Prosecco Pink (18 page)

"How did it go today?" Veronica asked.

"Well, I'm pretty sure Scarlett and Adam are avoiding me, but I finally managed to question Troy, the historian tour guide."

Upon hearing the word
historian,
Glenda yawned in mock boredom and began admiring the live yellow roses inside the clear plastic soles of her stripper shoes.

"What was he like?" Veronica asked, brushing a lock of hair from her eyes.

I raised my hands like a director framing a scene. "Think smart California surfer."

Veronica nodded, but Glenda's foot popped like Mia's did when she kissed Michael in
The Princess Diaries
. It was like a divining rod, only instead of water, it sensed men.

"If I'm right in thinking that this case involves Obsessive Love Disorder, then Troy might be able to help us understand Ivanna's appearance."

Veronica twisted her mouth to one side. "But he's a historian, not a psychologist."

"Yes, but he studies the social meaning of clothing from the plantation era. In fact, he was wearing a pirate outfit when I met him."

"There's a surfer pirate at that plantation?" Glenda whispered to no one in particular.

"Oh, wow," Veronica said. "So he might be able to shed some light on Evangeline's pink dress."

I gave a satisfied smile. "And why Ivanna was found wearing it."

Glenda took a drag from her yellow cigarette holder and exhaled slowly. "I just might have to take a tour of Oleander Place. I've got a yearning for some California-flavored pirate booty."

"Speaking of booty," I said with a wink, "I need to get going, or I'll be late for my date."

*  *  *

At six forty, I was driving down Canal Street on my way to the French Quarter when I noticed that the lights were on in Ponchartrain Bank. Because the bank closes at six, I assumed that Bradley was still inside. Thinking that we could go to the restaurant in one car, I pulled into a parking space and headed for the main door.

"Bradley?" I called as I entered the lobby.

There was no answer. I walked to his office to see whether he was still in his meeting. I was surprised to find that the lights were out and it was locked. Bewildered, I looked around at the other offices, but they were dark too. The only explanation I could think of was that the last employee to leave had forgotten to lock up.

I was about to call Bradley to inform him of the situation when an Italian expression popped into my head.
Prima il dovere, poi il piacere
, which means "Duty before pleasure." I needed to get my hands on the bank security tapes for Corinne's case, and what better opportunity than this?

I turned and looked at the unmarked metal door next to Bradley's office. As I debated what to do, the strains of Elvis Presley's "It's Now or Never" infiltrated my brain. It was as though the King was guiding me. With a trembling hand, I reached for the handle and turned. The door was unlocked.

I felt a rush of excitement as I entered the room and closed the door behind me. Not only was the computer screen lit up, but a folder with the video files for April was open. Someone had recently been working with the files.

With my heart in my throat, I quickly scanned the files for April 12th and 16th, the days that Corinne was missing money from her drawer. They were right where they should be, by order of date.

I rummaged around in a desk drawer and found a flash drive. I plugged it into the USB port and copied the two files. Then I glanced at the clock. It was ten to seven, which meant I had just enough time to get to Antoine's.

"It's like it was meant to be," I whispered as I ejected the flash drive and put it in my silver clutch.

I stood up to leave and heard a key being inserted into the lock. I froze as the realization of what had just occurred struck me like a club. Someone had locked me into the security room.

I tried the doorknob—it didn't budge. My first instinct was to beat on the door, but I held back. If Bradley had been the one to lock the door, I certainly didn't want him to unlock it and find me on the other side. But when I thought about missing our dinner and spending the night in the bank, I began pounding on the door. "Bradley! It's me, Franki! Let me out!"

He didn't come.
Surely he heard me
, I thought.
Why isn't he letting me out? To teach me a lesson?

As I was contemplating my next move, the scent of Pure Poison wafted into the room—like a noxious gas.
Pauline!
She was in charge of the security room, and she'd probably been working with the files when I came into the bank. I smacked myself in the forehead with the butt of my hand. The Italian word
scema
, or
fool
, came to mind, and then I smacked myself again because Italian is what had gotten me into this mess in the first pace. "Duty before pleasure!" I scoffed. "Why would anyone in their right mind live by that credo?"

