Chapter 1
“I don’t know why New Orleanians call the summer humidity an ‘oppressive soup.’” I let the door to Private Chicks, Inc., slam behind me and tied my brown hair into a top knot. “The air is as thick as gumbo.”
My BFF and boss, Veronica Maggio, didn’t look up from the papers on the lobby coffee table. “I’ve been hydrating with watermelon snoballs.” She flicked her blonde ponytail from her neck and pointed to a Pandora’s cup. “I got you tiger’s blood.”
I picked up the red shaved ice and stabbed at it with a spoon. “Everyone in the French Quarter is hydrating with something stronger, and I’m ready to join them. Did you get my prosecco from Vieux Carré Wine & Spirits? It would be delish in this.”
“I refused.”
“What? Why?”
“They raised their prices by two dollars, and I wasn’t going to pay that.”
The bad booze news forced my heat-exhausted limbs to surrender, and I slumped onto the couch beside her.
Veronica punched the keys of a calculator. “While I was there, a woman was outside the door with a life-sized Medusa head.”
As a PI in The Big Easy, nothing surprised me. “When the heat spikes in this city, so does the crazy. Even the insects bug out. Termites swarm, caterpillars sting, and cockroaches fly—it just isn’t natural.” I dropped the back of my head onto the couch cushion. “And it’s only the beginning of August.”
“Why don’t you go away for a few days? Business is slow, and I’m tied up with this tax audit.”
“Nah, Bradley has to work.”
She sat up, emitting a waft of floral perfume. “Francesca Amato, you’re an independent woman. Go somewhere without him.”
I lifted my head to make sure she could see my pointed look. “The only place my bank account will take me is out to eat.”
She smoothed her white linen dress. “We’ll get a big case soon, Franki. In the meantime, the restaurants have some great specials for COOLinary month, so you could treat Bradley to a fancy prix-fixe meal on the cheap.”
“Dat Dog is more my price range.” I took a sad slurp from my cup.
“There’s always Houston.”
I grimaced and pressed my fingers into my forehead. “Either the brain freeze distorted my hearing, or you just suggested that I vacation at my parents’ house.”
She shrugged. “It is a free trip.”
“Except for the cost of my sanity. And anyway, Houston is almost as humid.”
“Yes, but you can escape to Galveston and sip fruity drinks on the beach.”
My look went from pointed to piercing. “As a fellow Italian-American, you know the fundamental principle of our ethnicity—you can’t. escape. the family.” I smacked the cup on my hand to underscore the burden of the words. “I can see me now, sweating on the hot sand with my nonna on one side calling me a zitella, and my mom on the other lamenting that I’m thirty-one and still haven’t given her a grandkid.” I shoved a bloody bite into my mouth. “The next thing you know, this childless old maid will be standing in front of a liquor store with a severed Medusa head.”
She buried a smile in a spoonful of ice. “Too bad you couldn’t go to Sardinia with Glenda.”
I almost spat snoball at the mention of our landlady. “As if. You remember what happened when she tagged along on the Rome investigation.”
“I know, I know, she didn’t do as the Romans do.”
“No, she did as sixty-something ex-strippers do, which is a problem in a country of Italian men. Besides, she’s with her ex-boss and his Sardinian wife, and I don’t want to stay in a beach house that belongs to strip club owners.”
“The pictures Glenda texted might change your mind. Thanks to the money they make from Madame Moiselle’s, that beach house is a beach mansion overlooking the Costa Smeralda.”
I cold-stared into her cornflower blues. “Let me be clear, I’d rather visit Dante’s nine circles of hell than go on another trip with Glenda—or see her stripper swimsuits.”
Veronica’s cell phone vibrated on the coffee table. “Well, speak of the she-devil. I’ll put her on speaker.”
Even though we were alone, I glanced around the lobby. Our landlady’s mouth was a minefield of explosive statements.
“Ciao, bella!” Veronica slid the phone to the middle of the table. “I’m here with Franki, and we want details.”
“It’s filthy seductive, Miss Ronnie.” Glenda’s sultry voice sexed up the room. “I’ve definitely found my people.”
Unless Sardinia was an island of aging ex-strippers, I didn’t see how that was possible. “How so?”
“The Sardinians are as wild as the landscape, Miss Franki.”
“That’s a stereotype.”
“It isn’t. The island’s known for its shepherds and bandits. It’s a wildman paradise.”
Veronica looked at me. “She’s not wrong. I read that the banditry has to do with the island’s history as an inland colony and its pastoral economy. Sheep outnumber people two to one.”
It sounded more like a pasture than a paradise. “Is it hot?”
“Sizzling, sugar. Did you not hear what I said about the menfolk?”
Of course I’d meant the weather, but I didn’t force the issue. Despite her age, Glenda was in perpetual heat and apparently unable to distinguish between sex and temperature.
Veronica leaned forward. “Where are you now?”
“Poetto Beach.” Glenda paused, and the click of a lighter was followed by a sharp intake of breath. “It’s in the Gulf of Angels, and it’s got a cove called the Devil’s Saddle. Lucifer lost it when he fell off his horse in a battle against the Archangel Michael for control of the gulf, and now I’m riding that thing like a hellion cowgirl.”
I shot a see-what-I-mean? look at my BFF and boss, whose smile turned diabolical. “Franki was just telling me she’d like to visit a place like that.”
My face contorted à la Medusa, and I waved my arms like frenzied snakes.
“Perfect, Miss Ronnie, because I’ve got a proposition for her.”
Nervous, I shifted on the couch. “Save it for the shepherds and bandits.”
“Save it?” Glenda exhaled. “Child, you know that’s not my style.”
Oh, I do.
“Anyhoo, sugar, Harry needs a PI to look into a theft at his father-in-law’s business, so I told him about Private Chicks and how you girls met at the University of Texas studying Italian. Now he wants to contract your services, Miss Franki.”
Veronica gasped.
I held up my hand to stop her from accepting. “Actually, Sardinian is the closest living language to Latin, so my Italian might not help. And you can tell Little Bo Peep that I don’t do lost-sheep investigations.”
“It’s not sheep, sugar. His father-in-law, Efisio, makes a myrtle berry liqueur called Mirto. The brand name is Mirto d’Efisio, and his company’s entire production was stolen from the warehouse down south in Pula.”
Veronica’s eyes glowed like the Mediterranean. “There’s your ‘something stronger,’ Franki.”
Not even a treasure trove of Italian liqueur—and a bonus chest of Nutella—could convince me to take the case. “Honestly, Glenda, that’s something the police in Pula should investigate.”
“They did, and the carabinieri located a few of the bottles in a dumpster near some Roman ruins, but they still haven’t figured out who stole it. That’s where you come in. Not only will Harry pay your wages and expenses, he’ll put you up in a bungalow at a spa resort.”
Veronica’s hand went to her mouth. “Oh, Franki. You’ve got to take this case.”
“C’mon, sugar. You know what they say—all roads lead to Roman ruins.”
The phrase road to ruin came to mind, as in mine. “Those roads lead to Rome, not Sardinia, so it’s a no.”
My text tone dinged.
I pulled my phone from the pocket of my khaki capris, and my veins chilled as though filled with tiger’s blood snoball. “I can be on a plane first thing tomorrow.”
Glenda gave a raucous cheer. “I’m glad you came around. I’ll talk to Harry and text you the arrangements. Arrivederci, ladies!
Veronica hung up. “What prompted that about-face?”
“You mean, my descent into the first circle of hell?” I leaned over and put my head between my knees. “Something more horrifying than a vacation with Glenda—my mom and Nonna are coming in the morning for a wedding and a baptism.”
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