Amaretto Amber (Franki Amato Mysteries Book 3) Read Online Free Page A
Author: Traci Andrighetti
window at a stretch of strip clubs on Bourbon Street. A platinum blonde in a gold lamé minidress and purple platform heels was pulling a small suitcase on wheels from the side door of Madame Moiselle's. I knew from Glenda that the club closed at four a.m., so the investigator in me wondered why a stripper would be leaving work so late.
Then a thought occurred to me. Veronica always worked late and was meticulous about checking her email and voice mail before going to bed. And yet, she didn't get my message until this morning. "Where were you last night, anyway?"
"I had a date with Dirk," she said in a quiet voice.
Veronica was famously private when it came to her personal life, so all I knew about her new boyfriend was that he was a gemologist, which made him a perfect match for my bedazzled bestie, and that his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Bogart, had made the surprising decision to name him "Dirk" after the late actor, Dirk Bogarde, rather than the obvious "Humphrey." "Wow, this is like your fifth date. Is it serious?"
The corners of her mouth tilted upward. "He's a keeper, like Bradley."
"Speaking of keeping Bradley, I'd better make that call." I retrieved my bag from the floor and resumed the search for my phone to no avail. I thought for a moment and remembered that the last time I'd used it was to check the time before moving the Nissan. "Oh, man."
She looked at me from the corners of her eyes. "What's the matter?"
I put my head in my hands. "I left my phone on the seat of that wacko witch's car."
"Looks like you're going to have to apologize to her now," she intoned as she pulled to a stop in front of 1200 Decatur Street.
I gave her my best stabby stare before exiting the Audi.
"And if I were you," she continued, "I would avoid calling her both wacko and witch. An officer at the lockup told me that her first name is Theodora, but that's all I know."
So, "Endora" hadn't been far off the mark. "She's either a customer or an employee of Erzulie's down on Royal Street, but since it's Sunday, they probably don't open for a few hours."
"Then you have plenty of time to shower off the jail germs," Veronica said as cheerful as a cheerleader. "You smell like a urinal."
I slammed the car door.
As I climbed into my Mustang, I wondered what in the hell I was going to say to the witch and what in heaven I was going to tell Bradley.
* * *
When I stepped inside Erzulie's at eleven fifteen, over-caffeinated and under-rested, I thought that I'd entered the Age of Aquarius. Unlike the other voodoo and witchcraft shops in the French Quarter, which were fittingly dark and creepy, the shotgun-style store was a psychedelic mind trip of color. The walls were orange with purple trim, and pink paper lanterns dangled from the ceiling. Various tables and shelves were draped with turquoise and fuchsia glitter organza, and blue beaded curtains obscured a room in the back. Even the products on the shelves were colorful—yellow gris-gris bags, green spell candles, red voodoo dolls. The place looked like an LSD flashback to the 1960s, and thanks to the patchouli incense, it smelled like one too.
As I looked around the room for a sales clerk, my eyes were drawn to a portrait of a woman hanging above a purple mantel serving as an altar. She had a short, orange and green Afro, which matched her striped, strapless dress, and her right hand was placed in the middle of her chest. A lavender snake was coiled around her left arm, and a large, red heart was suspended from her right earlobe.
"That's Erzulie Freda, the Haitian Vodou goddess of love, sensuality, passion, pleasure, and prosperity," a regal female voice said.
I turned to see an attractive thirtyish brunette in a teal silk Mandarin dress. "Sounds like someone I need to meet." But then I remembered learning about a vindictive voodoo goddess with a similar name during my first murder case. "She's not any relation to Erzulie D'en Tort, is she?"
She smiled. "Erzulie D'en
Then a thought occurred to me. Veronica always worked late and was meticulous about checking her email and voice mail before going to bed. And yet, she didn't get my message until this morning. "Where were you last night, anyway?"
"I had a date with Dirk," she said in a quiet voice.
Veronica was famously private when it came to her personal life, so all I knew about her new boyfriend was that he was a gemologist, which made him a perfect match for my bedazzled bestie, and that his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Bogart, had made the surprising decision to name him "Dirk" after the late actor, Dirk Bogarde, rather than the obvious "Humphrey." "Wow, this is like your fifth date. Is it serious?"
The corners of her mouth tilted upward. "He's a keeper, like Bradley."
"Speaking of keeping Bradley, I'd better make that call." I retrieved my bag from the floor and resumed the search for my phone to no avail. I thought for a moment and remembered that the last time I'd used it was to check the time before moving the Nissan. "Oh, man."
She looked at me from the corners of her eyes. "What's the matter?"
I put my head in my hands. "I left my phone on the seat of that wacko witch's car."
"Looks like you're going to have to apologize to her now," she intoned as she pulled to a stop in front of 1200 Decatur Street.
I gave her my best stabby stare before exiting the Audi.
"And if I were you," she continued, "I would avoid calling her both wacko and witch. An officer at the lockup told me that her first name is Theodora, but that's all I know."
So, "Endora" hadn't been far off the mark. "She's either a customer or an employee of Erzulie's down on Royal Street, but since it's Sunday, they probably don't open for a few hours."
"Then you have plenty of time to shower off the jail germs," Veronica said as cheerful as a cheerleader. "You smell like a urinal."
I slammed the car door.
As I climbed into my Mustang, I wondered what in the hell I was going to say to the witch and what in heaven I was going to tell Bradley.
* * *
When I stepped inside Erzulie's at eleven fifteen, over-caffeinated and under-rested, I thought that I'd entered the Age of Aquarius. Unlike the other voodoo and witchcraft shops in the French Quarter, which were fittingly dark and creepy, the shotgun-style store was a psychedelic mind trip of color. The walls were orange with purple trim, and pink paper lanterns dangled from the ceiling. Various tables and shelves were draped with turquoise and fuchsia glitter organza, and blue beaded curtains obscured a room in the back. Even the products on the shelves were colorful—yellow gris-gris bags, green spell candles, red voodoo dolls. The place looked like an LSD flashback to the 1960s, and thanks to the patchouli incense, it smelled like one too.
As I looked around the room for a sales clerk, my eyes were drawn to a portrait of a woman hanging above a purple mantel serving as an altar. She had a short, orange and green Afro, which matched her striped, strapless dress, and her right hand was placed in the middle of her chest. A lavender snake was coiled around her left arm, and a large, red heart was suspended from her right earlobe.
"That's Erzulie Freda, the Haitian Vodou goddess of love, sensuality, passion, pleasure, and prosperity," a regal female voice said.
I turned to see an attractive thirtyish brunette in a teal silk Mandarin dress. "Sounds like someone I need to meet." But then I remembered learning about a vindictive voodoo goddess with a similar name during my first murder case. "She's not any relation to Erzulie D'en Tort, is she?"
She smiled. "Erzulie D'en
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