"Pastrami."
That's my choice too. I grab the Swiss cheese, an onion, mayo, and hot sauce, 'cause I like things spicy. Too bad I wasn't downstairs. I could use the panini press. I could run down. Nah, I'm too lazy.
As I slice and then sauté the onions, we're quiet. I hum "Let it Go" because I now have the soundtrack of the movie Frozen stuck in my head, and when I look up, Julian is smiling at me.
I wag my wooden spoon at him. "Don't look at me like that."
"Like what?" he asks and stands up.
I stop shaking and point the spoon at him. "Stay where you are."
He chuckles and keeps putting one foot in front of the other. "Why?"
"You know why." My voice cracks.
He's right in front of me. Dang, this apartment is too small. I take a step back, but it does no good. I'm up against the counter between the fridge and stove with nowhere to go but forward. And that's where he is in his dark jeans and black tee, with bulges in all the right places. Those damn bulges.
"God, I hate you."
His smile deepens. "Do you?"
I know what's coming. My body knows what's coming. I like to pretend I don't want him this close, but deep down and even not so deep down, it's not true. I want him near me, on me, inside me all the time. But once we cross that line, I know everything will get more muddled in my head. And while I love him like he's a piece of me, I still haven't come to terms with his job.
He leans down. His breath tickles my ear. His lips graze my neck. "Do you still hate me now?"
I giggle and push at his chest. Oh my God, an actual giggle. I clamp my lips shut. I never giggle. What's come over me? There isn't anything wrong with the annoying sound. I just prefer laughter or chuckling.
Julian stands upright and glances to my right. "The onions are burning."
I turn quickly and sure enough they're blackening at the edges. I didn't put enough extra-virgin olive oil in the skillet. I move the pan off the burner and push the onions around to see if I can use them.
"Look at what you did," I say playfully.
"I am not responsible for your horniness."
"Mine?" I wag my spoon at him again. When I look back to the stove, there's a man standing between me and the burnt onions.
I flinch and yelp. It's Thomas.
"Did you burn yourself?" Julian asks, suddenly serious.
"What are you doing here?" I ask Thomas. "I thought you moved on."
"Who are you talking to?" Julian asks. "Oh. Your new friend."
Thomas's eyes are bugged out. "You have to help her."
"Help who?" I ask.
"Serena. Please. She's thinking of taking pills. Hurry."
* * *
Julian insists we take his car. I have no complaints. He's much better, calmer, under pressure. My hands immediately start trembling, and I feel like I'm floating out of my body. Maybe counseling isn't the best choice. What if a patient has a breakdown? Will I freak out alongside him?
Thomas is in the backseat looking as spacey as I feel. He's trying to tell me what happened, but it's not making a lot of sense.
Julian rolls down my window, and a gust of cold wind attacks my face. "It helps clear the mind," he says.
Yes, he knows me well.
"Okay, Thomas, start again. From the beginning," I say.
"I've been with Serena since you left my place."
I repeat Thomas's words to Julian as he speeds to the East End.
"But I thought you said you were going to move on."
"I couldn't. She was distraught, and I love her."
I glance at Julian's profile. I don't think I could do it either. "Okay, so what about the pills?"
"She went into the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet, and took out an old bottle of ibuprofen. She stared at them weirdly, like her gaze was out of focus and she was trying to figure out what they were. She went into the bedroom and put them on the nightstand. Then she sat on the edge and said, 'I love you, Thomas. I'll be with you soon.' I came to get you. Can he drive any faster?"
"Not if you want us to live long enough to help Serena."
Julian almost passes Thomas's street and has to make a hard right. I brace myself with a hand on the roof of the car and the other on the side of Julian's seat.
"Sorry about that," Julian says.
"Shouldn't we just call the ambulance?" I ask. "They'd be quicker and are prepared for this sort of thing."
Julian gives me a quick glance. "If she hasn't taken the pills, though, what are you going to say? A ghost told you she was planning on it?"
He has a point.
"I can go ahead and see if she has," Thomas says.
"No," I shout before he tries to disappear. "I don't remember how to get there, and we don't want to waste time keying the address into the GPS."
Thomas nods, then points ahead. "It's right there. I'm going in."
I tell Julian which house belongs to Thomas and hold on as he comes to a stop. I open my door, jump down, and run to the front door. What if it's locked? How the heck are we going to get in?
Julian's right by my side, and sure enough the door is locked. I lay my hand flat on the glass and bang. If I can't get Serena's attention, I can at least get Thomas to tell me what's going on.
"I'll look out back," Julian says and runs around the house.
I continue banging and hope the neighbors don't call the cops. Actually, that won't be a bad thing.
Finally, Thomas appears by my side. "She took them. Do something." His voice sounds tinny, and if ghosts could cry I have no doubt he'd be balling.
I pull out my phone and dial 9-1-1. I give the address and mine and Serena's names. When I hang up, Julian rejoins me.
"I found an opening. Come on."
I follow him around back to a kitchen window. It's a small one and kinda high. Without words, Julian cups his hands beneath it.
I look from his hands to the window and to his face. "You want me to squeeze through there? I won't make it."
"Sure you will. Try."
I guess I shouldn't debate whether or not I'm too thick to fit through a window in order to save a woman. I place one booted foot in Julian's hands and then bounce up on the other. The last time I broke into a house through the window, Izzie was with me. We were sneaking into Enzo's to scare him. Izzie pushed me up and smacked my head on the window frame. Julian's touch is gentler.
A counter with a juicer is beneath the window. I manage to make it in without knocking it onto the floor. Success. I hurry to the back door and unlock it, and then I unlock the front for the paramedics. Julian and I race upstairs and find Serena in the master bedroom lying on top of Thomas's red comforter.
