Limoncello Yellow (Franki Amato Mysteries) by Traci Andrighetti

General Andrew Jackson, commemorating the Battle of New Orleans. Overlooking the park was the Cathedral-Basilica of St. Louis King of France, which was the oldest Catholic cathedral in continual use in the United States, with its stunning gray and white spires.
    Just before the entrance to the park, I decided to walk across the street to the Washington Artillery Park on the Mississippi River. A crowd had gathered at the small amphitheater near the model civil war cannon to watch a couple of young boys tap dance, but there was no sign of Thierry or Bijou.
    We walked back toward the entrance and turned left onto St. Peter Street, which ran along the west side of the park and was home to the famous French Market with the yellow-gold archway. While I was on St. Peter, I did some window-shopping at a cute little jewelry store called Ooh La La. After all, I had to look the part of a local on a Saturday afternoon stroll with her dog. Didn't I?
    Next, Napoleon and I took a right onto Chartres Street, on the north side of the park. We were immediately thrust into the throng of tourists who had gathered to see the street musicians, mimes, and open-air artist colony. Although I have often enjoyed the work of street musicians and artists, I have never been a fan of the mime. The appeal of painting oneself monochrome and then silently pretending to do something like juggle or cry has always been lost on me. So, as I browsed the caricatures, portraits, and landscape paintings displayed on the iron fence that encircled the park, I did my best to ignore a pesky silver-colored mime who pretended to give me what I can only assume was a pretend flower.
    After scouring the masses on Chartres, we turned right onto St. Ann Street where, for some reason, Napoleon stopped to growl at the tarot card readers who 'd set up their little tables in front of the shops. Could it be that he didn't trust them? Before one of them could put a curse on us or something, I dragged him down the street to the gourmet and kitchen shop Creole Delicacies. Then I picked him up and tucked him under my arm so that I could pop inside to buy some pecan pralines—the riverfront streetcar box of twelve, to be precise. I didn't need the calories, but I considered sampling local specialties to be an essential part of my cover.
    With pralines in hand (and in mouth), I decided it was time to stake out the park. We took a right onto Decatur and entered through the heavy iron gates. As we walked down the park's gravel-lined walkways, I kept my eyes peeled for Thierry and the powder puff, and Napoleon kept his peeled for pigeons and squirrels. After we'd circled the park a few times, I sat on a bench near the statue of Andrew Jackson. To pass the time, I pulled out my phone and snapped a few pictures of the statue and the St. Louis Cathedral. Then I began to review the pictures that Corinne had sent of Bijou and Thierry again. The photos of Thierry were blurred, so I wasn't sure if I would be able to identify him if he walked by dog-less.
    I sat on the bench for an hour munching on pralines and watching joggers, people pushing baby strollers , and other dog-walkers. And then suddenly, out of the corner of my right eye I saw a small, fluffy white puppy emerge from behind a giant oak tree. I quickly pulled out my phone and reviewed the photo of Bijou. As I looked from the photo to the dog, a big, strapping man with fiery red hair came out from behind the tree and playfully scooped up the tiny puppy into his powerful arms. I noticed that he had a tattoo on his right bicep, but I couldn't make out what it was.
    I looked again at the picture of Thierry. He appeared to have light brown hair, not red, and he was wearing a sweater so it was impossible to tell whether he had a tattoo. I decided to call Corinne and ask for a description of her ex. As I dialed her number, the guy began to snuggle his ruddy red, freckled face into the little white ball of fur. Whoever this dude is, he sure