And maybe a small part of me, like one single atom, is disappointed he doesn’t try to stay.
An hour later, I’ve changed into pajama pants and tee and am unpacking. When coffee is dripping from the new maker, Billy and Cupcake decide to join me. He jumps on the sofa and does his best Tom Cruise impression.
“Where have you guys been all day?” I ask and immediately hear my mother in me. “Never mind. We need to talk.” I eye the pot and watch it fill with gorgeous brown liquid. Halfway there.
“Who? Me?” Billy asks, eyes wide and innocent looking.
“Yes, but I’ll deal with you later. For now, this one needs to spill.” I point to the clown. Why couldn’t she die after she’d showered and changed?
She tries the innocent expression too, but it doesn’t work for her. I had a front row seat to her behaving far from innocent.
“First off, is this the only look you have?” I ask her for the hell of it.
She glances down at herself. “This is the one you know.”
“So you can do more?” Suddenly, I’m intrigued.
She squeezes her eyes shut, and her appearance changes. The multi-colored skirt and top, the oversized shoes, and the polka dot tights remain the same, but the makeup and wig are gone. She has shoulder-length auburn hair and bright green eyes. And because all ensembles lately aren’t complete without blood, the side of her head is smashed in. Blood and hair are all matted together.
I grimace. “That’s not better.”
“No, that’s cool,” Billy says and walks to her side and stares into her wounds. “I didn’t know I could change.”
He scrunches up his face, looks constipated, and wills himself to change but nothing happens. He opens his eyes and looks down. “Hey, what gives? Why didn’t it work?”
“Because you didn’t get mangled in death. You drank too much, dude,” I say.
He pouts. “Shouldn’t there at least be some vomit?”
“Just be thankful there’s not. I am.” Turning back to Cupcake, I ask, “Can you do anything else? I really don’t want to talk to that either.”
She tries again, and this time she appears normal. Jeans, sneakers, a light yellow tee. This must be her every day look. “Better.”
“Nah, I like the oozing blood one,” Billy says and goes back to couch-jumping. How old is he again?
The coffeemaker has stopped doing its thing, and I grab a mug. “So tell me everything you remember about last night. But leave out the parts with my brother-in-law.”
“It was a regular day. I worked a party for the agency,” Cupcake says.
I grab a notepad I borrowed from Ma before leaving the house. It has two apples at the top and says An Apple a Day. I knew I’d be grilling Cupcake. I dig a pen out of my purse, brush crumbs off of it, and start jotting. “What agency?”
“Jolly Time. It’s on Park Place, in the west end.”
“It’s a company of clowns? Isn’t that the name of popcorn or something?” I’m a bit surprised. I can’t say I’ve ever seen clowns roaming the streets. “What kind of party? Who, where, when?”
“It was a birthday party for a four-year-old in the next town. Not around here.”
It’s unlikely a preschooler killed her, unless… “Did you sleep with anyone there?”
She narrows her gaze. “No.”
Billy finally stops jumping and tries to grab the remote. I try not to laugh as his hand goes through it on each attempt.
“What time was the party?” I ask.
“From six to eight.”
“What did you do after that?”
Billy gets up and flies into the television. It shakes, and I fear it’ll crash to the floor. It’s an old set my parents had in their bedroom. Pop wasn’t keen about giving it up, but Ma was thrilled. I’m pretty sure Pop will replace it this week, and the new one will probably be bigger.
“I went to a bar.”
The TV goes on, and Billy flies back out of it and onto the couch. He leans against the back cushions and crosses his legs. The only thing the dead can manipulate is electronics. I’m not sure why, something to do with the currents, but if it’s plugged in, they can control it. I once had a ghost who loved the refrigerator. Every time I opened it, he was there, just like the light. It was quite unnerving, especially in the middle of the night when I wanted something to drink.
“Mitch’s Tavern.” I say.
She shakes her head. “No, first I went to Lindy’s.”
My full attention centers on her. “You were there? Why’d you leave?”
