Jennifer Fischetto - Dead by the Numbers 01 - One Garish Ghost & Blueberry Peach Jam

by Jennifer Fischetto

  My shoulders grow tired, filled with anxiety, so I lower my hands into my lap. “No, but we don’t normally find my brother-in-law getting a blow job from a clown either.”

  Kevin snickers.

  I send another death glare. I’m getting really good at them.

  “How long were you on the beach?”

  I don’t mean to sigh, but I do. It’s a small one. It’s just crap. They’ve obviously asked Izzie all the same questions, so why do I need to reiterate? “All night. We fell asleep.”

  Kevin leans forward. “You mean, passed out?”

  Mr. Hamilton taps the table. “Don’t answer that.”

  Sanchez clears his throat. I have a feeling he does that a lot due to his partner. It must get sore. When this is all over, I should buy him a pack of lozenges. “How much did you each have to drink?”

  “We finished a bottle of vodka. I don’t know individually.”

  “And what did you do?”

  I stare at him, unsure what he means. “Do? We sat on the sand and trash-talked Paulie, Izzie’s husband. We also discussed how most men in general suck, and how the planet would be calmer and not as crowded without them. We also talked about—”

  “He asked what you did,” Kevin snaps.

  I clench my hands into fists. Gosh, what I’d give for the freedom to slide over this table and slap him across the face. The joy, the glee, the sheer enthusiasm. But I’d be arrested for assaulting an officer, and no one needs that. But it would fill my happy card for the rest of my life.

  “Nothing. We talked.”

  “What time did you leave?” Sanchez asks.

  “A little after six a.m.”

  “And where did you go?”

  “I dropped Izzie off at our parents’. She and her daughter are staying there. And I went home to my apartment.” Before he asks, I add, “Which is above the deli.”

  “While you were on the beach, did you see anyone?” Kevin asks.

  What a stupid question. How many people does he think hang out on the beach all night? “Nope.”

  “So you don’t have an alibi.” Kevin says.

  Hamilton lays a hand on my arm, telling me to shut up. Gladly. “Ms. Mancini said she was with her sister all night. Now, I believe she has answered all of your questions. If that’s all?”

  Sanchez stares at me for a moment and nods. “That’s all for now. If we have any more, we’ll call you.”

  Mr. Hamilton cups my elbow and rises, guiding me to do the same. He places a business card on the table. “If you have any more questions, call me.”

  * * *

  Afterward, I drop Izzie off at home and head to my shift at the deli. I grab an apron off a hook inside the kitchen and tie it around my waist.

  “How’d it go?” Ma asks. She has her gloved hands deep inside a bin of tortellini salad, mixing it.

  I shrug, not really sure. “We’re not in handcuffs.”

  Ma clicks her tongue. She may approve and even laugh at how we scare one another, but when it comes to the safety of her kids, she’s all mama bear. “Can you grab a lasagna from the walk-in and stick it in the oven?”

  “Yep.” I yank on the freezer door and step inside. As the door softly shuts behind me, I’m reminded of that almost fatal day. I always am. And it doesn’t matter that the memories are vague, more like feelings. I can’t even reach for ice cubes without them.

  Everything in here is encased in aluminum foil, with labeling written on masking tape. Luckily, it’s also stocked in alphabetical order. My parents—the OCD deli owners. I find a pan of lasagna near the back and grab it.

  I’m about to walk out when something catches my eye. And as if the giant cube wasn’t cold enough, a gust of freezing wind blows my hair off my neck. Oh, this can’t be good.

  Hoping the freezer is only going berserk, I turn and stare at the back wall. A swirling tunnel appears. Because that happens every day.

  I should run out before whatever it is sucks me in, but I’m way too curious to simply walk away. I reach out one finger, like ET, until I almost touch it. It’s so cold I can’t feel the tip of my finger anymore. This is crazy, even for me. I start to pull back, and a bony hand snaps out of the tunnel at me.

  It tries to grab my wrist, brushes up against my skin, and I’m instantly chilled from the inside out.

  I step back, too fast for whatever it is.

