Diamonds, Pies & Dead Guys

by Jennifer Fischetto

  "Oh, I forgot the milk," she says and hurries back to the kitchen. She has to be in her late sixties, and she moves about as fast as I do, which isn't saying much for me.

  Oil paintings cover the walls. Some large, most the size of a sheet of paper, some framed and others not. She painted them herself. The few in the living room are of landscapes, fruit bowls, and one of a puppy. In the dining area, however, both long walls are lined with them. These aren't cheerful beaches and mountains though. They're more abstract. A section of blue swirls or purple brushstrokes, red boxes and green circles. They're more than just geometrical. The strokes are light and heavy, and some look a bit violent.

  When I first entered her apartment, she filled me in that she's a retired elementary school art teacher. She moved to town when I hit high school, so I hadn't sat in her class when I was a kid. The artwork makes sense, and the different styles are interesting.

  I've been sitting here for ten minutes so far, and I already learned her occupation, that she never married or had kids, and comes from a big family. She is the youngest of five and the only one still alive. She misses her siblings terribly and is grateful she has a cousin in town whom she's close with. This cousin is the reason she moved to South Shore Beach years ago. Well, also the beach and the ocean. It's hard to not love the ocean, whether you enjoy swimming, surfing, or just gazing at it.

  Brenda comes back with a pint of half-and-half and a blue tin of butter cookies. "I hope you're not afraid of sugar."

  I chuckle. As if. "Never."

  She grins before sitting across from me. "I have a huge sweet tooth. Always have. But I can't eat it past the afternoon anymore. It upsets my stomach. So I get my fill before dinner."

  I laugh again and pour some cream into my tea. I'm more of a coffee drinker, so I'm slightly startled when my beverage turns so white. Then I realize I should have let the tea bag steep more first.

  Neither of us have mentioned why I'm here. I'm letting her lead the conversation, not wanting to be demanding. I am her guest, and she didn't have to invite me in. Plus, the air conditioner is cranked up, which is probably why she can enjoy a hot cup of tea, and it's nice to listen to her ramble about her life. Julian will text soon and may be expecting me back sometime today, so I can't stay here in this pretty cocoon forever. Even if there are cookies.

  "Have you lived in this apartment long?" I ask and bite into a cookie. The rich, sweet taste immediately melts on my tongue, leaving a soft buttery flavor behind when I swallow.

  "Yes, all the years I've been in town. I was lucky to be one of the first tenants after renovations were done. New bathrooms and kitchens."

  "I guess that means you like it here?"

  She nods. "Very much. It's always been quiet. Well, until recently."

  The tea is still too hot to drink, but the color is darkening. "Oh? How's that?"

  She quirks a brow. "Well, the young lady across from me is a partier. Lots of loud music. I think enough tenants called and complained, so now she spends most of her nights not home."

  She must be talking about the woman in the miniskirt I saw the other night. "That must be a relief."

  "It would be, except she's still sometimes loud before she leaves for the evening. Luckily, it's not for too long. And then there's the other side of me. May she rest in peace."

  Brenda is talking about Hilary. So we've finally arrived there.

  She looks at me carefully before asking, "How long has it been since the two of you were close?"

  "Ten years."

  The shocked look on her face makes my stomach clench and guilt washes over me. I'm not upset that Hilary and I stopped being friends. I feel like I was right to be hurt and angry and to let her go. But when others hear about it, they can't understand. It's as if everyone wants me to not just get over it, but allow her back into my life. That's not a consideration anymore.

  "And you two have held a grudge all of this time? You don't forgive easily, do you, my dear?"

  The knot tightens. "I believe some things aren't worth forgiving."

  It's not like Hilary and I had been in contact those ten years. I was living in Connecticut for a few of them. The first time I saw her since high school graduation was when I returned home.

  Her brow shoots up again. "Well, they were not happy. They argued constantly. The only time I didn't hear raised voices is when one or both of them weren't home."

