Nocino Noir: A Private Investigator Comedy Mystery by Traci Andrighetti

Author:Traci Andrighetti [Andrighetti, Traci]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781957200996
Publisher: Limoncello Press

CHAPTER 7

“The night of San Giovanni, when nocino is made.” I peered down at NOLA Noir from the dark in the Private Chicks office. “And since we’re in the French Quarter, it definitely won’t be made by virgins.”

The clock by the door read ten thirty p.m. If my instincts were right, Brunella would soon arrive to make a batch of the liqueur. Either that, or she and Vick would come to clear out the place after getting an unexpected visit from the cops.

Had the police discovered the source of that bag of blood? The delivery guy had seemed nervous when he delivered it, but surely it was animal. Pig’s blood was used in traditional Italian cuisine, and Brunella was a cook.

But if she was also a Benevento witch, their recipes were spells.

And nocino for their Sabbat ceremony.

I leaned against the wall. What did Brunella put in her nocino? Did she add the blood, nutmeg essential oil, and cloves to the walnuts and alcohol?

Madge at Hex had said that cloves in a red bag could stop people from gossiping. But what if someone drank them in a witch’s walnut potion?

My hand clutched my throat. Was that why my esophagus glowed? To keep me from talking?

“Your mind is pranking you, Franki. Get a grip.” But the cloves raised the question of why pure nutmeg oil wasn’t fit for consumption. I used my phone to do a search.

Nutmeg contains myristicin, a compound that, in excessive quantities, can cause convulsions, organ failure, and death.

My entrails seized, and probably my liver. “My mother doesn’t know what she’s talking about. I’m not a hypochondriac. I’ve been poisoned.”

The door to Private Chicks swung open, and the light came on.

I was paralyzed from surprise—and possibly the toxic effects of the nutmeg oil—as Ruth Walker glowered in the threshold.

Like the Grim Receptionist Reaper.

She slammed the door, causing the frosted glass to rattle. “What’re you doing here? Your landlady finally kick you out?”

This from a woman who’d lost free housing on the Galliano steamboat when she was fired from her cruise director job. But I didn’t dare mention that. Not only had she blamed me for her firing, she’d gotten revenge by moving into my office, and it had taken five weeks and a deposit on an apartment to get her out. “If you must know, I’m staking out NOLA Noir.”

Ruth shook her head. Her bun didn’t budge, but her turkey wattle swung. “When I told you to hustle business, I meant a paying case.”

“I’m aware of that.” My tone was taut—unlike her neck. “Now would you please shut off that light? It could blow my cover.”

“Not until I find my readers.” She rummaged among some papers on her desk. “I forgot them, like you forgot my nocino cappuccino this morning, and now I can’t watch my pre-bedtime episode of Judge Judy.”

Some people were lulled to sleep by soothing sounds, but Ruth drifted off to court sentences.

She straightened and pointed at me. Speaking of that cappuccino, I want a refund.”

“Uh, you didn’t pay me, remember?”

“Good thing, because I didn’t get any coffee.

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