Galliano Gold: A Private Investigator Comedy Mystery

Book 5: Franki Amato Mysteries

by Traci Andrighetti

Genres: Humor & Satire; Cozy Mystery; Private Investigators; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

All that glitters isn't gold on Franki's steamboat investigation...

It's Mardi Gras season in New Orleans, but PI Franki Amato has too many problems to celebrate. A proven Sicilian lemon tradition hasn't landed her a proposal, so her nonna has amped up the meddling to get her married, and pronto. Franki's also under pressure to solve the strange murder of a family friend's nephew, Nick Pescatore, who was found on a Mississippi River steamboat rumored to be haunted. When the sinister old boat sets sail on an overnight gambling cruise, Franki goes undercover with a motley crew, including a Mark Twainophile captain with a murderous past and a slimy galley chef with a mobster brother, not to mention an ex-stripper landlady with a newfound career as a memoir writer and all-too public speaker. Franki has to figure out what missing Civil War gold, a playing card, and a mysterious woman on roller skates have to do with Nick's death. If she doesn't, it's anchors aweigh for Franki—down to Davy Jones' locker.

Galliano Gold is book 5 in the Franki Amato Mysteries, but it can be read as a standalone. If you like zany characters and laugh-out-loud humor with a splash of suspense, then you'll drink up this fun series by USA Today Bestselling Author Traci Andrighetti. Cheers!

FRANKI AMATO MYSTERIES:
Limoncello Yellow (book 1)
Prugnolino Purple (spring short story 1.5)
Prosecco Pink (book 2)
Rosolio Red (holiday short story 2.5)
Amaretto Amber (book 3)
Fragolino Fuchsia (Rome short story 3.5)
Campari Crimson (book 4)
Cannellino Caramel (holiday short story 4.5)
Galliano Gold (book 5)
Cremoncello Cream (Sicily short story 5.5)
Marsala Maroon (book 6)
Mirto Magenta (Sardinia short story 6.5)
Valpolicella Violet (book 7, coming in the fall of 2021!)

"Andrighetti's dialogue is genuine yet uproarious, and her glowing characters animatedly leap off the page. Her sparkling wit keeps the hijinks brimming with merriment."
~ Long Island Book Reviews

"Traci Andrighetti's Franki Amato Mysteries have me tickled pink! Her smart, sassy heroine, wacky cast of characters, and vividly original settings had me glued to the page. I can't wait to read more from this author!"
~ Gemma Halliday, New York Times bestselling author

"Traci's writing is sharp and funny; the world she paints leaps off the page and makes the reader laugh out loud.... A thoroughly enjoyable voice in fiction!"
~ Kristin Harmel, New York Times bestselling author

Release date: October 1, 2019

Publisher: Limoncello Press

Print pages: 324

Sample

Chapter 1

Your nonna has hired Private Chicks to investigate why you’re a zitella.

The text message pierced my chest like a bullet that then ricocheted off a rib and tore through my lungs. My elderly Sicilian grandmother had always been a shrewd meddler—but hiring the New Orleans PI firm where I worked to probe my old-maid status? That was Machiavellian.

I sprang from a bench in the plaza of Washington Artillery Park ready for battle. “This time the woman has crossed the line of all lines, and as my name is Franki Amato, I will push her back over it!”

A group of tourists gaped at me as though I’d fired the park’s Civil War cannon into the Mississippi River.

I couldn’t blame them, really. It was eight thirty in the morning, and I was alone, waving a bag of Café du Monde beignets, and screaming at my cell phone. I figured I should explain myself.

“I’m at war with my nonna, and it’s not my fault.” I waved my phone as evidence. “She launched the first volley last year when she had some lemons shot at me in church.”

The tourists scattered.

“I probably should’ve left off the lemon part.”

A little girl, maybe eight or nine, approached and cocked her head. Except for her posh pink coat and matching patent leather purse and shoes, she could have been a mini-me with her dark eyes and long brown hair. “Why would your nonna have you shot at with lemons?”

I smiled through my anger. After all, the kid was cute. “It has to do with an Italian-American Catholic tradition. On St. Joseph’s Day, which is March 19th, we decorate an altar with food to feed the poor. And if an unmarried woman steals a lemon from the altar without anyone seeing her, she’ll supposedly get proposed to within a year.” I held up my hands. “Not that a woman needs a proposal or anything.”

Her brow creased. “But you’re not supposed to steal, especially not from poor people in church.”

“That’s exactly what I said.” I knelt, sensing a kindred spirit. “But my nonna thinks it’s her God-given duty to get me married. And because I turned thirty last March, she had the lemons shot at me with a T-shirt cannon. I had to take one to make it stop.”

“It’s February 25th. Have you been proposed to?”

My boyfriend, Bradley Hartmann, hadn’t popped the question, and I had mixed feelings about that. Nevertheless, I forced a grin. “Not yet.”