  Laughter echoes through the ice box—deep and maniacal.

  The tunnel starts to fade, but before it’s gone, I can make out a face. Old, wrinkly, electric blue eyes, a shock of white hair, and a menacing grin.

  It’s the ghost from my dream. The one that tried to pull me to his side when I died. It’s been eighteen years. Why is he still sticking around? And why does he still want me?

  When I step out of the freezer, I set the lasagna in the oven then go to the sink. I blast the hot water with a trickle of cold and hold my hands under it. They don’t take long to heat back up, except for the tip of my right index finger. It looks like normal skin, but it tingles and still feels cold.

  “What are you doing?” Ma asks as she walks past.

  I shake my head, not wanting to scare her. “Just washing up. I’ll be out front in a minute.”

  * * *

  Two hours later, my finger still tingles, but I barely notice it during the lunch crowd. Salads, heroes, paninis…it’s easy to get lost in the work. I’m wiping down the counter as the rush slows, and the bell above the door jingles. I look up, cheesy smile on my face, and spot Hilary Porter.

  Merda.

  Other than Kevin, she’s the last person I want to see today. We became super close in fourth grade and stayed that way through eleventh grade. In twelfth the world imploded, and my sweet, gentle friend turned into a raging witch. Okay, so maybe I had a hand in it, but she started it.

  Micky Sheridan, my kindergarten husband, hit puberty late but hit it like a land mine. Six-feet, with long, dark bangs that he constantly pushed out of his ice blue eyes, he was all lopsided smile, and he stared at you from beneath his lashes as if he was too shy to look you straight on. It was incredibly adorable, and several girls had the hots for him. But he only talked to me. He really was shy. Hey, we shared grape juice, chocolate cupcakes, and a bouquet of dandelions at our wedding. That’s a bond you can’t break.

  So when Hilary kissed him behind the bushes at my house during a Fourth of July cookout, I lost it. And that was the beginning of the end. Fake wedding or not, she knew I still crushed on him, always had, and she only noticed him because of his growth spurt. Then she took it one step further and told him my secret. The one that took me three years to confide in her. The one that helped her move on when her grandfather died. She stabbed me so deep in the back, I still feel the wound when it rains.

  And if things couldn’t get worse, Micky stopped speaking to me. He wouldn’t even look me in the eye. Suffice it to say, what was supposed to be the best year of our lives ended up sucking like a pound of lemons. Hilary and I never kept in touch. The last I knew, after her brief stint dating Kevin in college, she moved to New Jersey.

  And here she was, standing before me, grinning as if we’re long lost friends.

  “Gianna, I heard you’re back. You look great.”

  “Thanks.” I’m bitter enough not to repeat the compliment, even though she does look good. Her dark blond hair is pulled back into a bun, a minimal amount of makeup accentuates her naturally high cheekbones, and she’s dressed in burgundy trousers with a cream-colored wrap top. “Can I get you something?”

  That is why she’s here, right? She didn’t show up thinking we’re going to pick up where we left off. No, she’s intelligent. Straight A’s and B’s in school. She knows better. But when she doesn’t say anything, just stares at me, I can’t help but wonder if the years killed some brain cells.

  Her gaze flickers up to the menu behind me on the wall. “Um, can I get a pound of Boar’s Head Ham, thinly sliced, and a pound of tortellini salad?”
<
br />   “Sure.” I turn my back on her immediately and try to take a deep breath, but it’s hitched in my chest, and all I want to do is cry or scream or burp. Something that will take away the pressure. I give Pop the ham order because I need a moment to remember how to breathe and because I hate the slicer. It’s scarier than the freezer ghost. Well, almost.

  I sprint into the back and see Ma grab her purse from beneath a back table. She’s about to go out the back door when she notices me practicing my guppy routine.

  She hurries over. “What is it?”

  “H-Hil—” I can’t form words, so I point to the kitchen door. Oh sure, this has me stuttering like Forrest Gump, but Freezer Dude didn’t even accelerate my heart rate. What’s wrong with me?

  Ma looks through the window in the door and raises her brows. “Oh wow. I haven’t seen her in years.”