“It was dead. There were hardly any people and absolutely no cute guys.”
She’s right, but I purse my lips into a snarl. Every time she mentions men, my stomach seizes, and I think of my poor sister.
“Do you normally go out to pick up guys dressed as a clown?” Maybe it’s some new trend I haven’t heard of yet.
She gives a half smile. “No, but I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and I was starved. Lindy’s has awesome wings, although I didn’t get a chance to eat them. I ordered them and a beer, got a bit creeped out by some guy watching me, and left. I don’t usually care for some mild leering, but he was staring hard. Plus, like I said, it was practically empty.”
“What guy?”
Another shrug. “I don’t know. Plaid. Baseball cap.”
Him! She must’ve left right before Izzie and I got there, and Plaid Guy almost ran me down following her out. But why?
“You didn’t recognize him?” I ask.
She chews her bottom lip. “No. Is he important?”
I reach for the half-and-half in the fridge. “I don’t know. Yet. So what happened at Mitch’s? Did you see the plaid guy?” I know he was there.
“No, but it was crowded, and I don’t remember much. I don’t think I saw him.” She sits on a stool at the breakfast bar.
It amazes me how a dead person can sit but not actually feel it. It’s like they go through the motions because they’re used to them.
“And you were there all night until Paulie showed up?”
She frowns. “Who’s Paulie?”
I dump two teaspoons of sugar into my mug. “My brother-in-law.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh. Yeah, but it wasn’t long after I got there.”
She doesn’t know his name? At least that means he was telling the truth and this hasn’t been an ongoing affair.
“Was there anyone else at the bar that you knew? Maybe an ex or someone who hates you?” Assuming the bat used to kill her is Paulie’s, someone had to take it from his truck. It’s highly unlikely this killer randomly found it while the truck was parked in Paulie’s driveway. Someone at the bar saw the fight and the shattering glass and took the bat on purpose. Someone who wanted to blame the murder on an adulterous husband and an angry wife. Someone like Plaid Guy.
Cupcake shakes her head. “I don’t remember.”
“Well, try. This is really important.”
She keeps shaking her head.
“You’re not trying,” I snap. I should finish unpacking, not play detective.
Billy looks over with a scowl.
Cupcake looks like she’s gonna cry, not that she has that emotion anymore. And now I feel a bit like crap. Just a smidgen.
“You don’t get it. It’s all blank. Like I blacked out or something.”
“Is that common?” Billy asks. “‘Cause I used to get blackouts from drinking too much, and look where that got me.”
I don’t point out there’s no sense in warning a dead person about dying.
“Okay, let’s start over. What did you do when you first got to Mitch’s Tavern? Start at the beginning and tell as much as you remember,” I say.
“I arrived and got a seat at the bar. Their food will tear your stomach up, so instead of ordering I pulled over a bowl of pretzels.”
Because an open bowl everyone had their hands in won’t also cause intestinal discomfort.
“Then a guy sat beside me. He looked down,
so I started chatting.” She stops talking and looks me straight in the eye. “More like flirting. And it was Paulie.”
I expect to get annoyed, but her honesty takes me by surprise. It’s nice.
“We chatted for a bit, and I ate the jam and crackers.”
I stop writing mid-word. “What jam and crackers?”
“Oh, they were in my purse,” she says matter-of-factly.
“Do you always carry jam and crackers in your purse?”
She shyly smiles. “No. They were at my apartment door when I left for the party that night.”
I raised a brow as my suspicion rose. “A random jar of jam is left at your door, and you eat it?”
She widens her eyes. “It was in a box. I order free samples all the time. I must’ve sent for it.”
My cousin loved getting samples in the mail too. “Okay, then what?”
“I ate and drank some beer while we chatted.”
She means flirted, and I appreciate the subtlety.
“Then it gets hazy, and I remember pieces. Being in his truck, hearing knocking on the window, and that’s it.”
I hold up a hand. “Okay, wait. Let’s stick with the bar for a sec. Do you go there every Saturday night? Is it routine?”
