They definitely don’t live together.
“I’m going to grab a quick shower before we start cooking, okay?” she says to Wesley and hands him the bag.
“Of course.” He kisses her forehead. In flats, she’s only a couple of inches shorter than him, and he’s a good five-eleven.
“Timothy mentioned how you’ll be stopping by for more parties, right?” she asks me.
“Yes. Soon.”
“Great. I’ll see you then.”
After she walks off, I turn to Wesley. “Do you mind if I bring up Cup…Emma?”
Sadness shadows his eyes instantly.
“Timothy mentioned how you and she were very close,” I say. Someday my lies are going to come up and strangle me. But until then…
He nods. “She was a good friend. I already miss her so much.” He doesn’t lower his voice or look over his shoulder to see if Danielle is listening like he would if he was hiding something. So maybe they were just friends after all.
“She was troubled,” he adds.
“How so?” I ask.
“She had a rough childhood, and I suspect she didn’t deem herself worthy of much good. She had a way of destroying the best things in her life and taking what wasn’t hers. Mostly relationships.”
“She had you.”
He smiles. “Yes, she did. And I hope she knew that.”
Oh, she does.
“Did you see her the night she died?”
He frowns.
“I mean, were you able to see her right before she died? Obviously, you didn’t know she’d pass and couldn’t say bye, but maybe if you had a good last time together it’s almost like that.” There goes the rambling again.
“That’s a lovely thought, but I hadn’t seen or talked to her since Wednesday.”
I search his face for a sign he’s lying, but I don’t know him well enough to be able to tell. Plus, he’s looking off past me, not at me. Are Emma’s memories real? Was she here that night? And if so, is he covering up her murder?
* * *
When I leave Wesley’s, I decide to swing by Ma’s. It is Meatloaf Monday after all. When we were kids, with Ma and Pop working hard at the deli, it left little time for Ma to create inspired, varied family dinners. She’d give the days of the week cute names, so we’d think it was special. Super Sunday, Meatloaf Monday, Taco Tuesday, Wing Wednesday, Tomato Thursday—which is just spaghetti with sauce—and Fish Friday.
Saturdays, when we were old enough to heat up leftovers or cook for ourselves, became Snack Saturdays. Izzie, Enzo, and I would buy a bunch of foods Ma and Pop didn’t allow us to eat, like Doritos, soda, Hostess Cupcakes, and frozen pizzas, and we’d gorge ourselves. Sometimes, I still miss those nights.
I’m almost there when Emma appears in my car. I glance at her and scoff. “You know, I’ve been calling you. There really needs to be a way to reach ghosts, like a supernatural pager.”
Her eyes twinkle. “What’s up, roomie?”
“Wesley said he last spoke to you Wednesday.”
“You spoke to him?”
“I was just at his place. He didn’t say you were there the night you died. But you remember it. Is it possible he killed you?”
She gasps like a strangled chicken, not that I know what a strangled chicken sounds like. “No way. Wesley and I are…were friends. He’d never. Plus, he’s such a gentle guy. He won’t even kill bugs, just cups them and sets them free outside. It drives Danielle crazy.”
She laughs and suddenly stops. Moisture wells in her eyes. “I can’t believe we’ll never hang out again.”
Damn. I hate the weepy ghosts. I’m not insensitive, but when you see as many ghosts as I have, the crying thing gets old fast. Okay, so maybe I am insensitive.
“I told you I’m not sure if the memory is from that night.”
“But you think it is.” I turn onto Ma and Pop’s street.
She shrugs. “If he says I wasn’t there, then…”
“He could be lying,” I interrupt. Everyone lies. Even the small ones.
“Wesley would never kill me.” She presses her lips together as if to say that’s the end of the subject.
Fine. I’ll let it go. For the moment.
“Tell me about him and Danielle. Is he the cheating type?”
Emma laughs. “He’s rather religious. They’ve never even had sex. Saving it for marriage and all. I believe he’s a virgin.”
I stare at her and almost drive into a parked car. I swerve out of the way. “Get out! He’s like, what, in his thirties?”