She pulled her purse strap higher on her collarbone. “Well, it might be because you’re a crazy bag lady.”

I catapulted to my five feet, ten inches. Granted, I wasn’t in a business suit, but a black turtleneck, blue jeans, and Italian loafers were hardly bag lady attire. On the other hand, I was carrying a hobo bag and the bag of beignets. “For your information, young lady, I’m a private investigator.”

“Oh. Then I’ll bet it’s because you’re old.”

I shoved the last beignet between my teeth and crumpled the bag at her.

She screamed and ran.

A seventyish woman in a puffer coat and knit cap pointed a mittened hand at me. “Shame on you for scaring that sweet girl.”

I pulled the beignet from my mouth. “That girl is as sweet as salt. And I hate to be rude, but I’ve got a big problem I need to deal with.”

She harrumphed. “I’ll say you do.”

I threw up my hands but held tight to the beignet. “Can’t a gal be irate in peace?”

“The park is a public space.” She parked her mittens on her hips. “And you would do well to change your behavior. As it stands right now, not even a bushel of St. Joseph’s Day lemons would land you a man.”

I recoiled as though shrapnel had struck me. Apparently, Washington Artillery Park was an active combat zone.

Squeezing my phone, I stormed down the plaza steps and across the railroad tracks to the Moonwalk, a promenade along the Mississippi River. Fortunately, no one was around because I needed some space to collect my thoughts. The text message and unsolicited comments had hit an already wounded nerve.

Bradley and I had been dating for over two years, and even though I was in no rush to get married, I couldn’t help but notice that he was in no rush to propose. And his reluctance had triggered old insecurities. Was he put off by my nonna’s meddling? Or was it something I’d done?

I sighed and gazed at the river. I’d read somewhere that it was a half-mile wide and two hundred feet deep. And because I was in Louisiana, I knew the murky brown depths held a host of sinister creatures. Still, there was something soothing about watching the boats and barges gliding along the water. I closed my eyes and filled my nostrils with the mud-and-tar scented air.

The tension ebbed and flowed from my body.

Tranquility.

A steamboat whistle blasted too close behind me.

My eyes flew open, I started, and my ankle buckled. I lurched toward the river and dropped my phone. My hand slammed onto the rocky embankment, followed by the rest of me. Then I rolled and plunged into the frigid water.

And I sank to the lair of alligators, cottonmouths, and bull sharks.

Fueled by fears of circling predators and a bacterial infection, I rocketed to the surface, gasping and sputtering. I dragged my battered body from the river and stood on shaky feet. My hobo bag was still on my arm, and without thinking I reached inside for a tissue. But it was full of water and...

“A fish!”

“With whiskers!”

The catfish leapt from my bag and into the river, and I stumbled and fell backwards onto jagged rock, which sent a stab of pain through my rear end.

“Fitting,” I said through clenched teeth. 

I rose and checked for damage. Besides some aches and scrapes, there was a two-inch gash in my jeans and underwear. 

With my blood boiling despite my cold, wet clothes, I made my way to the promenade and retrieved my phone. The display had shattered. 

I turned and raged at the steamboat. But I did so silently. Thanks to the Mississippi mishap, I’d dramatically upped my bag lady look, and I didn’t want to attract attention from the likes of little girls and older women. I did, however, want a word with that whistleblower.

Fists clenched, I hobble-marched to the bow of the white boat. To my surprise, it wasn’t the Natchez, New Orleans’ only steamboat. “Galliano” was painted in gold on the side, and the giant paddlewheel was the same color. Unlike its competitor, which was popular with tourists, the Galliano looked dark and deserted, like a spooky ghost boat. But someone had blasted that whistle. “Probably a sailor screwing with me for a laugh, the jerk.”

I was starting to shiver, so I gave up the manhunt and returned the way I’d come, ignoring the stares as I limped and dribbled river water from my hobo bag. When I reached Jackson Square on Decatur Street, I headed north toward my office—where I should have gone to eat my breakfast beignets—and began weaving through the French Quarter crowds.

My phone rang. Veronica Maggio appeared on the cracked display. As my BFF and the owner of Private Chicks, Inc., she shared some of the blame for my predicament.

I pressed Answer but said nothing.

Veronica sighed into the receiver. “I take it you still haven’t cooled down after my text message?”

Not even a dunk in the river in February had put out my anger embers. “How could you take my nonna’s case?”

“We knew she was going to pull some kind of stunt since the lemon deadline is looming, so I thought we should keep an eye on her.”

I stepped over a pool of purple, hoping it was a spilled drink. “Watching her doesn’t work. She’s crafty, and now that you’ve given her an in, she’ll try to shame a proposal from Bradley.”

“How was I supposed to refuse her? I’ve known your family since we were freshmen at The University of Texas.”