  There goes the theory that she’s in here all the time and this isn’t planned.

  Ma squeezes my arm. “Come on. It’ll be fine. She screwed you over, but she only has power over you if you let her.”

  I whip my head up and stare into her dark eyes. “Who are you?”

  She frowns. “What are you talking about?”

  “Yesterday, you practically offered D…Julian to move in with you and Pop, and today, a seven year friend can be swept into the gutter?”

  She sticks a finger in my face. “I never said that. But I remember all the crying you did over that girl, and she was wrong. She hurt you. Julian didn’t. You two had a misunderstanding because you’re keeping secrets from him.”

  “Yeah, well, she let my secret out. I think I have reason to be concerned.”

  “She was a child. Julian is a man who moved to another state to be closer to you.”

  Gosh, I hate when she makes a valid point.

  “Come on.” She pushes the door open, and we walk through as Pop is wrapping up the ham.

  I head to the salads, grab a plastic cup, and start filling it.

  “Hilary, I haven’t seen you in ages. How is your mother?” Ma asks.

  “She’s good. She’s living in Freeport now.”

  “Good for her.” Ma’s using her small talk voice. The one that says she’s only being nice because it’s not good for business or her entrance into Heaven to be rude.

  This makes me grin. I hand the container to Pop to ring up.

  “And you’re back in South Shore Beach?” Ma asks.

  I cross my fingers, including the weird tingling one, and hope she says no.

  “Yes.”

  Damn.

  Hilary gives Pop her bankcard and turns her hand around for us to see a diamond studded wedding band.

  “You’re married,” I say.

  Her smile is huge. “Yes, Friday. It was unexpected. He asked. I said yes. And we ran to the courthouse. We’re taking a honeymoon next month.”

  “Love and romance is exciting,” Ma says after giving me a look that says I could have the same if I tell D.N. the truth.

  I use all my willpower not to roll my eyes. I’m not in a rush for marriage and kids. Eventually. But right now I’d like to find a career I love and doesn’t have me running home to shower off the stench of meat.

  “So, you’re no longer Hilary Porter,” Ma says.

  “No. Now it’s Burton.”

  My face drops. Not my actual face because that would be disgusting. And painful. But my expression metaphorically falls to the sticky linoleum. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  “I married Kevin Burton.”

  And this day keeps getting better.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The rest of my shift goes well. Ma leaves, and it’s Pop and me making sandwiches, putting together an order for a last-minute office party, and getting a small crowd of people who all think shopping between three and four will have them beat rush hour. I’d like to remind them this is a deli and not the highway, but it’s busy. And filling orders beats standing around doing nothing.

  When I get off work I take a quick shower, place a Band-Aid on my mildly tingling finger for the heck of it, and head over to Jolly Time Agency.

  It’s a one-story, brick building nestled between a barber shop and a used bookstore. From the outside it looks like another store. But when I step inside, the interior explodes with color. The walls are painted in a wave of bright yellow above candy apple red. The carpet is blue, and there are framed photos hung along one wall of various clowns at birthday parties. Their portfolio, I assume.

  Cupcake is by my side. She and Billy were yakking about something when I got out of the shower. I told her where I was going, hoping she’d tag along. She’s been silent the whole way over.

  “May I help you?” A woman behind a glass desk greets me. Her smile is warm, and even though she’s maybe a few years older than me, she sports two very high ponytails. She’s dressed in regular clothes—a block maxi skirt in navy, beige, and cream with an off-white peasant top—and not clown garb. She has a very heavy hand when applying makeup though. Yikes, she should check out some YouTube tutorials for natural application and not theatrical.

  “Hi, I’m…Gianna.” I suddenly don’t know what to say. Do I admit I know Cupcake from the bar, or do I make up some lie? “I, uh, met an employee of yours, and she said wonderful things about your company.”

  The woman’s smile brightens. “Are you a clown, too?”

  “Yes.” It flies out of my mouth. Maybe if she thinks I’m one of them, she’ll open up to me?

  Cupcake raises a brow at me but doesn’t respond. This is the quietest I’ve seen her.