  "Wow, I didn't realize it was that bad." They were practically newlyweds. I had assumed Hilary was exaggerating.

  Brenda blows on her tea.

  "And that night?" I ask.

  "Oh, they were going at it bad. I mostly heard her. She usually started the arguments, and she seemed to like the last word too."

  I smile at that. Even as kids, she was that way.

  "She wanted to know why he married her if he had feelings for someone else."

  My breath hitches in my throat. So Hilary was telling the truth. At least her version of it.

  "He said she was crazy and that it wasn't true, but she insisted. It didn't sound like he was convincing."

  "Did she mention who she was talking about?" I ask, almost afraid to hear the answer. I mean, I already know Hilary's delusions, but I'm wondering if she vocalized them to Kevin.

  Brenda looked up from her cookie, and I instantly knew she knew. "Yes, dear, she mentioned you. Unless she knows more than one Gianna."

  I shake my head and look away. I have done nothing wrong, but another wave of guilt follows the first. I don't want my existence to have been the last thing they fought about. I don't want to be the reason for any arguments at any time with anyone.

  "What else did you hear?" I ask.

  "Well, at some point, the husband slammed the door, thundered past mine with his heavy feet, and left. Then about thirty minutes later another man arrived."

  I nearly spat out my cookie. "Another man?"

  Enzo mentioned a friend had visited. I thought he meant a woman.

  "Yes, softer footed. He went inside, and shortly after, they started arguing too. He was saying something about how she's selfish and only thinking of her own feelings and never his."

  I'm riveted to my seat, mid-cookie-chew, suddenly dying to know the life that Hilary led. She didn't mention another guy when she accused Kevin of her murder. Who is he, and why was he here?

  "Did you recognize him?" I ask.

  She shakes her head. "I'd never seen him before."

  "But you actually saw him?"

  "Yes, I heard the door shut and peeked out the peephole." She shows no shame in admitting she was being nosy and spying on her neighbors.

  I almost laugh at her directness.

  "He didn't stay long. I think he huffed out of there. Then I settled down and took my medications. Once they take hold, I hear nothing."

  Then why did the other neighbor's parties bother her so much?

  "I was just drifting off when I heard more shouting. This was quieter, but that could've been because of my meds. Also, I was in my bedroom, and it sounded like they were coming from their kitchen."

  This must've been when Hilary was killed.

  I inch toward the end of my chair.

  "I couldn't make out any of the words. I feel terrible about this, like I told the police. If I had waited to take my medications, maybe I would know who killed that poor woman."

  Darn. The timing is unfortunate.

  "Are you sure it was a man?" I ask.

  She shrugs and sips her tea. "I'm not. Everything sounded so muffled. I'm not even sure if the police believe I heard more arguing. I know I did though."

  I believe her. She sounds so convincing, and why would she lie about this? Unless she killed Hilary. I stare at her tracksuit and her thin, frail-looking arms. No, she can't be a suspect, and what would be her motivation? Loudness? Neighbor arguments?

  "So it's possible that the strange man returned?" I ask.

  "Yes."

  "It's also possible that it was Kevin, her hus
band."

  "Yes, that's true too," she says.

  Or even someone I don't know and never heard of. The killer could be anyone.

  My tea is a few degrees below scorching, so I finally take a sip.

  "Why did you tell Kevin to come find me?" I ask.

  Brenda keeps her gaze on her cup and taps her right temple.

  What does that mean?

  "Two reasons. The first is that I have these sensibilities. People don't understand usually. I don't know where they come from, but I get these feelings."

  "You're intuitive," I say and think of Winnie, the parapsychologist with her own ghost issue.

  Brenda lifts her head, and her dark eyes are bright. "Yes, dear, exactly. The second reason is because of something Hilary told me."

  My body immediately tenses, preparing for the worse.

  "She said that you have a gift too. That you can see spirits. Is that true?"