“We studied Italian together, so you know there are at least two options. An abrupt no and an even more abrupt tch.”

The Italian sound for no caught the attention of a drunk who ogled my chest. “Hey, babe. Where’s the wet turtleneck contest?”

I swung my hobo bag at him. He ducked, and I kept walking. “And precisely how do you plan to investigate why I’m not married?”

“I don’t. I gave the case to David.”

“What? He’s a sophomore in college. He’s like pasta dough in her hands.”

“Not if the only thing he has to do is wait for Bradley to propose.”

I went around a slow-moving tour group. “And if he doesn’t propose?”

“Franki, Bradley quit a high-paying job to spend more time with you. Does that sound like a man who doesn’t have serious intentions?”

It didn’t. “But what if he regrets it?”

“I haven’t seen any signs of that. Quite the contrary, in fact.”

She had a point. Since Bradley had left Pontchartrain Bank, he’d lavished me with daily attention. He’d taken me to dinner and a play the night before, and we had a lunch date in a few hours. “You’re probably right, but the lemon tradition is about to sour our relationship.”

“My advice—forget the lemons and enjoy your time with him. Sooner or later, he’s going to have to go back to work.”

Veronica was a wise woman, and I needed to listen to her. “You know what? I will. The next time my nonna calls—”

“Oh, she didn’t call. She came to the office.”

I stopped dead in front of Molly’s pub. “When was this?”

“This morning. Your mother dropped her off.”

I gripped the phone so hard that the glass shards crunched. Nonna in NOLA was a no-no, and my mom was well aware of that.

I heard another whistle—but not from a steamboat.

A group of frat boys were checking out my exposed behind.

I grew so hot that I’m pretty sure I let off some river water steam. “There are women flashing their breasts on Bourbon Street, but you guys are here staring at a few inches of my rear end?” I flicked my bag at them. “Get to class and learn some sense.”

They scattered like the tourists had.

“Franki, what’s going on?” Veronica sounded concerned.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle. Listen, I’m going to come get my car, and then I’ll be back after lunch. I need to take care of some personal business.” I closed the call and picked up my pace.

There was another tradition behind my nonna’s visit, and I had to confront the instigator before she skipped town.

* * *

My 1965 Mustang convertible screeched to a stop at the fourplex where I rented a furnished one-bedroom next door to Veronica. My mom’s Ford Taurus station wagon wasn’t in the driveway, but my sixty-something ex-stripper landlady, Glenda O’Brien, was. It wasn’t her pastie-adorned breasts that made me slam on the brakes, it was the giant pastied pair she’d hung from her second-floor apartment railing.

Even though I was anxious to shower and change, I lingered in the front seat. It had already been an epically bad day, and nine thirty was too early for nudity. I glanced in the rearview mirror at Thibodeaux’s Tavern, but it was too early for a drink too. Then my gaze drifted to the creepy cemetery next to the tavern. It was definitely too early for that.

I sucked it up and got out of the car.

Glenda held a Mae West–style cigarette holder in one hand and a champagne flute in the other. Unlike me, she had no qualms about imbibing in the morning because day drinking was practically a custom among native New Orleanians. “You look like you crawled from the swamp, Miss Franki.”

She was one to talk in her alligator stripper shoes. “Close. The river.” I gestured toward the boob decoration. “I take it those are for Mardi Gras?”

“That was the original plan, sugar, but I might like to keep them up. Carnie made them for me.”

The mere mention of her annoying drag queen friend, Carnie Vaul, irritated me. And I silently thanked the gods—or the goddesses, as it were—that the carnival queen was on a world tour with RuPaul’s Drag Race.

Glenda pulled aside her long, platinum locks and raised her chest. “She modeled them after mine.”

I’d thought they were hanging low. I walked to my front door and—case in point—had to duck to avoid hitting my head on one. “Well, before you make any decisions, my nonna’s in town for a surprise visit.”

Glenda sashay-ran up the stairs, and I smirked as I inserted my key into the lock. She and my nonna were engaged in an ongoing skirmish over clothing. My nonna covered her with bib aprons, and Glenda chafed at the so-called “straitjackets.”

I opened the door, and my cairn terrier, Napoleon, trotted out and hiked his leg on my front tire.

“Sometimes I think you’re really a rat terrier.”

He returned to the entryway and sniffed my leg. His tail lowered, and he bolted beneath the velvet zebra-print chaise lounge.

“Make that a bull terrier because I don’t smell that bad.” 

I shut the door and kicked off my wet loafers and glanced around the apartment, looking for signs of old-world Sicily among the bordello chic décor. But it didn’t look like my nonna had been there, which was weird because it wasn’t like her to waste time taking over. 

I went through the living room to the kitchen and deposited my hobo bag in the sink. Then I headed for the bathroom and called my mom on speaker. I put my cracked phone on the red Louis XVI vanity and stripped off my turtleneck. 

