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 right 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