“Thirty-four. But this is his life and his choice. It’s not like it’s some bad joke like in that movie with the dweeby forty-year-old.”
I laugh at her reference. “Okay, so he’s faithful.”
“Yep. I’m not so sure if she is though.”
“Why do you say that?”
“That night the party I worked at was with Danielle and Timothy. Afterwards, I went to the bathroom. The lock was broken. I didn’t know anyone was in there, so I walked in. Danielle was finishing up, and her purse was on the counter. Right on top, kinda sticking out, were birth control pills.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. I saw the white and purple box. I take, or took, the same ones. Altavera.”
“So why would she need them if they’re abstaining?”
“Exactly. But also, she told Wesley she can’t have kids.”
“Maybe they’re not for pregnancy but some hormonal thing. Some women use them for acne.”
“I hope so. I don’t want Wesley to get hurt,” she says.
I pull up to the house and go inside, still thinking about all Emma said. She follows me in, and when I spot Izzie sitting at the kitchen table, I’m real glad I’m the only one who can see my little clown.
Izzie looks up and horror masks her face.
Clown. Shoot, I’m still dressed as a clown.
She chucks a banana at my head. “What the hell are you doing? Are you mocking my life?”
I duck the flying fruit. The corner of it nearly hits my temple. Damn she has good aim. My stomach rumbles at the thought of her with the bat.
“Whoa, sorry. I forgot I still have it on.”
Ma, who’s at the stove, steps over. She bites her lower lip, obviously wanting to laugh, but doesn’t due to her over-sensitive eldest. Does Izzie actually think I’m poking fun at her misery? What kind of sister does she think I am?
I explain why I’m dressed like this, including the second job.
“You’re trying to help her?” Izzie screeches.
Emma flits over to the stove and peeks into a pot. “I really wish I could still taste food. This looks delicious.”
I ignore her and concentrate on my sister. “I’m trying to help us by figuring out the truth. I don’t want to be called back into the police station.”
This seems to calm Izzie down a bit, but she still glares at me. She folds her arms over her chest. “Is she here now?”
“Maybe.”
Izzie scoffs so hard I can smell her coffee drenched breath from where I’m standing. She stomps upstairs as if she’s three.
I smile at Ma. “At least she didn’t throw an apple.”
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Ma asks.
I can’t tell if she disapproves or not. “I think so.”
She nods. “Be safe. Someone killed that clown. It could be a co-worker.”
Maybe, but my bet is on Plaid Guy.
The front door opens, and Enzo walks in. If he thinks I look strange, he doesn’t say anything or even give me a second glance. Just a nod and straight to the stove as Ma pulls the meatloaf out of the oven. He’s like a dog.
“I’ve been keeping it warm for you,” she says after kissing his cheek. Then to me, “Are you hungry, Gianna?”
My stomach rumbles in response. That last thing I ate was half a cup of tortellini salad and a pack of Saltine crackers right before I left work this afternoon. “I can eat.”<
br />
Ma sets the food on the table while I grab plates and silverware and Enzo fills two glasses with ice and water. Then we sit and feast. The pot Emma stared into contains mashed potatoes, and the smaller one in the back has carrots. By time Enzo and I…mostly Enzo…are done, I doubt there will be leftovers.
Emma sits beside Enzo, staring at every ridge of his pecs, and tries squeezing them.
I can’t tell if he feels her coldness or not, and he isn’t reacting because he’s too busy eating.
When the phone rings, Ma smiles at the caller ID and goes into the basement to answer it. It must be her friend with a lead to another murder item. One thing is for sure—Ma will never be without her hobby. Someone is always going to be murdered.
I stare at Enzo’s jaw as he chews. After eating all his carrots and half of his meat and potatoes, he wipes his mouth on a paper napkin and finally says, “Why do you look like that?”
“I took a part-time job at Jolly Time Agency where Emma worked. The dead clown.”
He stops mid chew.
I smile. All I need is his attention. “I was thinking. If you give me the details on her murder, I can help you figure out who killed her.”
