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a doughy little woman with a Dallas-style do, is she?"
    "Nah," David replied. "From what I could tell, she's way skinny, and her hair is black and white and spiky. Oh, and she's got a crapload of dogs."
    Veronica stood up and walked to the window overlooking Decatur Street. "I see the car, but I don't see her."
    "That's because I'm right here," a deep feminine voice drawled from the doorway. "I've been waiting in the lobby for the past five minutes."
    We all turned, and I stared open-mouthed at the woman. Not because she'd startled me with her brash manner of speaking but because of her imposing appearance. She was sixty-ish and rail thin with skin as pale as the pearls around her neck. But her high cheekbones and prominent chin, not to mention her blood-red lips and fingernails, made it clear that she was anything but delicate.
    "I'm sorry about the wait," Veronica said as she walked over to greet the woman. "We didn't hear you come in. I'm Veronica Maggio and—"
    "Delta Dupré," she interrupted, extending her hand like she was expecting it to be kissed rather than shook.
    Veronica took her hand and awkwardly shook-raised it up and down. "What can we do for you, Ms. Dupré?"
    Delta cocked an eyebrow à la Cruella De Vil. "That's 'Mrs.' And the first thing you can do is have your boy take my coat."
    "Uh, yes, Mrs.—I mean, uh, ma'am," a red-faced David stammered as he took her white floor-length fur and scurried away.
    Delta frowned. "I hate to be cliché, but it's just so hard to find good help these days."
    I was fuming at her rudeness. "Actually, David isn't our servant."
    She turned and looked me up and down. "And you are?"
    "Franki Amato."
    "Interesting name," she said in a decidedly disinterested tone. Rather than extending her hand, as she had for Veronica, she began toying with a Gothic black cameo brooch that was pinned to the bodice of her red silk dress. It was framed in diamonds and depicted a skull in a top hat against a backdrop of guns and roses.
    I glanced at Veronica and realized that she was oblivious to Delta's arrogance. Whenever jewelry was in the vicinity, she zoned out on her surroundings and zoomed in on the sparkly object.
    "What an unusual brooch!" Veronica exclaimed. "Who is that supposed to be on the cameo?"
    "It's Baron Samedi, a degenerate voodoo god who leads depraved souls to the underworld. I wear it because it reminds me of my late husband, Jackson Dupré."
    Must have been some guy , I thought. Much like his wife .
    Veronica cocked her head to one side. "That name sounds familiar. Was your husband in local politics?"
    "He was the chief of police for twenty-five years. And now that I need him, the SOB isn't around. That's why I'm here."
    "Please, have a seat," Veronica said, ignoring Delta's jab at her not-so-dearly departed. "I'm sure we can help you."
    "I think you can too," Delta said, taking a seat in one of the two chairs facing Veronica's desk. "I saw that skinny old prostitute on the evening news a few months ago—the one who did all the interviews after you girls solved the murder of that shop girl?"
    "Her name is Glenda, and she's an ex-stripper," I said as I reluctantly sat down beside her.
    Delta waved her hand. "Prostitute…stripper… Same damn difference. Anyhow, I have an unusual case on my hands, so I need investigators who can think outside the box, unlike the ones currently employed by our police department. And since you two outsmarted the cops on the shop girl strangling, you're perfect for my predicament."
    "Can you tell us more about your, uh, predicament?" I asked.
    "I'm the executive director of Oleander Place, the antebellum plantation on River Road?" She looked at Veronica and me for signs of recognition.
    I recognized it all right. It was the very plantation home that had distracted me and caused me to swerve into the swamp. "I just drove past it yesterday. You've got a really eye-catching place there."
    "Yes, well, I'm afraid its beauty has been marred by a