Prugnolino Purple: A Short Spring Comedy Mystery

Book : Franki Amato Mysteries

by Traci Andrighetti

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

Synopsis

Spring has sprung in NOLA, but Franki can't get a break...

It's springtime in New Orleans, and Franki Amato's BFF and boss, Veronica Maggio, has dragged her to an art auction at one of the city's historic house museums. Up for sale, a provocative, not to mention peculiar, painting of their sixty-something ex-stripper landlady that is anything but priceless. Franki thinks the only crime at play is the image on the canvas until a cocktail waitress is found unconscious in front of an empty easel. After Franki finds a purple splotch on the presumed weapon, she and Veronica spring into action to ID the attacking art thief and locate the missing painting. But Franki's biggest surprise isn't the culprit—it's the “blooming idiot” who bought the portrait before the auction started.

Prugnolino Purple is book 1.5 in the Franki Amato Mysteries, but it can be read as a standalone story. 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: April 5, 2019

Publisher: Limoncello Press

Print pages: 50

Sample

Chapter 1

“A stripper organ grinder?” I gaped at the watercolor of my sixty-something ex-stripper landlady on an easel in the historic Hermann-Grima House parlor. “The artist painted Glenda as a stripper organ grinder?”

Veronica shrugged, but her cheeks were as cherry as the silk damask curtains. “It’s a double entendre.”

“I got that, thank you. What I don’t get is why the Spring Fiesta Association would showcase this canvas crime, and on the French Quarter homes tour, of all places. Aren’t they supposed to promote the beauty of New Orleans’ cultural heritage?”

“Be supportive, Franki.” Her cloudy tone clashed with the sunny room. “The artist is an old friend of Glenda’s, and she’s proud of the painting. She was quite the local celebrity in the seventies, and this is her return to the limelight.”

I glanced at her breasts sagging on top of the barrel organ. “You mean the red light.”

“Yes, it’s clever how he used a lamp post for a stripper pole, isn’t it?”

My gaze went sideways. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Well, someone appreciates the piece because it sold this afternoon for five thousand dollars.”

I gripped the pianoforte for strength. “Next you’re going to tell me Glenda’s the Spring Fiesta Queen at the parade tonight. Seriously, as private investigators, we need to investigate how the artist pulled off this heist.”

“It wasn’t a heist.” She brushed back her blonde hair. “He’s well-known in Louisiana, and he hasn’t painted in years.”

“Shame he started again.”

Veronica shot me a silence-it look as a thin, middle-aged brunette approached in a plain gray dress.

“Good evening, ladies.” She touched her practical hair. “I’m Jane Mills, the development director of the association.”

Her name was ironic since she was a clone of Miss Jane from The Beverly Hillbillies. “I’m Franki Amato, and this is my boss, Veronica Maggio.”

Veronica clasped the woman’s hand. “We’re actually best friends, but I convinced her to come to work at my PI firm, Private Chicks. I hope you don’t mind that we’re here early. I wanted to get a peek at this fabulous house before the auction started.” 

“I understand completely.” Jane’s accent was as sophisticated as her Jackie O. pearls. “The Hermann-Grima House is one of the finest Federal-style mansions in Louisiana.” She grasped my arm. “Did you take the tour of the backyard? There’s a courtyard garden, some old slave quarters, and the only existing horse stable and 1830s open-hearth kitchen in the city.” 

I pulled from her clutches. “Uh, I was kind of hoping to tour a bar?”

“Franki, we should wait and have a toast with Glenda.” Veronica turned to Jane. “She’s our friend and the subject of the organ grinder painting. You might know her by the stage name Lorraine Lamour?”

“Indeed,” Jane said in upper-class speak. “We’re positively thrilled to have the legendary Miss Lamour in attendance, and, of course, the esteemed art painter.”

It was strange that she hadn’t mentioned him by name. “So, who is the artist?”

She touched her gardenia corsage. “I just told you. Art Painter.”

I chuckle-snorted. “That’s a pseudonym, right?”

“It’s not,” Veronica said to shut me up.

Jane’s smile was dreamy as she admired the organ grinder monkey attached to Glenda’s leg. “It was his destiny to create magnificent art.”

