"Short but fun Christmas mystery"
Reviewed by Debbie Wiley
Posted September 18, 2015
Novella / Short Story | Holiday | Mystery Cozy
Franki Amato has plans for the Christmas holiday, plans
that include spending quality time alone with her
boyfriend. Franki and Bradley Harmann are both so busy
with work that their time together is precious and Franki
is looking forward to their first Christmas together.
Unfortunately, a phone call from her mother changes
everything and now Franki is rushing home as her nonna is
missing. I haven't read any of the books in the Franki Amato
Mystery series but ROSOLIO RED has definitely whetted
my appetite for more! Franki and her overbearing family
are a lot of fun but her nonna, Carmela Montalbano, is
without a doubt my favorite. We see very little of
Carmela but we learn quite a bit about her for such a
short story, and I look forward to seeing more of her
meddlesome ways in future stories. ROSOLIO RED is a short but fun Christmas story in which
the importance of family is emphasized. I love how Traci
Andrighetti injects humor into the storyline. The scene
with Mr. Petricola still makes me giggle when I think
about it! ROSOLIO RED is my first taste of the mysteries
of Traci Andrighetti and Franki Amato but it will not be
the last!
SUMMARY
With Christmas around the corner, Franki Amato’s got
visions of her sugarplum, Bradley Hartmann, dancing in
her head. Now that she finally has some time off from her
PI job, she’s cooking him up a special holiday treat, and
it’s not figgy pudding. Her Yuletide plans are dashed,
however, when her meddlesome Sicilian grandma goes
missing, and she has to hurry home to Houston to
investigate. All the evidence points to foul play, but
then there’s a bizarre break in the case—one that makes
her wonder whether her notorious nonna has been naughty
or nice.
Excerpt“One of your back bulbs is burned out,” I said to my sixty-
something-
year-old landlady, Glenda O’Brien, as I slid onto the
barstool beside her
at Thibodeaux’s Tavern.“Which one?” she asked, reaching behind her and feeling her
bare skin. “The one hanging over your, uh, Great Divide.” She grabbed the bulb resting smack in the middle of her
bony buttocks.
“Darn thing keeps coming unscrewed,” she fretted. “Can you
give it a
twist?” Rolling my eyes, I grabbed a bar napkin and reached for the
offending
bulb as the opening strains of “It’s Beginning to Look a
Lot Like
Christmas” began to play on the stereo. In the spirit of the season, Glenda had organized a
Christmas Eve senior
stripper revue called “Let It Show, Let It Show, Let It
Show” with some
of her old exotic dancer colleagues from Madame Moiselle’s
on Bourbon
Street. To prepare for the big event, she’d been trying out
different
costumes: Sexy Santa, Enticing Elf,
Mischievous
Mrs. Claus. Today she was dressed as Comely
Christmas Tree,
which consisted of a string of battery-powered lights and a
few
strategically placed decorations. As I tightened the loose bulb on her bottom, I was sorely
tempted to
remind her that Christmas trees have skirts. “What can I get you ladies?” Phillip, the bartender, asked.
His nose was
pink from a cold, and his cheeks were red from Glenda’s
costume. “Eggnog for me,” I replied, tucking a long, brown lock
behind my ear.
