Fragolino Fuchsia Read online

  Living in New Orleans, I’d seen my share of spooky cemeteries, but the catacombs were really the pits. Among the marble plaques, statues, and sepulchers was the occasional femur or the odd tibia. And from time to time, there was an actual shriveled body.

  After walking for an eternity, I paused to peek into a nook. My forehead struck an object.

  It was a skull.

  With a full set of teeth.

  I sucked in my breath and gagged, but not because of the skull or even the musty odor.

  I’d inhaled something, and I feared it was an ancient hair—or a flake of dried skin.

  Traumatized, I reached into my mouth and extracted the offending item.

  Then my face morphed into a murderous look.

  It was a piece of feather, but it wasn’t from Ciro the chicken. One of Glenda’s fuchsia plumes had flown the coop on that tiny truck and nested in my mouth.

  And meanwhile, so had my guide.

  A realization chilled me to my live bones. I was alone in this scary cemetery.

  “Fra Bart?”

  Silence.

  “Hello?”

  Nothing. I decided to try British.

  “Yoo-hoo?”

  To my relief, I heard the shuffling of monk moccasins.

  A tall, twenty-something blonde appeared in a cute pair of flats. “Oh!”

  She jumped, and I jumped too.

  “Sorry.” She put a hand on my arm. “I thought you were my college student, Vanessa. She and her friend Matteo got separated from our group.”

  I knew people got lost in this godforsaken place. If I ever saw that Fra again, he was getting a tongue flogging.

  Staci clutched a clipboard to her chest. “Between you and me, I almost wish I could leave them here.”

  “Partiers, huh?”

  “Worse. Philosophers.” She flipped her long curls. “Always falling behind debating the meaning of life, while the rest of us have moved on.”

  Who did that? Especially on vacation. “I’m looking for two college kids of my own. But they’ve been missing for three days.”

  “That’s terrible.” She touched a pin shaped like an S on her scarf. “I’ll help you look. I’m Staci Cecchini, by the way. I volunteered as a tour guide here when I was in graduate school, so I know the layout like it was my house.”

  A creepy analogy, but okay. “Franki Amato. I was on my way to the dining area when I lost my guide.”

  “I’ll take you.” She shoved the clipboard into her tote. “Maybe he’s waiting for you there.”

  I hoped he wasn’t. Staci was a lot more pleasant. Plus, I suspected she was Texan.

  She led me to an open room with a fresco of a feast.

  I glanced around. “It doesn’t look like they’ve been here, but who knows.”

  “What can you tell me about them? You know, something they might be into?”

  “They’re ancient Rome freaks, and they were trying to buy a sword.”

  “Hm.” She pressed a finger to her cheek. “There’s a crypt of a saint who was stabbed by a Roman soldier, but it’s sealed for restoration.”

  When she said soldier and sealed, I shivered. “Let’s check there. The boys are smart, and if they had wanted to get into that crypt, they would’ve found a way.”

  Staci took me to a dark tunnel. She pulled a flashlight from her tote and switched it on.

  I saw a dark spot in the dirt. “What’s that by your shoe?”

  She aimed the light at her feet.

  There was a row of purplish spots along the path.

  “Oh my gosh.” Her voice was a whisper. “Is that blood splatter?”

  I knelt and took a whiff of the stained soil. “It smells like . . . berries.”

  Fragolino.

  It’s fuchsia.

  And it’s scattered like Glenda’s feathers at the Colosseum.

  I shot up. “It’s a trail, like breadcrumbs. Only they used liqueur.”

  Staci trained the flashlight on the drops. “I’m sure they were trying to avoid getting lost in the maze of tunnels, poor things.”

  We followed the fragolino until we came to a dead end at a makeshift wall with a door.

  “The crypt is behind this,” she said.

  I jiggled the handle. It was locked. “David?” I knocked, and then pounded. “Vassal?”

  No answer.

  “Stand aside.” I kicked the door. It didn’t budge. I tried again, but my back spasmed.

  “Let me try something.” Staci pulled the S pin from her scarf and picked the lock like a pro. She opened the door and shined the light inside.

  My adrenaline surged like lava from Mount Vesuvius, and I rushed into the room.

  David and the vassal lay supine next to a statue of a slain woman.

  And they were snoring.

  Beside four empty bottles of fragolino.

  8

  We need an aperitivo to toast to the boys’ safe return.” David’s father signaled to the waiter from our outdoor table at Tre Scalini restaurant in Piazza Navona. “Could we get a round of Campari?”

  “Really, Bill.” David’s mother touched her Dorothy Hamill hair. “They spent the last two days drinking liquor when their water ran out, and you want to give them more?”

  “As much as I love Italian liqueurs, I’m going to pass.” The jet lag, the investigation, and Glenda had caught up with me, but not so much that I didn’t have time for my favorite dessert. I looked at the waiter. “Un tartufo, per favore.”

  “What’s that?” David grabbed a menu.

  I pointed to the description. “It means ‘truffle,’ and it’s gelato made from thirteen kinds of Swiss chocolate with a cherry inside. This restaurant is famous for it, and the recipe is a secret.”

  “Dude, I’ll have one of those.”

