Galliano Gold (Franki Amato Mysteries Book 5) Read online

  Galliano Gold

  Franki Amato Mysteries Book 5

  Traci Andrighetti

  Contents

  Free Short Mystery Offer

  Book Backstory

  The Steamboat Galliano

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  A Cocktail and Dessert

  Call to Action

  About the Author

  Also by Traci Andrighetti

  Sneak Peak

  Free Short Mystery Offer

  Sign up for my newsletter at traciandrighetti.com to be the first to know about my new releases, deals, and giveaways. And I’ll email you a link to download “Fragolino Fuchsia,” a Franki-goes-to-Rome short mystery, for FREE!

  GALLIANO GOLD

  by

  TRACI ANDRIGHETTI

  ***

  Copyright © 2019 by Traci Andrighetti

  Cover design by Lyndsey Lewellyn

  Limoncello Press www.limoncellopress.com

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Created with Vellum

  This one is for my dogs, Gigi, Vinny, and Ciccio, who help me write by barking, stepping on my keyboard, and continually asking to go outside and come back in. My sweet, fearless Fabi couldn’t be there for this one, but I felt her with me nonetheless.

  Book Backstory

  Galliano Gold is in the books, and I’m ecstatic. My life took so many twists and turns during the writing of this book that I felt like Franki Amato. I adopted a puppy, a family member had major surgery, and I was recruited out of nowhere for a job—fighting actual crime. That’s right, I’m no longer just a crime writer, I’m also a crime fighter (who likes to rhyme). Funny how life works, isn’t it?

  But back to Galliano Gold. The title is important to me because Galliano L’Autentico Liqueur, known simply as Galliano, reminds me of my childhood. And no, I wasn’t drinking back then! My parents had at least one party in the 1970s where they served the drink of the decade, the Harvey Wallbanger. Ironically, neither my mom nor my dad is a drinker, so the tall, tapered bottle with the bright yellow liquid hung around our house for decades—it even moved with us from West Texas to Houston. And I’m glad it did because now my mom uses it to make Bananas Foster, which is one of the best desserts ever invented.

  The strange thing about Galliano is that Americans often use it as a banana liqueur, but Italians claim it’s vanilla. Both flavors seem like a stretch considering that vanilla is only one of the thirty herbs, spices, and plant extracts used to make the liqueur. The other known ingredients (the recipe has been a closely guarded secret since 1896!) are anise, juniper, musk yarrow, lavender, cinnamon, and peppermint. If you ask me, that definitely doesn’t sound like banana or vanilla. But again, I digress.

  I’m also excited that Galliano Gold is done because the book has been in my head for years. Back in 2014 when my husband, son, and I took Italian friends to New Orleans, I realized that if I wanted to do The Big Easy justice, I needed to write a mystery on a plantation and another on a Mississippi River steamboat. I wrote Prosecco Pink, which is based on Oak Alley Plantation, that same year. But the steamboat mystery, inspired by our cruise on the Steamboat Natchez, has been waiting to come to life ever since. And it was worth the wait, because it takes Franki Amato on a heck of a ride and sets up an ending that is not to be missed.

  While I’m on the subject of New Orleans sites, they’re not all that make the city so memorable and mysterious. The people are the best part, and I celebrate them with every book I write. For Galliano Gold, I would especially like to call out the Dancing Hand Grenade mascot at the Tropical Isle bar on Bourbon Street, the Mardi Gras dance troops and krewes, and the Cajun Navy for keeping New Orleans so weird, wild, and wonderful.

  I would also like to thank a few people for their help with this book, starting with my mom for reading every chapter and making comments that sometimes inspire plot twists, and my long-time editor, Sally J. Smith, for getting my sense of humor and letting me leave it in the books! I’m also grateful to Barbara Hackel, one of my favorite readers, for suggesting that I incorporate elements of a NOLA trip gone horribly, awfully wrong, and to Madeline Mrozek, my multi-talented (and multi-voiced) audiobook narrator, for suggesting that I have Franki investigate in an outrageous wig I posted on Facebook and for asking me to bring the character of Ruth Walker back. Their suggestions were so good that I found myself laughing as I wrote Galliano Gold. Here’s hoping you enjoy the book as much as I did.

  Baci e abbracci (XOXO),

  Traci

  The Steamboat Galliano

  Three Decks From Bottom to Top

  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 sunk 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 h
ot 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.