She nods. “Either Lindy’s or Mitch’s. It used to just be Lindy’s, but they aren’t what they used to be.”
Tell me about it. But now we’re onto something. Anyone from her life could’ve been there waiting.
“Okay, so who wants you dead?” Of course, there were other questions. Like how did she drink so much so fast that she doesn’t remember anything, but I’m more interested in finding suspects who aren’t related to me.
“I don’t know. There have been some other angry wives.”
Billy giggles.
I take a deep breath. “So screwing married men is a pastime?”
She doesn’t respond.
“Okay, well how many? Who are they?” I get my pen ready to scribble.
Her eyes widen. “I don’t remember them all.”
Billy giggles incessantly.
I blow a raspberry. “How about the recent ones?”
“There are three wives since I moved to South Shore Beach. Plus, my landlord hates me because I’m always late with rent.”
I doubt her landlord bashed her skull in on late rent. That isn’t very business practical. “Who are the wives?”
“Um, Naomi Anderson, Stacey Anne Ingles, and Fawn Stewart. They all live here in South Shore Beach. And their husbands are very friendly.”
I bet.
“There are also the accidents.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “What accidents?”
“Last week, I was almost run over while walking to the store near my apartment.”
This is a very dangerous town for pedestrians.
“Then I tumbled halfway down the escalator at Roosevelt Mall the week before.”
Ouch. Falling is one thing, but almost being hit by a car is another.
“I’m accident prone,” she says with a giggle.
Or someone really wanted her dead.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I tap my foot on the tile as I set a new ringtone for Izzie on my cell. “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” doesn’t cut it anymore. She’s inside Interview Room Two. What kind of name is that? Does the South Shore Beach PD really think a serial killer will see that little sign and think, “Oh, they’re going to ask me some questions about my job experience”? Why not call it what it is? An interrogation room.
My tapping grows faster. Izzie’s been in there with Kevin, Sanchez, and the attorney, Mr. Hamilton, for thirty minutes. Kevin and Sanchez. I smile at my name choices. It’s very Law & Order of me to call a detective by his last name. Kevin doesn’t deserve that. I still think he cheated somehow at getting his promotion. No way he’s smart enough to pass the test. I distinctly recall him and Alice’s father joking around about how they were failing math and might not graduate high school.
A couple of female uniformed officers pass me, headed to the elevator bay. Their voices are low and whatever they’re discussing makes them laugh. They remind me of Izzie and me. I sigh.
When I picked her up, we didn’t speak about what we were going to say. We rode to the station in silence, except for Izzie relaying a message from Ma about her stopping by my apartment with groceries. Which is also a way for Ma to snoop. Luckily, I haven’t unpacked my personal items yet. I hope she doesn’t dig through my suitcase and find my stash of glow-in-the-dark condoms. It was an impulsive buy the night before D.N.‘s grandmother passed away.
Speaking of him, I was disappointed D.N. didn’t tag along when Mr. Hamilton arrived. But just for a second and I was over it. Yep, completely unbothered.
The interrogation room door opens and Izzie walks out wide-eyed, like she saw something unspeakable. She’s rubbing her palm. In the same spot where she’d cut herself the other night. I want to ask her what happened, but Sanchez calls me straight in. I grab the plastic grocery bag I threw my dress in, and as Izzie and I swap seats, I think how we should’ve compared stories in the car. Is there something I shouldn’t say? Did she twist any truth to make it sound less incriminating?
Mr. Hamilton is roughly Pop’s age but more distinguished looking. A Smith Brothers suit instead of a greasy, capicola-stained apron will do that to a man.
As Sanchez turns on a recorder in the center of the table, Kevin folds his arms over his chest and narrows his eyes at me.
I roll mine, displaying how childish I can be. Yay, me. I toss my bag of clothes at him, take a seat, and try not to fidget with the hem of my top. So I clasp my hands together on top of the table and give my fingers a stern glare so they’ll stay still.