I mentally ran through the techniques I'd learned at the police academy for escaping from a locked room, but none of them applied. I didn't have the strength to break down a metal security door, and I couldn't pick the lock thanks to the protection plate covering the latch. And there was no point in calling Veronica because I was convinced that Pauline had left and locked the main door good and tight behind her. "Oh, God," I whined. "What am I going to do?"

But deep down I knew there was only one thing I could do—call Bradley.

While I pondered what to tell him, I tried to calm my nerves with a breathing method I'd learned the time I took yoga. I inhaled for three counts and exhaled for six, but my heart was still racing like I'd just run a marathon.
Okay, forget yoga breathing
, I thought.
This is going to take Lamaze
.

I pulled my phone from my clutch. But before I could dial the number, I heard a sound I knew all too well, a police siren.

"Oh no, she didn't," I breathed.

The siren stopped in front of the bank.

"Oh yes she did." I started the Lamaze breathing.

Within a matter of seconds, there were excited voices in the lobby. They were coming toward the security room.

"New Orleans Police!" a gruff male voice cried.

Following police procedure, I shouted, "I'm unarmed, and I'm an ex-cop." Then I held my hands in the air.

"Franki?" Bradley asked in an incredulous tone.

I stopped breathing.

The door opened.

I gave a wan smile and a little wave—and tried to look incredibly hot in my red dress. "Yeah, it's me."

Bradley's jaw contracted as his mouth drew into a thin line, and his eyes narrowed into slits.

The ruddy-faced officer scrutinized me through gold, wire-rimmed glasses and then turned to Bradley. "Do you know this woman?"

"I'm afraid I do, John," he ground out through clenched teeth. "Can I talk to you in my office for a minute?"

"Sure," the officer replied.

Bradley turned to me. "Don't move a muscle," he said, pointing his finger at my chest. "Not even to blink. Do you understand?"

I nodded and watched as Bradley and the officer went into his office and shut the door.

I'd never seen Bradley this angry before, not even after I'd punched him in the face and kicked him in the
coglioni
(that's Italian for…well, you know), which I still say was perfectly justified given that he'd kissed me while he was married to his ex. I simply had to think of some way to justify my presence at the bank both to Bradley and the police without betraying Corinne's confidence.

Bradley marched out of his office and right up to my face. "As a personal favor to me," he said in a dangerously low tone, "Officer Quincy is going to forget he saw you here."

"Oh, thank God," I gushed. "Why don't we just go to Antoine's, and I'll explain…"

"We're not going to Antoine's, and you're not going to explain because I don't want to hear it. Now, I don't know where you're going when you leave here tonight, but I can tell you this—you'll stay far from this bank."

"But—"

"No buts," he said, raising his hand.

I took a step backward, just in case.

"Officer Quincy may be willing to forget you were here," he continued, "but I still have to deal with the anonymous tip to the police. Management will expect a detailed explanation as to why someone saw an intruder in the bank after hours. So if I were you, I would get going before I change my mind about asking Officer Quincy not to arrest you."

I looked searchingly in his eyes and then stalked out of the bank. I was angry with him for not letting me explain, but I was also mad at myself for being so careless. Oh, and at Pauline for being so evil. I didn't know what was going to happen between Bradley and me, but I knew one thing for sure. The fact that Pauline had made an anonymous call to the police told me that she had something serious to hide. And I was going to make it my duty to expose her. Make that my pleasure.

I placed my "Italians Drink It Better" cappuccino mug on the kitchen counter and glanced at the microwave clock. It was nine a.m., which meant Veronica would be expecting me at the office any minute. But the last way I wanted to start my day was by telling my employer that I'd almost gotten arrested for burglary of a bank. So instead, I flopped down at the kitchen table and opened the bakery box in front of me.

