Read Online Limoncello Yellow (Franki Amato Mysteries) by Traci Andrighetti - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Traci Andrighetti
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smile, and I felt my knees grow weak despite myself.
" Mais non , Mr. Hartmann. I will help Miss Amato," Corinne said.
That 's all right, Corinne. I'll take care of Miss Amato," he said, placing a hand firmly at the small of my back.
Hmm. The way his eyes were still twinkling, I couldn't tell if he was flirting with me or still mocking me.
" Call me Franki," I said automatically.
" Okay. Franki," he said, a smile curling at his lips.
Yep, definitely flirting. Though the way those blue eyes framed in thick dark lashes were staring intently down at me, I wasn 't sure I really minded.
I attempted a little flirt-back of my own, doing a spontaneous Veronica-style bat of my eyelashes that promptly dislodged my right contact lens.
" Are you okay?" he asked. "Your eye is tearing up."
" Oh, it's nothing," I said, trying to look composed as my contact sent little stabs of pain into my eye. "Just something in my contact."
He nodded. "Okay, good. Well then, I'll find out what's going on with your ATM card and give you a call."
" Great." I flashed him a Julia Roberts smile that probably ended up looking more like that of The Joker. By this time the pain from my contact was shooting straight into my brain.
As I turned to leave the bank, I worried that Bradley might be checking me out from behind. So, in a desperate attempt to cover my oversized backside, I slung my woefully small handbag behind me and walked serpentine-style toward the door, stopping and turning to one side every so often to feign admiration for a plastic plant or an employee-of-the-month plaque on the wall.
Ironically, however, when I got outside in the bright sunshine and popped my contact lens out of my eye, things came more into focus. Bradley was more than likely just being friendly to me to get me out of the bank. I mean, there probably weren't too many bank presidents who would welcome clients who talk loudly about men, sex, and penises while leaving a trail of birth control behind them.
C HAPTER FIVE
I walked the short distance down Canal Street from the bank to LaMarca, with its signature Italian white marble sign with the gold logo. Thanks to the police report, I had the name of the salesgirl who'd found Jessica Evans' body: Annabella Stevens. Veronica had told me that if I introduced myself to her as a private investigator, she probably wouldn't give me the time of day.
Apparently, a lot of people won 't talk to PIs because they're not the police, which is ironic when you consider that a lot of people won't talk to the police either. And, in all probability, LaMarca management had advised its employees not to discuss the crime with its customers. So, the plan was to find out whether Annabella was still working for LaMarca and, if she was, to approach her on the pretense of needing assistance with selecting a scarf for my mom. With any luck, I would be able to glean some information about the crime.
When I grasped the handle of LaMarca 's glamorously tall glass door, I realized that my palms were sweating. This was my first real undercover assignment—rookie cops weren't allowed anywhere near detective work—and I was nervous. So, I did what any female PI would do as I entered the elegant store: I summoned Nancy Drew's cool-headed sleuthing techniques from the dark and murky depths of my adolescent reading memory.
Once inside, I immediately spotted the scarf department where Jessica 's body had been found. Four, long, shoulder-height scarf racks were positioned in the shape of a square in the center of the room. On all four sides of the racks, there were glass cases displaying jewelry, wallets, and other accessories, and the walls were lined all the way to the ceiling with multiple rows of handbags of varying colors and shades. The ceiling itself was covered with ornate gold decorative elements like those of a Catholic Church. For a moment, I was breathless with emotion—not because I was at the scene of
" Mais non , Mr. Hartmann. I will help Miss Amato," Corinne said.
That 's all right, Corinne. I'll take care of Miss Amato," he said, placing a hand firmly at the small of my back.
Hmm. The way his eyes were still twinkling, I couldn't tell if he was flirting with me or still mocking me.
" Call me Franki," I said automatically.
" Okay. Franki," he said, a smile curling at his lips.
Yep, definitely flirting. Though the way those blue eyes framed in thick dark lashes were staring intently down at me, I wasn 't sure I really minded.
I attempted a little flirt-back of my own, doing a spontaneous Veronica-style bat of my eyelashes that promptly dislodged my right contact lens.
" Are you okay?" he asked. "Your eye is tearing up."
" Oh, it's nothing," I said, trying to look composed as my contact sent little stabs of pain into my eye. "Just something in my contact."
He nodded. "Okay, good. Well then, I'll find out what's going on with your ATM card and give you a call."
" Great." I flashed him a Julia Roberts smile that probably ended up looking more like that of The Joker. By this time the pain from my contact was shooting straight into my brain.
As I turned to leave the bank, I worried that Bradley might be checking me out from behind. So, in a desperate attempt to cover my oversized backside, I slung my woefully small handbag behind me and walked serpentine-style toward the door, stopping and turning to one side every so often to feign admiration for a plastic plant or an employee-of-the-month plaque on the wall.
Ironically, however, when I got outside in the bright sunshine and popped my contact lens out of my eye, things came more into focus. Bradley was more than likely just being friendly to me to get me out of the bank. I mean, there probably weren't too many bank presidents who would welcome clients who talk loudly about men, sex, and penises while leaving a trail of birth control behind them.
C HAPTER FIVE
I walked the short distance down Canal Street from the bank to LaMarca, with its signature Italian white marble sign with the gold logo. Thanks to the police report, I had the name of the salesgirl who'd found Jessica Evans' body: Annabella Stevens. Veronica had told me that if I introduced myself to her as a private investigator, she probably wouldn't give me the time of day.
Apparently, a lot of people won 't talk to PIs because they're not the police, which is ironic when you consider that a lot of people won't talk to the police either. And, in all probability, LaMarca management had advised its employees not to discuss the crime with its customers. So, the plan was to find out whether Annabella was still working for LaMarca and, if she was, to approach her on the pretense of needing assistance with selecting a scarf for my mom. With any luck, I would be able to glean some information about the crime.
When I grasped the handle of LaMarca 's glamorously tall glass door, I realized that my palms were sweating. This was my first real undercover assignment—rookie cops weren't allowed anywhere near detective work—and I was nervous. So, I did what any female PI would do as I entered the elegant store: I summoned Nancy Drew's cool-headed sleuthing techniques from the dark and murky depths of my adolescent reading memory.
Once inside, I immediately spotted the scarf department where Jessica 's body had been found. Four, long, shoulder-height scarf racks were positioned in the shape of a square in the center of the room. On all four sides of the racks, there were glass cases displaying jewelry, wallets, and other accessories, and the walls were lined all the way to the ceiling with multiple rows of handbags of varying colors and shades. The ceiling itself was covered with ornate gold decorative elements like those of a Catholic Church. For a moment, I was breathless with emotion—not because I was at the scene of
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