The line rang a couple of times, and then I heard the sounds of a car in motion and Bing Crosby’s “Deck the Halls.”

“Marvelous day, isn’t it, dear?” My mother’s typically shrill voice was as joyful as the song.

I pulled a Grinch pucker in the oval-shaped mirror for two reasons. First, she was on her way home to Houston without my nonna, i.e., her live-in mother-in-law. And second, she hadn’t stopped listening to Christmas music since Nonna, a diehard widow, had invited a man to our holiday dinner. “Mom, could you quit with the carols?”

The fa-la-la-la-laing stopped. “If this is about your nonna, I don’t want to hear it.”

I wriggled, incensed, from my wet jeans. “Uh, an earful is the least you can expect. You seem to have started a tradition of unloading family members on me, and I want it to stop.”

“It was an impromptu trip, Francesca. Luigi Pescatore called last night and asked her to come.”

Nonna’s Christmas dinner date?

“And with any luck,” her tone had gone tawdry, “she’ll stay with him at the retirement home.”

I sank onto the clawfoot tub, and so did my stomach. Nonna and Luigi were both in their eighties, so the thought of them together was unsettling. And I wasn’t the only one in the family who felt that way. “Dad didn’t seem too happy about his elderly mother dating. Does he know you brought her to see him?”

The call ended.

It would be easy to think the line had dropped since my mother was on the road, but I knew her better than that. She’d hung up because I’d caught her keeping my dad in the dark.

I tapped the number again and watched the display until she answered. “Mom—”

“You know that graveyard across the street from your house?” The Christmas joy had left her tone, and it had turned Halloween hell.

“What about it?”

“You screw this up for me, and I’ll put you in it, capisci?”

I understood. Normally, I would’ve thought she was kidding. But from the second Luigi entered the scene, a change had come over my mother. She’d gotten an unexpected shot at a mother-in-law-free life, and she was willing to do anything to get it, including sacrificing her daughter.

“That woman has been in my house for twenty-two years, ever since your nonnu died. You can’t even begin to fathom what that’s been like.”

Oh, I could—Stephen King-level horror. But my mother’s voice was as tight as a violin string, so it was best to agree with her. “No, I can’t. But Luigi isn’t the only reason she came here, and you know that because you dropped her off at Private Chicks so she could have me investigated—for being an old maid.”

“That was for your own good, Francesca. The days are ticking down to your thirty-first birthday, not to mention the end of the lemon tradition. And both are stark reminders that your biological time clock is ticking down too.”

I’d heard of mothers who made everything better, but mine had an uncanny ability not only to make things worse, but also to tie all of my problems to my aging reproductive system. “Obviously, I can’t expect your help with the zitella case, so at least tell me where nonna is.”

“With Luigi.” She squealed.

And I half-expected her to break into a chorus of “Joy to the World.” 

“He was waiting for her at Private Chicks with a beautiful basket of garlic and chili peppers from his produce company.” She gave a wistful sigh. “So romantic, isn’t it?”

It wasn’t. In some cultures his gift would be used to ward off vampires and werewolves. “I’d rather not comment.”

“Because you’re hard-hearted like your father, which is part of your problem in relationships.”

“That and my old eggs,” I muttered.

“You’re breaking up, dear. What did you say?”

“Nothing.” I moved to the toilet. It seemed more appropriate somehow.

“Anyway, as I was leaving, I heard Luigi mention something about a steamboat.”

The whistleblower came to mind, as did my need for a shower. I turned on the water to let it warm up. “He must be taking her on the Natchez for a jazz cruise.”

“No, it was another boat. The Galliano.”

For a moment, I wondered whether my nonna had pulled the whistle that made me fall into the river, but I dismissed the idea. If she’d done it, she would’ve been on deck pointing out my curves to eligible sailors when I’d climbed from the water. “Mom, I saw the Galliano today, and I don’t think it’s in operation.”

“Well, I’m sure Luigi knows what he’s doing. He’s extremely capable for a man his age, and quite the catch.”

I wrinkled my lips. Some people would have said the very same thing about the catfish that had leapt from my purse.

“I just pulled into Steamboat Bill’s to get some gumbo for your father, so I’ll let you go. But remember what I said about that cemetery.” Her Halloween tone had returned. “Don’t do anything to interfere with your nonna and Luigi, or else.”

The line went dead.

I climbed into the tub and closed the shower curtain, slightly seasick from the conversation. It wasn’t my mother’s threat or my nonna’s relationship with Luigi that made me queasy—at least, not in that instant. The issue was the recurring steamboat theme, because it seemed like an omen. 

And as I rinsed off the dregs of the Mississippi River, I couldn’t wash away the feeling that I would have another ill-fated encounter with the Galliano.