—at least I hoped that's what it was from. "I can't come to the club." She wiped her mouth with her wing-like sleeve. "Tonight's a full moon."

Not wanting any details of her lunar exploits, I hurried toward the attendees and started scouring the seating area by the casket for Nadezhda.

The first two rows of folding chairs were occupied by my mom and the nonne, who'd convinced Shakey to sit with them not only because he was their same size but also because he was now their olive oil contact in the "new country." The strippers were in the last two rows, and King had planted himself among them since they comprised a whole new crop of women that he could help to "find Gawd." The queens stood behind the seating area, this time voluntarily taking a backseat to the strippers, because it meant they were with all the men.

I spotted Nadezhda near the queens, leaning on a mausoleum topped with a stone cross. And I was surprised to see that she was deep in conversation with Drag Dolly, who was presumably spreading the necklace rumor. "That's one of the women right there."

Theodora lowered her sunglasses and fixed her feline eyes on Nadezhda.

Unaware that she was being watched, Nadezhda sidled up to Eugene and whispered something in his ear.

My heart raced when I saw Eugene's gaze lock onto the casket. Even though I was unable to prove it, I was positive that the pair had plotted to steal the pendant.

Theodora pushed up her sunglasses. "That one's a witch, but the kind that starts with a
b
."

At least I'd been right on that count
.

"Where's the other woman?" she asked, scanning the crowd.

"Over there." I pointed at Eve, who was standing by a tree to the left of the seating, red-faced, and wringing her hands.

Theodora removed her sunglasses and chewed on the tip. "There's something earthy about her, yes."

I scrutinized Eve, who'd been getting more distraught as the day progressed. "Why do you think that?"

"Have you missed the fact that I'm a witch?" she snapped, pointing her creepy pupils at me.

"D-definitely not," I stuttered, moving backwards a step.

She turned and looked at Eve. "Did you notice that she's wearing amber?"

My head jerked in Eve's direction. Sure enough, it looked like she had an amber pendant around her neck, but it was round, not rectangular like the missing piece. "Maybe in honor of Amber?"

"Or to invoke the mother goddess." Theodora narrowed her eyes like a cat contemplating a mouse. "She seems like an amateur. Is she from New Orleans?"

I shrugged. "Her last name is Cajun, but I just assumed from her accent that she's originally from Georgia."

"Hm." Theodora's red-stained teeth bit her lip. "A Georgia peach."

I froze at the reference. And then I remembered seeing peaches on one of Eve's aprons.

Eve was Peach—Amber's mother and the owner of the sugaring website!

I looked toward the tree, but Eve was gone. Frantic to find her, I glanced around the grounds and realized that she was standing right in front of the casket.

"Farewell, Amber," Bit-O-Honey said as the coffin began to lower into the ground. "We'll see you in that big strip club in the sky."

A murmur of disapproval arose from the queens, most likely because of the strip club reference.

An anguished wail followed.

"You can't take my girl!" Eve screamed and threw herself on the coffin.

A murmur of approval arose from the nonne, since casket diving was a thing among elderly Italian women.

Detective Sullivan rushed to the casket and pulled Eve to her feet, while the ginger officer I'd seen the night of Bradley's arrest began to handcuff her.

"Eve Quebedeaux," the detective announced, "you're under arrest for the murders of Amber Brown and Curaçao."

She gasped. "You can't be serious." As the detective read Eve her rights, she looked from him to me. "Miss Franki, you're an investigator," she shouted over him. "Tell them I didn't murder those girls! You know I could never do such a horrible thing."

I stared at her, unsure what to think. It wasn't clear whether the officers had arrested her because they thought she was making a play for the necklace or because they had evidence against her that I was unaware of. Nevertheless, when Detective Sullivan stopped reciting, I approached her and put my hand on her shoulder. "It's all right, Eve. If you're innocent, you have nothing to worry about."

"I loved Amber," she explained. "Curaçao too, although I did
not
like her behavior. That's why I told Amber to do the spell—to undo the hex that Curaçao had cast on her." She began to sob. "I wanted to make things riiight."

So, it had been an anti-hex spell. I was tempted to ask Eve about the Amaretto di Amore and Amber's sugar daddy, but I couldn't risk compromising the investigation or her defense. She'd said too much already.

Detective Sullivan looked at the ginger officer. "Let's get her to the squad car."

"I loved those girls like they were my own," Eve shouted as they led her away. "I was trying to help them. Why, I even found men to take care of them so they could get out of the stripping business. You have to believe me."

The funny thing was, I did believe her.

But if Eve hadn't killed Amber and Curaçao, who had?

*   *   *

Veronica sighed into the phone receiver. "I feel awful that I missed Amber's funeral because of work. I might have to go ahead and hire a part-time investigator."

I shot straight up in the dental chair. "Swear on your life that it won't be Glenda," I practically shouted into my cell. I lay back down and then sat up again. "Or anyone associated with the Amber Brown case."

"Don't worry, Franki," she breathed. "I swear on my life that if and when I hire someone, it'll be a professional PI."

Still vaguely unsettled, I clutched my phone and scooted deeper into the dental chair.

"Anyway," she continued, "judging from what I've seen on the news this morning, it was quite a ceremony."

"Veronica, even if Federico Fellini, Wes Anderson, and Tim Burton were all directing the same film, they couldn't have created a scene like that." I shook my head at the memory. "When I get to the office, I'll fill you in on all the outlandish details."

"Oh, I'm still at the house." She slammed a cabinet door. "What time will you be in?"

I glanced at the clock and saw that it was already seven thirty. "I thought I'd be out of here by eight or so, but Dr. Lessler's hygienist called in sick, and his receptionist is running late, so he's having to make some calls to try to find a sub. No telling how long that'll take."

"It's a Monday," Veronica said. "While you're there, I'll call my contacts at the police station and try to find out whether there's any chance of Eve being granted bail."

"I would give my eye teeth to be able to question her right now." I glanced at the dental instruments on the tray next to my chair. "On second thought, no I wouldn't."

A knocking sound came from the other end of the line.

"I think your mom and nonna are here to say good-bye," Veronica whispered. "I'll let you go."

"Make sure they actually leave, will you?" I urged, but she had already hung up.

Still holding my phone, I looked at the poster on the ceiling. Seeing the dolphin frolic among the waves made me think of the sea goddess, La Sirène. Even though King had laughed off my question about La Sirène and the amaretto, I still suspected that there was information out there somewhere that could help me connect the liqueur to the crime—and maybe even clear Eve's name.

"Sorry about the wait," Dr. Lessler said from behind me.

From my reclining position, I looked back and saw him in the doorway in his LSU scrubs.

His blondish-brown brow furrowed. "I'm going to call a temp agency for dental hygienists, then I'll be right with you."

"No problem, doc." I held up my phone. "I can do some case research while I wait."

"Great." He flashed his dazzling dentist smile. "Be right back."

Once he was gone, I opened my browser and googled La Sirène. After scrolling through several links, I clicked one that had an alphabetical list of the various voodoo gods and their functions. Baron Samedi was at the top, and the first thing it said was that he was called upon to heal sexual diseases.