  The vassal pushed up his coke bottle glasses. “Me three.”

  Our waiter left to place the order.

  The vassal’s mother stared at him through thick bifocals. “I don’t know if you deserve dessert, Standish. You did try to buy an illegal sword.”

  “We thought it was legal, honest.” David’s cheeks turned fuchsia from embarrassment, or from a possible overdose of fragolino. “I got the sword the police confiscated at a flea market called Porta Portese, but the vassal—uh, I mean Standish—figured out it was fake.”

  The vassal nodded, slack-jawed. “He wanted an authentic one, like my Godric Gryffindor sword.”

  I sat motionless, but in my mind my head was shaking. Godric Gryffindor was a fictional character, so by definition his sword was fake too.

  My phone rang.

  “Excuse me for a minute.” It was my nonna, and I didn’t want to subject other families to her. I stood and walked toward Bernini’s Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi, the Fountain of the Four Rivers.

  An old woman sitting on the edge of the fountain rose and blocked me. “Tu no, eh?” She turned to a man beside her. “È quella della Fontana di Trevi!”

  I turned to stone—like the statue of that slain saint. Was I forever the Italian poster child for fountain frolicking?

  My phone resumed ringing.

  I tapped Answer and walked among the street artists’ paintings and caricatures. “Nonna, it’s one o’clock in the morning there. You need to give the meddling, and yourself, a rest.”

  “Not-a while there’s a breath in-a this body.” She spoke like a cross between Marlon Brando and the Grim Reaper. “My friend Pasqualina’s grandson is in-a Roma, and he wanna take-a you to dinner.”

  “Not-a while there’s a breath in-a this body,” I quipped.

  She laughed, but like a hyena. “Where are you?”

  “This being Rome and all, I couldn’t say.” I glanced at the Baroque façade of the Sant’Agnese in Agone church, and for once I felt no Catholic guilt about fibbing to my grandma. In agone meant “in agony,” so I knew Saint Agnes understood my pain.

  “Don’t-a mess-a with me, nipote mia.”

  I didn’t like the sound
of that “granddaughter mine,” so I decided to do damage control. “Nonna, the trip took twenty hours, and then I had to track down the boys. Even if I was single, which I’m not, I’m too tired to go on a date.”

  “You think-a you’re tired? I’ve been-a trying to get you married for-a fourteen years.”

  My gaze drifted to Bernini’s fountain. And if the old woman hadn’t still been there, I would’ve thrown myself in.

  The waiter approached. “Il tartufo è arrivato, signorina.”

  “Tartufo,” Nonna shouted. “Tre Scalini!”

  The line went dead.

  Since I couldn’t jump into the fountain, I returned to the table to drown my sorrows in gelato. With Rome’s notorious traffic, I was certain I had time to eat the dessert that had outed my whereabouts to my nonna before making my escape. I took a bite of the delicious chocolate and savored the flavor, but it curdled in my mouth.

  Glenda glided across the cobblestones like she’d been born in Rome in a cut-down version of the coat.

  I don’t know why the alterations caught me off guard. After all, everyone knew that a leopard-bird couldn’t change its feathered spots.

  “Sorry I’m late, y’all.” She flopped into a chair, and her striped pasties flopped too. “Gaetano wanted to show me the sights.”

  I’ll bet he did.

  She removed the coat to reveal a stripper gondolier getup, which prompted the vassal’s mom to grab his glasses, and then her own.

  “What did the commissario say when she got to the catacombs, sugar? Was she mad we’d searched for the boys?”

  My smile reflected a concept appropriate to the context and the culture—vendetta. “She went on the predictable tirade about interfering in an investigation. But I explained that I’d merely taken her advice to enjoy this beautiful country by visiting the Colosseum, an agriturismo, and the catacombs. And then I told her that if she wanted to solve her cases, she should do the same.”

  Glenda belly-laughed, causing her red scarf skirt to stretch. “Did you ever find out why the people restoring the crypt hadn’t shown up for work and let the boys out?”

  “The art conservators had a sciopero, which is a strike.” I ate another spoonful of gelato. “They’re common in Italy.”

  “Scusa,” a male voice said.

  I turned expecting one of the flower vendors who peddled roses at Rome’s outdoor cafes, but it was a forty-year-old in red pants and a gladiator T-shirt, instead.

  “I am Pasquale.” He beamed like the gold sequins adorning his tight cotton breastplate.

  Pasqualina’s son, no doubt. “How’d you get here so fast?”

  “I live very close.”

  Why hadn’t I expected that? “Sorry, Pasquale. I’m going to the hotel to book my return flight.”

  He pulled a chair practically in my lap, overwhelming me with his scent, and it wasn’t all cologne. “There is a strike-a. The airport is-a closed.”

  I dropped my gelato spoon.

  “Looks like you’re not going home yet, Miss Franki.” Glenda slipped on a pair of sunglasses reminiscent of a Fellini film. “You get to stay with me and live la dolce vita.”

  “Cameriere.” I called the waiter.

  He hurried to the table. “Sì, signorina?”

  “Limoncello. Quick.”