“With extra whipped cream.” Glenda pondered her empty shot glass. “Well, if you’re
having a Christmas
cocktail, Miss Franki, then I’ll have a hot titty.” “You mean, a ‘hot toddy,’” I corrected as Phillip cringed. She shook her head, causing the halo on her angel tree
topper hat to
dislodge. “No, a hot titty.” “That doesn’t sound very holidayish to me,” I said,
thinking it sounded
more whorish than anything. Glenda looked at me as though I’d just sworn on my life
that Santa Claus
was real. “Why, it’s got cinnamon and peach schnapps, a
grenadine
floater, and an egg,” she protested. “You can’t get more
Christmas than
that.” I glanced over my shoulder and was relieved to see my best
friend and
boss, Veronica Maggio, entering the bar. I wanted to get
this ‘Christmas
Eve Eve’ gathering with the girls the hell over with so
that I could get
on with the planning for my first-ever holiday with my
honey, Bradley
Hartmann. Between my PI work and his job as president of
Ponchartrain
Bank, we hardly ever saw each other. So, I was looking to
make up for
lost time—and then some. “Sorry I’m late,” Veronica said as she took a seat on the
barstool next
to me. “It took forever to wrap all the gifts for my
family.” “No problem, Miss Ronnie,” Glenda said. “I was just
educating Miss Franki
on Yuletide libations.” “Uh-huh,” I said, shifting to face Veronica. “What time are
you heading
for Houston in the morning?” “At five a.m.,” she replied, adjusting her pink Santa hat.
“I need to be
there by three to help my mom with a few of the side dishes
for Christmas
Eve dinner.” Her cornflower blue eyes sparkled. “Speaking
of dinners,
what time is Bradley coming over tomorrow night?” I flushed with excitement. “Seven.” Phillip placed my eggnog in front of me. “You need
something, Ronnie?” She scanned the drink menu. “Can I get a mulled wine?” He nodded and then, careful to keep his eyes averted,
handed Glenda the
hot titty along with an intact egg. She batted her inch-long silver eyelashes. “Can I have a
cherry, too,
sugar?” she asked and then pursed her lips Mae West–style.
“I just love
cherries. I’ll bet you do too.” Phillip’s red cheeks turned maroon as he put a few
maraschino cherries
into a high-ball glass and slid it in her direction. Glenda wasted no time in getting her drink on. She cracked
the egg on the
side of her glass, broke it open into her mouth, and chased
it with the
shot. Veronica didn’t bat an eye at Glenda guzzling a raw egg,
probably because
we’d both seen her put stranger things into her mouth. “Do
you have
everything ready for the meal?” “Well,” I began, “I’ll have to do most of the cooking tomorrow—” “That you will, sugar,” Glenda interrupted with a knowing
look. “That you
will.” “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” began to play, and
suddenly I felt
dirty. Ignoring her comment, I added, “But at least my
apartment is
clean.” “Not for long,” Glenda intoned, jabbing me in the side with
her elbow. Veronica winked at Glenda. “What’s for dessert?” “Miss Franki is!” Glenda exclaimed. Then she grew serious.
“Now, if you
need any toys, supplies, or extras, you let Miss Glenda
know, okay?” I was trying not to wonder what she’d meant by
‘supplies or
extras’ when my phone began to ring. My parents’ number was
on the
display. Figuring it would be another guilt trip about me
not coming home
to Houston for Christmas, I was reluctant to answer. But
then I realized
that the alternative was to stay in this conversation.
