Authors: Traci Angrighetti
"Well, I, for one, am not buying this arrest nonsense."
I stopped short. "What? You were so sure that Adam was involved in Ivanna's murder."
"Yes, but the police are saying that he had belladonna at the lab. And that's utter hogwash."
"How can you be sure? Adam
is
a chemist."
"Because I drove by Lickalicious Lips this morning and found Ivanna's father there. He was kind enough to let me help myself to anything in the office since he's shutting down the business. So, I went through the place with a fine-tooth comb, and there was no poison there."
Although I was quite sure that Ruth had impeccable strip-the-office-clean skills, I had my doubts about the absence of the poison. "Maybe he hid it in the ceiling or something."
She snorted. "Trust me, I know all the places the man stashed his liquor, and they were empty."
This from a woman who claimed not to drink.
"Now I know I said he was capable of killing Ivanna," she continued, "but something is rotten in the state of Denmark."
"Are you suggesting that the police planted the belladonna?"
There was a pause, and I heard what sounded like the tinkling of ice in a rocks glass followed by a loud slurping sound.
"Not necessarily," she replied a bit out of breath.
"Then who do you think did?"
Ruth harrumphed. "That's your problem."
"Thanks," I said under my breath.
"You're welcome," she was quick to reply. "I'll thank
you
the day you find the killer," she added, crunching an ice cube. "I'm on pins and needles here wondering if I'm his next victim."
"I know the feeling," I muttered. "But now that there's been an arrest in the case, my client's going to terminate my contract."
"Then you'll have to go it alone," she said. "I'll talk to you soon."
As I shoved my phone into my back pocket, Ruth's words weighed on my mind. I already felt like I
was
going it alone, but at least I was getting paid. I wondered whether I could afford to continue investigating the case for free, even though I already knew I had no choice. If Adam wasn't guilty, I had to keep looking for the killer—for my own safety and everyone else's.
The real question was whether there was a chance that Adam was guilty. I flashed back to the day Veronica and I had seen him packing the trunk of his Corvette. He was upset, and I was positive he'd been drinking. And while it was certainly possible that he'd left evidence behind, I didn't think it likely. Careless, forgetful types didn't earn PhDs in chemistry.
But if he didn't leave the belladonna in the lab, then who put it there? Delta?
Or was it Dr. Jones?
After what seemed like an eternity, the toaster finally popped. I grabbed the hot waffles with the tips of my fingers and tossed them into a bowl. Yes, a bowl. My plan was to drown my sorrows in waffles drowning in syrup because nothing had turned out like I'd hoped—not the Jones case, not the Pauline case, not my job with Veronica, and certainly not my relationship with Bradley.
"Breakfast is ready!" I called.
Napoleon jumped off the chaise lounge and sped into the kitchen.
I broke off a piece of waffle for him and added a dash of syrup. He was the one constant in my life right now, so he deserved a special treat. I ruffled the fur on his head and handed him the bite. "There you go, boy."
Next, I squeezed a cup or two of syrup onto my waffles and grabbed a spoon. Yes, a spoon. It's the only way to eat waffles swimming in syrup. Then I flopped down at the kitchen table.
As I spooned the waffle-syrup soup into my mouth, I expected the warm gooey sweetness to soothe the ache in my soul. But it didn't. And I knew it had nothing to do with feeling sorry for myself—it was because there was something important I still had to do.
I grabbed my phone and pressed Bradley's number, taking deep breaths between rings. My stomach lurched when I heard him pick up.
"Franki." His voice was soft but practically screamed surprise.
Drawing courage from his docile demeanor, I announced, "This is a business call, so I'd appreciate it if you kept our personal affairs out of this." Oh, and I made sure to stress the word
affairs,
the lousy cheat.
"Listen," he began in a remorseful tone, "if this about me banning you from the bank—"
"It's not," I interrupted. I wished I could tell him that I was working for Corinne. But Bradley wasn't the man I'd thought he was, so I couldn't take the chance that he'd fire her for hiring me.
"Okay." He paused. "What's this about?"