Emma leans forward and practically drools in his lap.
He raises a brow. “I can’t tell you about a case. Besides, it’s not my case. I don’t know much.”
“Maybe, but you can find out something. You must have friends in the department. And maybe I, or Emma, can help you make detective faster.”
She purrs. “Yay, dicks.”
I chuckle and shake my head when he gives me a questioning look. “She likes detectives.”
He glances to his left. “She’s here?”
“Yep. And while she doesn’t remember how she died, I’ve already spoken to a few people who knew her.” I tell him what I’ve learned about Wesley and a possible memory of her last being at his house.
Enzo sighs around a mouthful, swallows, and glances over his shoulder. “Fine, but this is between you and me. Don’t involve them,” he whispers.
He’s talking about the family. “What? You don’t trust them?”
He frowns. “Of course, but this is my career. Only us. Pinky swear, or I’m not giving up anything.”
I place my elbow on the table and stretch out my pinky like I did so many times growing up. Being the youngest, it was the only way to learn the gossip. “I swear.”
He clears his throat and leans over his plate. “The preliminary toxicology report came back. It shows Rohypnol in her system.”
Emma and I gasp in unison.
“That’s a date rape drug,” Emma says.
“And the reason you don’t remember anything,” I add.
She nods.
Enzo goes back to his meat.
“This isn’t a spur of the moment, heat-of-passion killing,” I say. “It’s premeditated murder.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I’m off on Tuesdays, so I spend the next morning Googling the three wives. There’s a website and Facebook page for The Jam Shoppe—Stacey Anne Ingles’ store. Oh my God, jam. Is the free sample Emma ate from this store? I search faster, but there’s nothing personal about Stacey Anne or her husband. The Jam Shoppe displays their jars, each with a red gingham bow. Why would Emma order a sample from one of the wives? Is it possible she didn’t know it was Stacey Anne’s shop? I need to show this to Emma ASAP, she and Billy aren’t here now.
I find a LinkedIn link for Naomi Anderson, but without an account I can’t see it, and I doubt there’s anything incriminating on a professional site. There are no photos of her or her husband either. Fawn Stewart, however, is another story. She’s on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Pinterest, and YouTube, where she posts makeup tutorials. I should email the link to Danielle. I spend way too long stalking Fawn and her eight hundred seventy-four friends.
When I’ve wasted all morning in front of the computer, I decide to stalk her in person and jot down the address of the salon. But before I log off, I do a Google search of Billy. Since I don’t know his last name, I enter his first name, spring break, and alcohol poisoning. Why didn’t I ask for his full name? This would be so much easier.
I find an article about a college student dying at a party. Is this it?
On March twentieth, police officers responded to a call about loud music coming from a house at 55 St. James Place. When they arrived, they found a party thrown by Holy Mount College students.
The house is in town, but the school is three towns away. It’s a private Catholic college with a good reputation. Ma wanted us to go there. Pop wasn’t so adamant. I’d like to think it was because he believed we had a right to choose our own religious beliefs, if any, but I’m sure it was really about the money. Sending the two of us to private colleges would’ve put them in debt for years.
Enzo ended up at Farmingdale University, a state school where he lived on campus for four years. Although it felt like much less since he was home weekly for Ma’s cooking and laundry services. I lived at home, going to Nassau Community College for two years, and then transferred to Adelphi, which is a private school but a short commute. Since I only went there for two years, Ma and Pop were able to manage the cost.
I get back to the article.
There was drinking and drugs at the party, and several occupants were either high or over the legal limit of alcohol. The house owner, Andre Collins, is being held for questioning since many of the guests were under the legal drinking age. A couple of the party-goers were taken to South Shore Beach Hospital for further observation. William Wyatt—that must be Billy—was discovered unconscious. He was pronounced dead from alcohol poisoning at the hospital.
I sigh and rub my face, grateful I didn’t put on makeup earlier. Poor Billy. That’s not a cool way to go. What is he sticking around for though? Probably his family. I need to find the time to connect with him, learn his inner demons, and eradicate them. He needs to move on. And I need one fewer ghost in my life. Not to be too insensitive and all.