“Ms. Mancini, you recently returned to town, yes?” Sanchez asks. Now that I’m closer to him and more focused, I see that Sanchez looks slightly younger than I initially thought. He’s dressed in a white button-down and a brown and silver striped tie; a beige jacket lies over the back of his chair.
“Yes. Tuesday, last week.”
“Where have you been living?”
“In Connecticut.”
“Were you living there alone?” asks Sanchez.
Kevin remains unmoved, like he’s frozen. Too bad he’s not. I could find a dog outside to pee on him.
“At first with my cousin and then with my boyfriend.”
Kevin flinches, and I feel a bit triumphant. The creep doesn’t still have feelings for me, right? I mean—that would be disturbing. Plus, he’s married.
“Did your boyfriend move to South Shore Beach with you?” Sanchez asks.
I glance to Hamilton, who nods, as if I’m looking for approval to answer this question. “Not exactly. We broke up, but he does live here now.”
Sanchez smiles. “Okay, let’s move on. What did you do this past Saturday evening?”
“My sister—”
“That’s Isabella Donato, correct?” he interrupts.
“Yes. She picked me up from our family deli, and we went to our brother’s house.”
“The family deli being Mancini Deli over on Park Place? And can you state your brother’s name, please?”
“Yes and Officer Lorenzo Mancini, Junior.”
Sanchez nods. “Continue.”
“We went to Enzo’s house to scare him, but—”
Sanchez holds up a hand. “Wait, I’m sorry. You went to scare him?”
I smile. “It’s this thing we do, ever since we were kids. We’d jump out of closets at each other. Hide under beds and grab my sister’s ankle. Stuff like that.”
Hamilton holds back a laugh.
Kevin narrows his eyes. “Aren’t you a little old to still behave like children?”
“I don’t know. Aren’t you a bit too old to still be pissed I didn’t date you in college?”
His face reddens, and I can’t help but smile. Okay, so maybe I can help it, but I don’t want to. He makes it so easy. He’s like a big,
walking bull’s-eye.
“After Enzo’s, Izzie and I went to Lindy’s over on Atlantic Avenue.”
“Around what time was that?”
I shrug. “Maybe nine.”
“And how long did you stay there?”
“Maybe thirty minutes.”
“Why did you leave so fast?”
“I ran into my ex.”
“And what’s his name?”
“Dou…um, Julian Reed.” I glance at Hamilton from the corner of my eye. He doesn’t react at all. Great lawyer skills. “I didn’t feel like talking to him, so we left and went to Mitch’s Tavern.”
“What happened when you got there?” Sanchez asks.
I fill him in on the night. I don’t lie, but I don’t emphasize the anger Izzie displayed. For instance, Izzie struck his windshield with the bat, rather than beat it within an inch of its life. Just a little turn of phrase. No lies. I make sure to mention I touched the bat, too. I want it on record for whenever they find an extra set of fingerprints. And I may have exaggerated Paulie’s reaction to it all. Like when he told the clown Izzie’s his wife, I add that he seemed annoyed he’d been caught. Irked. Even positively angry. What? The real events make Izzie look homicidal. I need to say something to save my sister.
“Did you see where the clown went after she left the car?”
I shake my head. “She got out of the truck and headed toward the back of the parking lot. I didn’t see her again after that.”
“Did you see anyone else in the area? Maybe someone stopped to help her or give her a ride?”
“There was a man dressed in plaid, jeans, and a Yankees’ cap. He was coming out of Lindy’s in a rush when we arrived. And when we were leaving Mitch’s, I saw him again, staring at us.” Okay, so the staring at us part is a bit of a fib, but it’s just a teeny lie. He could’ve been staring at us. I want the police to take this guy seriously, and I can’t very well tell them that Cupcake said he leered at her.
“What happened when you left the parking lot?” Sanchez asks.
“Izzie and I went to the liquor store and the beach.”
“Do you normally drink on the beach?” Sanchez asks.
Jennifer Fischetto - Dead by the Numbers 01 - One Garish Ghost & Blueberry Peach Jam Page 7