“Hello?” “Francesca? It’s your mother, dear.” “Yeah. Hi, Mom.” I noticed that her usually shrill voice
was missing that
familiar dentist drill whine. “Is everything okay?” “Now try not to worry,” she said, ratcheting up my concern
level from two
to ten. “What happened?” I immediately thought of my father and the
long hours he
worked at our family deli. “It’s not dad, is it?” “Actually, it’s your nonna,” she said, sounding surprised
at her own
news. “She’s missing.” “Missing?” I repeated, stunned. “Hang on, I’m going to put
you on
speakerphone.” As I tapped speaker, Veronica leaned in and
put her hand
on my back. “Mom, are you sure Nonna’s missing?” “Yes, dear,” she replied. “When your father and I got home
from work at
five, she wasn’t here. She seems to have taken her purse,
but there was
no note, no voice mail. Nothing.” It was seven p.m. on the bar clock, which meant she’d been
gone for at
least two hours. This might not seem odd to a normal
family, but to us
Amato’s it was nothing less than apocalyptic. My eighty-
three-year-old
Sicilian grandmother, Carmela Montalbano, left the house
for only two
reasons: to go to noon mass and
to try to get me married, which involved a late morning
meddling trip
either to the church or the deli. “Have you checked with
St. Mary’s?” “I spoke to Father Nolan a few minutes ago, and he hasn’t
seen her
today.” That wasn’t good. My nonna attended church with the
regularity of a bar
fly attending happy hour. “Did you call the police?” “Your father did, dear. He’s out looking for her now.” “Okay, I’m going to throw some clothes into the car, and
I’ll be there as
soon as I can.” “Wait until morning, Francesca,” she pleaded. “Your father
will be sick
with worry if he knows you’re driving in the middle of the
night. You
don’t want to put him through that at a time like this.” My mother was right. Adding to my dad’s stress would be the
worst thing I
could do. “Besides,” she added, “Michael’s out helping him look.” I rolled my eyes. My oldest brother, the accountant, was
about as helpful
as the IRS during tax time. “Listen, are you sure Nonna
didn’t leave a
note?” “I’ve turned this house upside down, dear.” “Was anything else missing? Or did you see anything
unusual?” “Now that you mention it, I did notice something odd. There
were a few
rose petals on the kitchen counter and the floor.” That was odd. My nonna didn’t buy flowers. She
considered them a
frivolity reserved for engagements, weddings, and funerals,
and even in
those cases she maintained that it was someone else’s
responsibility to
buy them for you. So someone must have given her the roses.
But why? It
wasn’t her birthday, and I doubted that anyone would buy
her roses for
Christmas. Unless… No, it was too incredible to even
consider. But given
the seriousness of the situation, I had to ask. “Mom,” I
began, “do you
think there’s any chance that Nonna has a suitor?” “Don’t be ridiculous,” she chided. “You know that she’s in
mourning for
your nonnu.” “Right,” I said. My grandfather died twenty years ago. And
like a lot of
elderly Sicilian women, my nonna had decided to mourn him
for the rest of
her life—at least for all outward appearances. But from the
way she
talked about his ear hair and table manners, I wasn’t
convinced that she
was sorry he was gone. “Well, if you hear anything, call
me. I don’t care
what time it is. And don’t touch anything in the kitchen.
It could be a
crime scene.” “Oh, Francesca!” she exclaimed. “I think you’re taking your
detective
work too far!” “Mom, I’m serious. Until we have more information, stay out
of the
kitchen.” She sighed. “Whatever you say, dear,” she said in a tired
voice. “Now you
be careful tomorrow.” “I will. Love you.” I hung up the phone. Veronica grasped my hand. “Don’t worry, Franki. You can
ride with me to
Houston, and I’ll help you find your nonna. With
professional PIs like us
on the case, she’ll be home in time for Christmas Eve
dinner.” “Thanks,” I said softly. It goes without saying that I
hoped she was
right. But my initial shock was giving way to stone cold
fear because
there wasn’t any scenario I could imagine that would prompt
my nonna to
leave without an explanation. Glenda grimaced and pulled a knotted cherry stem from her
mouth. “I don’t
like the sound of this rose petal business. If you ask me,
it was a date
gone bad.” I blinked in astonishment. “You heard my mother. My nonna
doesn’t date.
And even if she wanted to, there’s not a man in the world
who would try
to get past her black dresses and black disposition.” “It could be the work of a sweetheart swindler,” Glenda
said. Veronica’s eyes opened wide. “You mean one of those men who
prey on
lonely women for their money?” “Exactly.” She pointed her cherry stem at me for emphasis.
“And they
don’t care what your granny looks like, Miss Franki, as
long as she’s
single and has a bank account.” I was silent as I considered Glenda’s theory. It sounded
too far-fetched
to apply to my family. But I’d learned when I was a rookie
cop that crime
didn’t discriminate. Case in point: sweetheart swindlers.
Women from all
walks of life had been fooled by those crooks, and many of
them were too
embarrassed to tell their families about it. Was it
possible that my
nonna had been one of them?
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