"I can't go into the details of why I have this information, but Pauline omitted her real last name from the résumé she submitted to you, not to mention a bank she worked for in New York."
"How'd you get her resume?" he asked, bewildered.
"That's beside the point," I snapped. "What matters is that Ms. Pauline Violette Malaspina got off scot-free after embezzling from a charity managed by Brehman Bank, and you've put her in charge of a charity for children."
A stony silence ensued.
"Now, I expect you to put your, uh,
feelings
for Pauline aside and look into the probability that she's stealing from your bank. Because if you don't, I'll have to take the evidence I've acquired to the police," I bluffed.
"Franki, what goes on at Ponchartrain Bank is none of your concern," he said through clenched teeth. "Stay out of this."
I was taken aback by his command. "You lost the right to have a say in my life when you hooked up with the embezzler."
He let out a long sigh. "Look, I can't get into the specifics right now, but things aren't what they seem. You've got to trust me on this."
I gave a laugh that was somewhere between incredulous and outraged. "You've got some nerve, Bradley Hartmann."
I hung up and angrily wiped a tear from my cheek. I refused to cry over a bum like that.
My phone rang, and I was positive it was Bradley calling me back. I responded with a resounding, "Go to hell!"
"I'd really rather not," a surprised-sounding male replied.
I gasped. "I'm
so
sorry! I thought you were someone else."
"Well, that's a relief." He chuckled. "The clergy are often unpopular, but that was a little harsh."
Oh God, did I just tell a priest to go to hell?
I gulped. "Um, you're with the Church?"
"Yes, my name is Father Roman," he boomed. "I'm a neophyte at Holy Rosary Church."
Did he just say
nymphet? I wondered as I nervously scratched my neck and ran down a mental list of the sins I'd committed since the last time I'd set foot in a church. "The name of your church sounds familiar, but I can't place it."
"We're located in downtown Houston."
Now I knew where I'd heard the name before—my mother. "Does this have anything to do with marriage classes, Father?"
"Actually, I've been asked to speak to you about another matter—your plans to cohabitate with your boyfriend?"
"Nonna!" I exclaimed Seinfeld-style.
"Your grandmother's not the only one who's worried about you," he clarified.
"Oh, I'm quite sure my parents are in on this too," I said, squirming with embarrassment.
"And some of the regulars here at the deli," he added. "You have a whole community of people here who love you, Francesca."
I rested my forehead on the kitchen table. From the sound of things, my nonna had told everyone at Amato's Deli that I was planning to shack up in sin. "I appreciate your concern, Father. But I only told my nonna that I was going to live with a man to get her to stop pre-planning my wedding. And the fact is, my boyfriend has started seeing another woman."
"
Madonna santa!
" my nonna exclaimed from out of nowhere.
I bolted from my chair. "Father, is my nonna on this call too?"
"I'm afraid she leaned in to the receiver just now," he replied. "Excuse me for a moment."
He covered the phone with his hand, and then I heard the muffled sounds of his speech and my nonna's shrieks. I was sure he was trying to calm her down
from a conniption fit she was having over the news that I was single again.
Father Roman uncovered the receiver. "I'm afraid we have a little misunderstanding here about your living situation."
"What is it?" I asked. But I didn't have to wait for an answer.
"Franki's-a living with-a Bradley and another woman!" my nonna shouted
a squarciagola
, an Italian phrase which is often translated as "at the top of one's lungs" but actually means that someone is screaming so loudly that it's ripping their throat.
"Are you saying Franki's a polygamist, Carmela?" a scandalized-sounding customer asked.
"Well it sure sounds like an episode of
Sister Wives
to me!" another exclaimed.
"But don't you worry, Francesca," Father Roman continued in a harried tone, "I'll set everyone straight."
"Thank you, Father," I whispered. Then I hung up and took a much-needed swig of syrup.
* * *
When I let the door to Private Chicks slam shut behind me, David's head shot up from his desk.
"Whoa!" He wiped drool from the corner of his mouth with his sleeve. "I can't believe I fell asleep."
I smirked. "I guess you're finally coming down from all that game fuel you drank at the vassal's."