Too bad he didn’t.

She gave Veronica and me paper fans and kept one for herself. “To commemorate the watercolor, we’ve created these lovely keepsakes.”

I turned the fan over in my hand. It was the frisky monkey’s face with his tongue hanging out.

“How cute.” Veronica slipped hers into her purse. “It reminds me of a Blue Dog fan I got at a gallery on White Linen Night.”

Jane clapped her hands. “What a coincidence. We’re exhibiting one of George Rodrigue’s Cajun landscapes in the adjoining dining room, and in the gallery in the back of the house we have a James Michalopoulos. Feel free to take a look. I’ll find our cocktail waitress, Candace, and bring you both a margarita.”

“Please do,” I said under my breath. After all, this was supposed to be a fiesta, and so far it had been anything but.

Glenda strutted in with DIVA written all over her—a D pasty on one breast, an I pasty on the other, and a gold-sequined triangle skirt with VA in the middle. To accessorize, she’d donned six-inch platforms with gold dollar signs for heels and a boa made of real cash. “Where’s your banker beau, Miss Franki? He won’t want to miss my likeness.”

Bradley collected paintings and hadn’t missed a local art show in the month we’d been dating, but I would have bet Glenda’s dollar signs that he’d be good with missing this one. “Unfortunately, he had to catch up on some work at the bank.”

“His loss, sugar. Like me, my painting is one of a kind.”

Veronica stepped on my foot.

A bald bespectacled male in his seventies stormed in wearing a black smock and matching slacks. He cradled a palette in one arm and set to work touching up the painting.

Glenda ran two fingers through her platinum hair. “Even though my portrait has sold, Art’s still not satisfied with that monkey.”

“Since you brought it up,” I said, “why is the monkey taking a dollar from your G-string? Shouldn’t he be collecting cash from the spectators?”

Art lowered his brush and looked at me like I was the flaky artist. “Because he represents the Catholic Church.”

The paint fumes had gone to his head. “Um, how so?”

“He’s a Capuchin monkey to evoke the eponymous monks, which is why his clothes are green.”

“But the monks wear brown.”

His gaze penetrated mine like turpentine through paint. “Green is the color of faith but also of greed. He’s taking the money as a tithe.”

Interpreting art was subjective, but this was BS. Glenda had never given a red cent to the church. Her only religion was champagne.

“What about the other colors?” Veronica asked.

“Her vest is purple for justice.” Art brushed green paint on the monkey’s vest. “And her G-string is gold for power.”

I didn’t want to explore the gold any further since Glenda’s had a big VA on it. “What about the white of her sleeves?”

Glenda, who’d taken a seat on top of the pianoforte, reclined trucker-mud-flap style. “Purity.” 

Art nodded. “To represent The Virgin Mary.”

My mouth opened, and Veronica led me away before something unholy came out of it.

“Why don’t we toast the sale?” she suggested. “Big Easy Daiquiris is around the corner.”

“There’s a bar here in the back, Miss Ronnie.”

Veronica changed direction and pulled me through the dining room to the gallery, where a bartender with a nametag that said Brent uncorked a wine bottle at an antique wooden table.

I yanked my arm from my best friend’s grasp and removed a drink menu from a miniature easel. “A limoncello-jalapeño margarita?”

“We have arancello too.” He gestured at a carafe of the orange liqueur. “The chief curator, Guy Sciarabba, is Sicilian. He makes them from his grandfather’s recipes.”

Veronica nudged my arm. “Sounds like your nonna.”

“Yeah, she’s Sicilian and big into homemade booze.” I placed the menu on the stand. “I’m going to have to go with the limoncello.”

“Brent.” A gray-haired male in his sixties stood in the doorway to the dining room. “Candace is hurt.”

The bartender dropped his corkscrew and rushed out, and we followed him to the parlor.

Brent and the other man attended to a petite redhead who was unconscious on the reproduction carpet. A silver serving tray lay next to her head and a monkey fan a few feet from her hand.

Veronica covered her mouth. “I wonder if she tripped.”

“Looks passed out drunk to me,” Glenda said.

“She’s out but not from alcohol.” I pointed to the easel.

The painting was gone.