From debut author, Traci Andrighetti, comes a tale of murder, mayhem, and meddling Sicilian grandmas…
A Franki Amato Mystery
“Traci Andrighetti’s Limoncello Yellow had me tickled pink! Her smart, sassy heroine wacky cast of characters, and vividly original settings had me glued to the page. I can’t wait to read more from this author!”
– Gemma Halliday, New York Times bestselling author
Francesca “Franki” Amato is a tough-talking rookie cop in Austin, Texas—until an unfortunate 911 call involving her boyfriend, Vince, and a German female wrestler convinces her once and for all that she just isn’t cut out for a life on the police force. So Franki makes the snap decision to move to New Orleans to work at her friend Veronica’s detective agency, Private Chicks, Inc. But Franki’s hopes for a more stable life are soon dashed when Private Chicks is hired by the prime suspect in a murder case to find out what really happened to a beautiful young boutique manager who was found strangled to death with a cheap yellow scarf.
When she’s not investigating, Franki is hoping to seduce handsome bank executive Bradley Hartmann, but most of her time is spent dodging date offers from a string of “good Italian boys”—make that not-so-good aging Italian men—that her meddlesome Sicilian grandma has recruited as marriage candidates. As Mardi Gras approaches and the mystery of the murdered shop girl gets more complicated, Franki must decipher the odd ramblings of a Voodoo priestess to solve both the murder and the mystery of her own love life.
“Traci’s writing is sharp and funny; the world she paints leaps off the page and makes the reader laugh out loud…. A thoroughly
enjoyable new voice in fiction!”
– Kristin Harmel, Internationally bestselling novelist (The Sweetness of Forgetting)
Excerpt
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As I surveyed the scene at what looked eerily like the Bates Motel, I was shaking so badly from the cold and fear that I was afraid the gun in my holster would fire on its own. I longed for the cozy fire and protective embrace of my boyfriend that I’d felt as we’d exchanged Christmas presents just hours before.
“Folks, you need to go back to your rooms immediately,” Officer Stan Stubbs announced to the crowd of curious motel guests that had gathered.
When the onlookers began to disperse, the woman in room six began moaning again. According to 911 dispatch, she had been in distress for at least half an hour.
I gave an involuntary shiver and wondered what kind of animal would want to cause a woman pain that produced that sort of moaning.
“Something about this doesn’t feel like a regular domestic abuse situation,” Stan said, drawing his gun. “We need urgent backup, Franki.”
I nodded and grabbed the radio from my belt. “I have a 10-39 at the Twilight Motel on Manor Road. Request backup.”
Stan began his approach to room six.
I put the device away and drew my gun. Then I hurried over and took my place on the opposite side of the door from Stan.
“I’m goin’ in on the count of three,” he said in a low voice. “I need to get to the john, and quick like.”
I gasped. “Now, Stan?”
Stan was my partner on the Austin PD. As a rookie on the force, I’d been paired with a seasoned veteran of the department. Even though we’d spent the past six months together, I’d learned little from Stan except that he had a “wifey” named Juanita who worshipped the ground he walked on, he valued his handgun collection more than he did his now adult children, and he suffered from chronic gastrointestinal distress. And despite his self-proclaimed “legendary instinct” for cracking cases, he was perpetually baffled by his stomach issues even though the culprit was clear: a steady diet of jelly donuts and chorizo, bean and cheese breakfast tacos that he washed down with a gallon or so of coffee and Gatorade (Did I mention that he was also chronically dehydrated because of the diarrhea?). Needless to say, he spent the better part of every shift visiting the nearest men’s room.
Ignoring my concern, Stan grasped his gun with both hands and slammed his right shoulder into the door. It flew open instantly, and he stormed into the room. “Police! Hands in the air!”
As I rushed in behind him, my gun drawn, the woman let out a hair-raising scream.
“What in the hell?” Stan shouted.
I followed his gaze to the bed, and a chill went through my body.
“Why, it’s just a couple goin’ at it,” Stan scoffed.
I blinked hard. Was it my imagination playing tricks on me at 4:30 a.m., or was one member of that couple horribly familiar? As in, exchanging-gifts-by-a-cozy-
fire familiar. “Vince?” I said, my voice barely above a whisper as I stared at my boyfriend of over two years.
He looked at me like a deer caught in the headlights. “Franki?”
Make that, like a cheating rat caught in the act.
Stan looked from Vince to me. “You two know each other?”
I nodded, unable to speak. The chill that I’d felt initially had turned to a dull aching pain, and all I wanted to do was run from the room and cry. But I couldn’t because I was on duty.
“I’ll let you take it from here, Franki,” Stan said as he rushed into the bathroom and slammed the door.
No sooner had he left the room than the woman leapt from the bed—all 6′ 5″ or so of her—wearing nothing but her outrage. “Zis invazion iz illegal in Deutschland.”
“All right Franki,” Vince began in a patronizing tone, “no crime has been committed, so why don’t you put the gun down? Then we can all talk about this like rational adults.”
No crime? Rational adults? The dull pain was quickly turning to red-hot anger. Before I could think it through, I shouted, “If you think for one minute that I’m going to sit down to chat with you and your German whore here—”
The furious fräulein kicked the gun from my hand, and I watched in what seemed like slow motion as it flew under the bed.
“Be careful, Franki,” Vince warned. “She’s here from Munich on a semi-pro wrestling tour.”
“Oh, so now you’re worried about my well being, Vince?” I asked, backing away from the German giantess. Now that I’d mentioned it, I was a little worried about me too. She was squatting down low with her hands raised, like she was going to make mincemeat of me.
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