“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?