Read Online Limoncello Yellow (Franki Amato Mysteries) by Traci Andrighetti - Free Book Online

hand.
    She opted to pass on the handshake to take a moment to size me up. "Who are you ?"
    Before I could respond, Veronica introduced me. "Betty, this is Franki, my new partner I was telling you about. She's a super smart ex-cop," she added, playing up my credentials.
    " Oh, okay," Betty replied disinterestedly. Then she pulled a large manila envelope from a worn, brown leather bag and handed it to Veronica, who was inexplicably her favorite of the two of us. "So anyway, here's the information you asked for. You won't find much in the report that hasn't already been leaked to the press, but the pictures should be useful."
    Veronica, in turn, produced Betty 's payoff, which she had cleverly disguised by placing it into a church-offering envelope. "Thank you so much, Betty," Veronica said handing her the envelope. "This is going to make a huge difference in our investigation."
    " No problem, V. I just hope you catch the sorry son of a bitch who committed this crime," Betty said.
    " You know, it might've been committed by a woman," I interjected, playing devil's advocate.
    " The odds are against it," Betty said. "Statistically speaking, this is likely an open-and-shut case of femicide—a man killing a woman just because she's a female—and we women need to come together to prevent this type of thing from happening." And with that she stood up, pushed her glasses up her nose, and added, "Let me know if you find the asshole who did this." Then she walked away, clutching her leather briefcase to her chest.
    " Wow, that Betty's a real charmer," I said.
    Veronica rose to her feet. "It's just that she takes crime very seriously, Franki. Now let's get going. I'm dying to look at the police report."
    As we walked out of the church, I saw Father John waving goodbye to me. Instead of simply waving back, I tried to duck all 5 ' 10" of me behind Veronica's tiny frame. I must have looked like I was having a seizure.
    The second we got into the car, Veronica tore open the envelope and began studying one of the photos. "Look at this," she said, pointing to a picture of Jessica's body at the scene of the crime.
    I looked at the photo and saw a gruesome sight. Jessica was lying on her left side in the middle of four racks of scarves that were situated in the shape of a square. Her face was directed toward the ceiling, and her eyes were open in a look of shock. She had been strangled with a black-and-white checked scarf with a bright yellow border.
    Veronica, who owned a different scarf for every day of the year, was intently focused on the murder weapon. She pulled out the police report and quickly scanned the pages. "I knew it!"
    " What?"
    " The scarf used to strangle Jessica isn't from LaMarca!" Her eyes were dancing with excitement.
    " How do you know?"
              "It's a cheap cotton-polyester blend! Everyone knows that LaMarca only sells silk scarves."
    I didn 't, in fact, know that, but I did know that LaMarca's signature scarves were the most sought after in the fashion industry. "So, the killer brought a scarf to a store that's famous for selling scarves." But why?
                 
    * * *
     
    On the way back to the office, Veronica and I agreed that I would pay a visit to LaMarca posing as a client to see what I could find out about the crime. But first I had her drop me off at nearby Ponchartrain Bank on Canal Street so that I could make a withdrawal—in case I needed to buy something as part of my cover, of course. After my move to Nola, I was pretty sure that there wasn't enough room left on my credit cards to shop at the Dollar Tree, much less LaMarca. Thankfully, my parents had made a deposit to my account as a belated Christmas gift to help cover my moving expenses.
    " Next!" I heard the teller shout as I was putting the pen I'd used to fill out my withdrawal slip back into my knockoff Gucci shoulder bag. As I approached the window, I couldn't help but notice that the teller—who couldn't have been