  But before we get a chance to continue, a door at the back of the room opens, and a big, burly man stomps over to the woman. He’s dressed in full clown getup, all yellow, red, and blue. A perfect match to the lobby. His feet are covered in oversized, yellow and red shoes, and he’s wearing a small red top hat with tufts of neon blue frizz coming out from beneath and covering his ears and the back of his neck. He’s concentrating hard on a sheet of paper in his hands, and his furrowed brow almost makes it look like he has no eyes. He doesn’t notice me.

  Cupcake rushes over to him, like she’s expecting him to turn and give her a hug. She must remember that he can’t see her because her stature slumps and she sighs.

  “Danielle, call the Simmons to… Did it suddenly get cold in here?” He glances around and notices me. “Who are you?”

  Danielle jumps to her feet. She’s tall, naturally slender. “This is Gianna. She’s looking for a job.”

  Whoa! I never said that. I’m not a clown. I can’t do this.

  Cupcake glances at me and laughs—a sign she’s at least awake and not clown walking.

  The man stares me up and down. “This isn’t a good time.” He starts to walk away, and Danielle steps in front of him.

  She lowers her voice, but she’s still loud enough for me to hear. “We could use another body for the Conroy party.”

  He turns his head to speak over his shoulder but doesn’t actually look at me. “Do you have experience?”

  “Yes,” I lie. What else can I do? If I tell the truth, I’m outta here. If I can cozy up to them, maybe someone knows more than what Cupcake’s telling me. Of course, I haven’t a clue as to what to do, but I’ve been to the circus before. How hard can acting like an overgrown child be?

  “I worked in Connecticut.” Hopefully he won’t ask for references.

  The man nods. “We’ll give you a trial run. Danielle will get you set up.”

  Danielle grins, Cupcake giggles, and the man walks back through the door. What the hell just happened?

  “I’ll be right back,” Danielle says and hurries through the same door.

  “I can’t do this,” I whisper.

  “Then why’d you lie?” Cupcake asks with an eat-shit grin.

  “Because I have to in order to help you move on.”

  “Aww, that’s sweet.”

  “Save it. I want you out of my apartment and my life.”

  The
corner of her mouth twitches, and she looks away.

  Great. Now I’ve insulted a ghost. That’s a new one for me. I feel like crap.

  “Sorry, it’s just I’m not over seeing you with Paulie.”

  She nods. “I’m sorry for that.”

  And there’s our white flag in the sand.

  “Since you’re helping me move on, I’ll teach you how to perform.”

  I smile. “Deal.”

  Danielle reenters holding a box with a manila folder on top. She sets it on her desk and opens the folder. “Here are some forms you’ll need to fill out for tax and employment purposes. You can take them home and bring them back.”

  I take them, fold them in half, and stick them in my purse. “Was that man the boss?”

  “Yes, Timothy. He owns and runs Jolly Time. He’s normally more social, but things have been difficult lately.”

  “Because of the death?”

  She looks up, wide-eyed. “You read about it in the paper?”

  “Actually, the clown I met that told me about the agency was Cupcake.”

  A small gasp escapes her lips.

  Cupcake slides up to Danielle. “She really looks upset. I thought she couldn’t stand me. Oh, and only address a clown by their clown name while working. Otherwise, it’s unprofessional.”

  Right. Clown rules.

  “I’m sorry for your loss. I didn’t know her well, but Emma seemed…” I have no idea how to finish that because my mind wanders. What if Danielle puts two and two together and realizes that I am one of the women in Mitch’s parking lot that night?

  “She will be missed.” Danielle opens the box, changing the subject. “These are extras. You’ll have to buy your own costume, but you can use whatever’s in here until you do.”

  I peek into the box and inwardly groan at the bright, neon explosion. “Thanks,” I say very unenthusiastically.

  I take a step away, wanting to get as far away from the box as possible, and Danielle frowns.

  “You’ll need to pick something for the Conroy birthday party.”

  “Oh, right. How old is the birthday person?”

  She glances at her computer monitor. “Little Jasper Conroy has just turned five.”