  That b… Why couldn't she… How? What gives her…

  I'm so mad I can't think straight. But Brenda is waiting for an answer, so I have to calm down and collect my thoughts. How do I respond? Do I tell her the truth or lie to her face?

  I shake my head. "She started that gossip in high school. I don't know why she was still telling those lies."

  Now I feel justified in not forgiving her all of these years.

  Brenda doesn't seem to know I'm lying, so I say, "I believe you though."

  Her smile is light and genuine. She reaches across the table and pats my hand. "Thank you. Few people do, but I feel I can be honest here."

  Guilt nibbles at me.

  "I wasn't sure if Hilary was being honest, but I still felt Kevin should go to you. Was I wrong?"

  Is she? That's a great question.

  "I don't know yet."

  We spend another fifteen minutes discussing her art and how she paints the abstract stuff when her "sensibilities" are flaring up, and the landscapes and whatnot come when she's feeling and thinking clearly.

  She walks me to the door and tells me I can return any time.

  "It's nice having a young person around again." She opens the door.

  I step into the hall and realize I forgot to ask one very important question. I face her. "What did the strange man look like?"

  "Um, dark hair and tall. He wore khaki shorts and a light blue shirt. I could see them when he reached the stairs. I didn't see his face well. More like a blur when he passed my door."

  Darn, that's not helpful at all.

  I'm about to say bye when her eyes widen.

  "Also, he had one of those expensive cameras on a strap around his neck."

  Dark hair, tall, and camera.

  Was Michael here the night Hilary was killed?

  * * *

  Michael visited Hilary the night she died.

  I keep repeating that line over and over in my head. Neither Hilary nor Michael mentioned it. Maybe it wasn't a big deal, and Hilary definitely had more important things on her mind than hanging or arguing with a friend. But why didn't Michael bring it up when we were at the boardwalk?

  Of course, there's a chance it wasn't him but another guy with a camera. How likely is that though?

  Now it means I need to talk to Hilary and Michael if I want to find out. I'm not looking forward to the former. Wait. No. I'm not doing this. Hilary doesn't want my help. I can simply let this go.

  I step into Julian's cool office, and it's empty. I haven't checked my messages to see if he left one stating where he'd be. I've been preoccupied.

  I toss my purse on my desk and do so now. Nothing. I glance at my desk's surface and notice a small legal pad that wasn't there before. On it, he scribbled a note:

  Be back later.

  Well, that's not very informative.

  It doesn't matter though. Julian doesn't need to tell me his whereabouts.

  I'm about to log onto my computer when my cell rings. I dig it out of my purse and see it's Winnie.

  "Hello?"

  "Gianna, hi. I researched the house and you asked me to call you." She doesn't sound distraught, but she doesn't sound fine either.

  "Are you okay?" I ask.

  She hesitates before saying she is, but I don't fully believe her.

  "I'm on my way."

  I hang up before she agrees or says bye and race across the street for my car again.

  When I step inside her house, I know something is off. Winnie's eyes are wide, and she's twisting her fingers. She looks scared.

  "What did you learn?" I ask.

  She shrugs and shakes her head. "Nothing. There have been no deaths on the property, and the only previous owner was a young family that moved away and left the state. The house had been built shortly before they bought it."

  Well, that makes no sense.

  "What about the land?"

  "I thought of that, but I couldn't find anything that was newsworthy."

  I softly sigh and then frown. "Why do you look troubled, then?"

  Maybe she's worried about getting rid of her ghost. That's understandable. If we know where that woman came from, we can help her move on, but without knowing…

  "Come with me," Winnie says and walks under the left archway that I assume leads to the bedrooms.

  It's a short hallway with four doors. One looks to be the width of a closet, and the other three are partially open. The rooms beyond each are dim, but I can make out the corner of a bed in the front room and a sink in the center room. We stop in front of the back room, and Winnie glances at me over her shoulder.

  What is the issue?

  Her furrowed brow makes my stomach clench. "I don't normally let people into my bedroom, but it's better you see this in person."