Bradley might not have known where I would go when I left the bank last night, but I sure did—to Bittersweet Confections on Magazine Street. It was closed by the time I got there, but luckily the night baker let me in when she saw my frantic face and fancy attire. Naturally, I bought the peanut butter–banana Elvis cupcake to wolf down in the car and the decadently chocolate Bittersweet Cake to scarf up at home. The King was indirectly responsible for me entering that security room, after all, and a cake eaten following a fight with one's boyfriend can only be bittersweet.

I picked up a knife and scraped the sludgy remains of the cake bottom from the box. As I slid the yummy goo into my mouth, I remembered how angry Bradley had been. I definitely had some 'splainin' to do, but I couldn't figure out what I was going to say. As far as he was concerned, Pauline was a dedicated professional, and I was just a jealous girlfriend. (Okay, the last part was true, but only partially.) To add insult to injury, I'd promised to get along with her—the mere thought of which almost made the cake come back up—so I could hardly tell him my suspicions. No, I needed hard, cold evidence before I talked to Bradley, and I planned to get it.

I polished off the last of the cake sludge and dialed the office. While the line was ringing, something bumped against the back door. Napoleon was out like a light on the chaise lounge, so I knew it wasn't him trying to get in. Worried that it might be my aggressor coming to peel me like a pineapple, I opened the gold velour curtains of the window beside my kitchen table and peered into the backyard. Fortunately, I didn't see anyone.

"Private Chicks, Incorporated," David answered in a clipped, professional voice. "If you give us the time, we'll solve your crime."

"I'm so glad you're there," I breathed. "Have you been able to do that background check on Pauline?"

"I just finished it. She's clean."

I don't know how when she's so dirty
, I thought. "Listen, if I bring in some video files from a security camera, will you be able to tell whether they've been tampered with?"

"Uh, it kinda depends on what they did to the file. My vassal could for sure do it, though. He's a total video pro."

I vaguely remembered the vassal saying something about wanting to study film. "That's fine with me, but I thought he only had to serve you for one day."

"For that one entire day," David clarified. "But he
gets
to do whatever my fraternity brothers and I tell him all year long. It's one of the privileges of rushing a frat."

"Uh-huh," I agreed skeptically. "So, if I bring the files to the office this morning, could you take them to him?"

"Sure. I'll see him in algorithms class this afternoon."

I shuddered. I couldn't think of a more boring way to spend my time. "How fast do you think he could analyze the video?"
"I dunno, but he's throwing a party for his comp sci buddies at his dorm tomorrow. He could do it then, I bet. Wanna come?"

Now
I could think of a more boring way to spend my time. For me, computer science parties conjured up mental images of Lord of the Rings posters, Star Wars action figures, comic books, and unwashed males unfamiliar with the female gender. But I was willing to do whatever it took to out Pauline to Bradley, even if that meant spending my Saturday night with a bunch of leering freshman nerds playing video games. "Count me in."

"Solid," he said in college-ese. "I'll pick you up tomorrow at two."

"In the morning?" I asked, shocked.

"No, the afternoon. The vassal likes to be in bed by nine," he explained in a matter-of-fact tone.

That vassal is a real party animal
. "Okay. Is Veronica there?"

"Yeah. One sec."

As I waited for Veronica to pick up, I saw something move in the backyard. I jumped up and stood to one side of the window. When I peeked out, I spotted Glenda watering her plants in nothing but six-inch heels and a smile (her robe was so sheer it couldn't be considered clothing). I pulled down the blind
and
closed the curtains.

"Hey!" Veronica answered. "How'd your date go last night? I'll bet you really wowed Bradley with that racy red dress."

"I wowed him, all right," I said, collapsing back into my chair. "But it had nothing to do with my dress."

She paused. "Uh-oh."

"Look, I'll spare you the undignified details, but last night I snuck into the security room at the bank, and Pauline tipped off the police anonymously."

An awkward silence followed, and I knew that the attorney in Veronica was running down a mental list of Private Chicks' potential liabilities.

"Everything is fine," I added to ease her concern. "And I think I've figured out why Pauline didn't seize the opportunity to rat me out personally to Bradley."