Veronica entered the lobby in a smart-looking navy blazer and white skirt. "I was hoping that was you, Franki. Delta is on her way here to settle up what she owes us. Can you give me the total number of hours you've worked?"
"Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that," I said, shoving my sunglasses into my purse. "What time's she coming?"
"Ten o'clock." She looked at her watch. "And it's five till, so you'd better make it quick."
"Okay," I said with a nod. "Will you come with me while I grab a cup of coffee?"
"Sure," she replied as she followed me down the hallway.
When I entered the kitchen, I was thrilled to see a fresh pot of French Press. I pulled my mug from the cabinet and got straight to the point. "Veronica, I don't believe that Adam committed the murders."
She leaned against the counter and crossed her arms. "Well, the police certainly do. Why don't you think he's guilty?"
I grabbed the carafe and poured some coffee into my cup. "Because I know he wouldn't have been stupid enough to leave belladonna in his lab."
She frowned. "That's hardly proof of innocence."
"There's more," I said, pulling my Bailey's Sweet Italian Biscotti Coffee Creamer from the fridge. "Ruth Walker told me that Liam was at Lickalicious Lips right before the police came and searched the premises."
"So?"
"So," I began, pouring a cup of the creamer into my mug, "he could have planted the belladonna on the premises to frame Adam."
"Hold on a second," she said, holding up her hand. "You can't possibly think that a nice man like Liam Jones killed his own daughter."
"His daughter, no. But I can't rule out the others." I said, stirring my cookie-creamer coffee. "Think about it. We don't know for certain that he was out of the country when they were murdered. I mean, we haven’t checked the flight records."
"True." She twirled a lock of blonde hair around her finger. "But what motive would he have had to kill Scarlett and Miles?"
I shrugged and took a sip of my coffee. "Maybe he thought they killed Ivanna."
"And then he framed Adam for his crimes?" She tossed the lock of hair over her shoulder. "This is too far-fetched."
"Just hear me out, okay?" I took a seat at the table. "I don't believe that Liam killed anyone either. But I have this nagging feeling that he's behind Adam's arrest. I mean, Adam told us himself that Liam doesn't like him, so much so that he had his secretary tell Adam to clear out before he came to town. Remember?"
She nodded, staring down at her shoes.
"So obviously there's bad blood there, and it has to have something to do with Adam's belligerent relationship with Ivanna."
She pursed her lips. "Apparently, he does have some harsh feelings toward Adam, but that's a far cry from framing him for murder."
"It gives him a motive, though," I said, raising my index finger. "And if Liam thinks that Adam killed Ivanna, he could have planted the belladonna to make sure that he went to prison for the crime."
Veronica pulled out a chair and took a seat. "You know this is all highly speculative. Without any evidence, I can't ask Delta to let you continue investigating the case."
"Yes, you can!" I pressed my hands together in a pleading gesture. "All I need is a few more days."
She shook her head. "Based on my conversation with her this morning, she's convinced that the police have the right person in custody. So as of right now, the case is closed."
The lobby bell sounded before I could say another word.
"That must be Delta," Veronica said as she stood up and adjusted the white belt around her blazer. "I'm sorry, Franki."
I hung my head as she headed for the lobby. I was disappointed, but I understood her point. She couldn't ask clients to pay us without proof.
David popped his head into the doorway. "Uh, mind if I hide out in your office?"
"Be my guest." I was tempted to hide out with him and avoid the inevitable dressing-down from Delta, but I knew that Veronica expected me to be professional, regardless of how unprofessional the client. I took a gulp from my mug, fervently wishing that the Baileys' creamer line wasn't non-alcoholic. Then I dragged myself down the hallway to my doom.
Despite the fact that it was seventy-five degrees outside, Delta was sitting on the couch in a full-length red fox coat. She tore a check from her checkbook and handed it to Veronica. "This should more than cover Ms. Amaro's investigative
efforts
."
I suppressed a snort—not because of her emphasis on my so-called "efforts," but because of the particular way she butchered my last name.
Amaro
was Italian for "bitter," and I was definitely that.