* * *
I drive over to Fawn Stewart’s work, Randall Lawrence Salon & Spa, on Park Place in the East End. Emma comes along for the ride. Maybe she can help. You never know when you may need the dead’s assistance.
I’m about to get out of my car when Fawn walks out of the brick building. I recognize her instantly due to the thousand selfies scattered across her social media pages.
She gets into a little red Corvette and pulls out of the parking space. So I do the only thing a deli worker-slash- part-time clown can do. I metaphorically flip my original-Charlie’s-Angels-feathered hair and follow her.
Several blocks away she pulls into a spot in front of an office building and sits there.
“What is she doing?” I ask after double-parking several cars back. I’m blocking in a beige sedan. If the owner comes out before Fawn moves on, I’m screwed. I’ll have to circle the block and risk losing her.
“Her husband, Kurt, works here,” Emma says.
“She must be waiting for him. It’s a bit late for lunch though. What’s he do?”
“Something in insurance. He’s not a talker.”
I don’t comment.
Three men and two women in navy and black suits exit the building and walk around the corner to the parking lot.
“That’s her husband,” Emma says with a sigh. “The one holding the briefcase. He’s gorgeous and so great in bed. He does this thing where he holds my legs over…”
I stick my fingers in my ears. “Lalalala. I don’t want to know.”
She smirks, and I assume it’s safe to stop acting like a child.
I lower my arms. “Never give me the details.”
She keeps her eyes straight ahead, but her smirk turns into a smile, so I believe we’re cool.
Kurt Anderson is blonde, pale, and even with the suit looks like he belongs in a Calvin Klein underwear ad. Definitely not Plaid Guy.
“How’d you meet him?” I ask, suddenly wishing I owned bin
oculars and one of those devices that pick up sound from far off.
“When I first moved to town I got here a day early, and my landlord had a family emergency. He wasn’t here to give me the key, so I took a room over at the Beachcomb—the hotel down on Broadway. Kurt was there for a business meeting, but afterward he hung around, and we met by the pool. I never learned why he didn’t leave right after his meeting. I guess fate wanted us together.”
She makes it sound like they had a romantic relationship and not an affair with no chance of a happy ending.
Several cars pull out of the parking lot, and Fawn follows the black SUV. And I follow Fawn. What kind of wife doesn’t get out of her car to greet her husband but follows him when he leaves his office? The kind that’s been cheated on more than once.
They pull onto South Shore Beach Road and head down toward the water. When he turns on Pacific Avenue, a street full of two-story, private homes, my gut tells me Fawn is either livid or in tears.
“Obviously you’re not the only one he’s cheated with,” I say.
Emma scoffs. “It’s great that you think my wanton feminine ways can attract all men, but a man who cheats is a man who’s going to cheat. If he’s loyal there’s nothing another woman can do to change that. So maybe save the judgment for the one in the committed relationship.”
Whoa, where did that come from?
I turn and stare into her eyes. She’s right though. Emma hasn’t broken any vows, and she’s only responsible for her own actions, not anyone else’s. She didn’t make promises to Izzie or any of these women. Whether or not she knew Paulie was married, he’s the one who cheated.
I nod and turn back to our stakeout. “Sorry.”
Then I shudder. If Izzie knew I apologized to the clown, she’d disown me.
* * *
After Fawn returns to the salon without confronting her husband or his car, Emma disappears, saying something about a toga-wearing man in her apartment building, and I head over to Wesley’s. I have just enough time before my shift at the deli to snoop around. I’m hoping since he’s a teacher that no one else, like a housekeeper, is home. And when I pull into his empty driveway, I’m thrilled I get my wish. Although what I can find searching the outside perimeter is beyond me. I just don’t think I’ll get another tour soon. Eventually he and Danielle will get suspicious.
Jennifer Fischetto - Dead by the Numbers 01 - One Garish Ghost & Blueberry Peach Jam Page 10