  Call to Action

  Dear reader,

  * * *

  Thank you SO MUCH for reading Fragolino Fuchsia! Like I said in the Story Backstory, I appreciate your support. Truly. We authors would simply not exist without you.

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  A presto,

  Traci

  About the Author

  Traci Andrighetti is the USA TODAY bestselling author of the Franki Amato Mysteries and the Danger Cove Hair Salon Mysteries. In her previous life, she was an award-winning literary translator and a Lecturer of Italian at the University of Texas at Austin, where she earned a PhD in Applied Linguistics. But then she got wise and ditched that academic stuff for a life of crime—writing, that is. Her latest capers are teaching mystery for Savvy Authors and taking authors on writing retreats to Italy with LemonLit.

  * * *

  To learn more about Traci, check out her websites: www.traciandrighetti.com

  www.lemonlit.com

  Also by Traci Andrighetti

  FRANKI AMATO MYSTERIES

  * * *

  Books

  Limoncello Yellow

  Prosecco Pink

  Amaretto Amber

  Campari Crimson

  * * *

  Short Stories

  Rosolio Red (Christmas-themed)

  Fragolino Fuchsia (Rome mystery)

  * * *

  DANGER COVE HAIR SALON MYSTERIES

  Deadly Dye and a Soy Chai

  A Poison Manicure and Peach Liqueur

  Sneak Peak

  If you liked this Franki Amato short mystery, read the first chapter of:

  * * *

  DEADLY DYE AND A SOY CHAI

  Danger Cove Hair Salon Mysteries Book 1

  **2016 Daphne du Maurier Award Finalist**

  **2016 Mystery & Mayhem Award Finalist**

  **2016 Silver Falchion Award Finalist**

  by

  Traci Andrighetti

  &

  Elizabeth Ashby

  CHAPTER 1

  That statue's not wearing any panties!"

  My body tensed at the outrage in Donna Bocca's voice. As the preeminent gossip of Danger Cove, not to mention a women's undergarment salesperson, she'd spread the news of this latest Conti family calamity all over town.

  "And a child is watching," PTA member Mallory Winchester added through clenched teeth.

  I stole a glance over my shoulder at the crowd gathering in the street. Besides Donna and Mallory, there was an elderly couple, an attractive thirty-something male with a camera, and Reverend Vickers's wife, Charlotte, with the members of her Bible study group. Even worse, a ten-year-old boy was speaking into a walkie-talkie with the intensity of a CIA agent on an intelligence-gathering mission.

  I looked at my watch. It was a quarter after one on a Thursday in September. Why wasn't that kid in school?

  I took a deep, calming breath of the crisp ocean air and then tried to convince myself that the situation wasn't really that bad. I mean, sure, there was a wooden statue of a gold rush era prostitute hovering, like a ghost of times past, from a rope in front of my home slash hair salon. And yes, she was skirtless and spread-eagle on a chair, displaying her intricately carved wares for all to see. But at least she had a shirt on.

  "Beaver shot!" a young boy shouted.

  I turned and saw packs of prepubescent males speeding up the sidewalk on bikes, alerted to the sex show, no doubt, by the CIA wannabe.

  Okay, if little boys were ditching elementary school, then the situation was that bad.

  I looked up on the roof. "Tucker," I began, trying to control the rising anxiety in my voice. "You need to get down and bring that statue with you. Now."

  "Mellow out, Cassidi," he replied, giving me a half-lidded look. "I told you, the pulley's stuck."

  Tucker Sloan was the owner of One Man's Trash, a junk shop on the outskirts of Danger Cove that dealt in antiques, used furniture, and eclectic decorative items, like my late Uncle Vincent Conti's—ahem—art collection. As Tucker's hippie-speak indicated, he was all about peace, love, and understanding. But righ
t then, I wasn't about any of those things. When he'd bought the statue from me, he'd said that because of its "splayed style," it would be easier to move it out of a second-floor window than to try to take it down the spiral staircase. So much for that idea.

  I cupped my hands around my mouth and whisper-shouted, "People are getting upset. Can't you unstick it?"

  He shook his thick dreads. "Looks like old Sadie's not going to leave without a fight."

  "Sadie?"

  "Sexy Sadie's what your Uncle Vinnie used to call her. He nicknamed all of his women, real or otherwise." He grinned. "That cat was far out."

  That was one way to describe him. "Could you please just try yanking the rope again?"

  "Okay, but I don't think it'll do any good." Tucker braced himself with his legs and pulled until veins bulged in his neck and the fringe on his moccasins shook.

  The pulley didn't budge, but Sadie did. She began to move back and forth like a swing. Each time she swung toward the street, the onlookers let out a collective gasp—and it wasn't because they were afraid that she was going to hit them.

  "Seriously, Tucker?" I cried.

  "I told you so, man," he replied.

  I put my head in my hands—that is, until I heard one of the boys yell "Boobies!" followed by cheers from the rest of the under-twelve crowd.

  I looked up and saw Tucker's temporary helper, Zac Taylor, pushing the ship's figurehead from my second-floor apartment out the double doors of the salon. It was also the likeness of a woman, but instead of baring her nether region, this one was baring her breasts. And Zac's face was buried right smack between them.