  Now she has me worried.

  She flips on the light switch, and I step in behind her.

  The first thing I notice is the king-sized bed covered in a rich purple comforter. It's on the center of the back wall, flanked by a couple of nightstands and lamps with off-white shades.

  I quickly take in the standard bedroom furnishings—closet door, area rug in shades of purple, a wooden chest at the foot of the bed, and then I half turn toward the dresser.

  Winnie stands before it, and she points to the mirror hanging above it. "See."

  I pivot my body so I'm facing it full on.

  Written in what looks like a shade of burgundy lipstick are the words:

  Get out!

  I shudder and notice that Winnies does too.

  Ten minutes later, we're sitting at the table in her sunroom, each cupping a glass of iced tea and staring into space. We haven't said a word since the mirror. I can only imagine her fear.

  I'm thinking about the ability it takes for a ghost to move something in our physical world. I've only seen it a few times, and each time it drained the ghost immediately afterward. They have to be really determined to make it happen, and that's why I'm scared for Winnie. What does this ghost truly want, especially if this has never been her home?

  "Should I worry?" Winnie asks.

  It's been quiet, and I'm not expecting her voice, so when it fills the air, I'm thrown off for a second and flinch.

  "Um, I don't know." I can't lie to her to make her feel better. What if this ghost actually tries to harm her?

  "How did this happen?" she asks.

  I fill her in on my limited experience. This only makes her frown deeper.

  Then she gently shakes her head. "I will not allow this to unravel me. I will find a way through. I am strong."

  I've zero doubt that she is.

  "I will do whatever I can too. You call me day or night, it doesn't matter." I don't want to further alarm her, but I want her to know she's supported and doesn't have to deal with this alone.

  She smiles and pats my hand. "When I picked up on your energies and your ability, I also knew you have a kind soul. Thank you."

  I squeeze her hand and offer the most reassuring grin I can muster.

  "I met another woman today who i
s special like us," I say.

  Winnie sips her tea. "Oh? Can you share how?"

  I don't think it's a big deal as long as I don't give out her name. "She's intuitive. Her gift isn't as strong as yours. She calls it her sensibilities."

  Winnie's eyes light up, and she softly chuckles. "Is her name Brenda Johnson by any chance?"

  My mouth hangs open for a second. Is there a support group for paranormal weirdos like us that I don't know about?

  "You know her?" I ask.

  "She's my cousin."

  I chuckle. "She mentioned a cousin, and I thought of you. I should have known."

  Does this mean they'll discuss me and Brenda will know I lied to her?

  "These abilities run in our family. Most of the other members didn't develop theirs. I didn't even learn about mine until my husband died. We were raised to believe that psychicness wasn't real, but I think each of us has some ability within us. It just has to be nurtured. You, my dear, are very different though."

  Yeah, lucky me.

  "The ability to actually communicate with the other side is extraordinary."

  It's definitely something.

  "I'm surprised you're not helping families move on more," she says.

  Her statement feels like a slap in the face, although I'm assuming she didn't mean it that way. Winnie has been too kind to suddenly be cruel.

  "What do you mean?" I ask.

  "You could advertise to grieving families and build a career. It's not as if people will ever stop dying."

  She has a point, but she's forgetting mine.

  "No!" I must say it too harshly because she flinches. "My secret must remain hidden."

  "Why are you so afraid of others finding out? Because of one incident over a decade ago?"

  Yes, it was more than enough. I don't want to explain it again. No one can really understand the hurt and betrayal I experienced.

  She pats my hand again. "I won't insist or pry."

  I thank her with a small smile. I'm grateful and relieved I don't have to try to repeat it all.

  "But just listen to my words, please," she says.

  I stiffen—my back straight and my defenses rising.

  "You are special, Gianna, and you have every right to handle your gift the best way you see fit. Do you really think you shouldn't share it to help more people though? Perhaps that's why you were given it."