Julian picks up her arm and presses two fingers to her pulse. Does he know CPR and First Aid too? I have no idea. He may know me, but how much do I know him? I push the sad thought away and sit beside Serena.
Thomas floats behind me. "Is she still alive?"
Her eyelids flutter. "She's still awake."
Thomas breathes a sigh of relief. "Now just stay that way," he whispers.
Sirens sound and get closer with each second.
Julian walks to the door. "I'll go down and meet the paramedics."
I nod and lean close to Serena. "Can you hear me? Stay with us. Thomas wants you alive. He loves you and can't lose you like this."
She stirs but doesn't say anything. I have no idea if she can hear me.
"You fight this, and I promise I'll do what I can to help you."
Footsteps thunder upstairs. Julian enters the room first. Behind him is my brother-in-law, Paulie, and his partner, Harry. Oh my, Harry. I met him when I first moved into my apartment. We shamelessly flirted. That was back when Julian and I were broken up, before I knew he moved to town.
I get up and step back, out of the way.
Paulie hurries around the bed and picks up the empty pill bottle. "Gianna, what happened?"
"I'm not really sure. I stopped by to check in o
n her, and we found her like this." I glance at Julian in my peripheral.
Harry smiles at me and gives me a very quick body check. His smile is lecherous. "Nice to see you again, Sally."
Oh gosh, this isn't really the time or place.
"Sally?" Julian whispers.
"Not now," I say and pray he'll forget to ask me again later. I don't want to explain how I introduced myself to Harry as Sally, the whole time thinking of the fake orgasm scene in the movie When Harry Met Sally. Julian and I were over, but it's not something I want to admit.
When they have Serena in the ambulance, Thomas corners me by the front door. "Did you mean it?" he asks.
"Mean what?"
"That you'll help her."
I sigh, not wanting to get involved with another homicide. It's murder on the stress level. No pun intended. But after tonight, I don't have much of a choice. I can't just let this go. Plus, I always follow through on a promise.
"Yeah, I'll help find your killer."
His expression turns to one of confusion. "I thought you were going to watch her, keep an eye on her, become her friend. You know, so she doesn't take any more pills. So she realizes she has people who care."
Is he serious? I'm not a shrink.
"Serena may need professional help for that. I'm not promising to babysit her, but I do promise to get to the bottom of this all."
Here I go again.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Here's the thing about solving a murder. Since this is my second, and the first almost concluded with a permanent shovel indent in my skull, sleeping is futile. Yep, I've learned that tossing and turning is the way to spend those seven to eight hours per night because my head is too full of what-ifs.
What if helping Serena causes her more harm? What if I uncover some deep secret that destroys lives? What if I screw it all up? What if I die this time?
That last one should keep me huddled under my pink paisley comforter for a week, but my bladder needs to be relieved, so while I'm up I may as well stay that way.
I do the usual morning routine: washing up, dressing in the most comfortable, clean clothes I can find, and drinking a fishbowl-size mug of coffee. Today I decide to grab some food too since I need to go play sleuth and then head to work later, and I'm not sure if I'll have time to eat in between.
I make a quick call to find out which room Serena is in at the hospital, and the rather cold-sounding woman informs me she's in 714 and that visiting hours are from 11:00 to 8:00. That means I have some time to kill, so I turn on the laptop and Google Freezer Dude again. I don't learn anything new though. Then I search for Thomas Sterling and the Sterling Company.
Turns out that Thomas Senior, the father, died eight years ago from a heart attack. The company…everything was left to his wife and son. Mrs. Sterling lives in Lido Beach, the next town over, and surprisingly, there are no pictures of any of them. Not the parents or Thomas, the son. That's strange. How can such a wealthy family not have their picture snapped? Are they not famous enough for the paparazzi to care?
Weird thoughts spring into my mind. Like are they on the run from organized crime and in the witness protection program? Maybe they're spies and don't reveal their identity in fear of being recognized by the other side.
I chuckle and keep searching. There's one photo from Thomas Senior's funeral. But it's at an angle where I can't make out faces. I assume the woman in front is Mrs. Sterling, but she has her face in her hand, sobbing, and there are several men huddled around her. One of them could be Thomas, but it's hard to tell. With a sigh, I turn off the laptop and check the time. If I drive slowly, I'll arrive at South Shore Beach Memorial just in time.
I head to the hospital and have to park way too far from the entrance. The air is slightly muggy, and it smells like rain. This time of year is known for it, so it's not a big surprise. I just wish I remembered to buy an umbrella. My last one was cheap and broke during a windstorm last spring.
I smile at the security guard seated behind his desk. Dark hair and eyes, a buzz cut, and a friendly smile. He's cute.
The elevators are around the bend, and I hit seven when I step inside.
Once on her floor, I have to pass the nurse's station to get to Serena's room. A woman in light blue scrub pants and a white, blue, and green floral top stands behind the desk, reading a clipboard. She doesn't acknowledge me, but she had to hear my squeaky rubber-soled sneakers on the highly polished tile. I'm extremely grateful when I pass by, and she doesn't call out to me, wondering where I'm going. I don't know if she's the one I spoke to earlier, but in case, I'd rather not withstand her chill.
The room is at the end of the hall, directly facing me. The interior is dim. The lights are off, but the TV in the far corner is on low. The first bed is empty, and the curtain between it and the next is drawn. I peek around it, and Serena's asleep in the bed closest to the windows. At least I think she's asleep.
There's a woman in pink scrubs seated in the chair, staring at the television. She gives a small start when she sees me. I wasn't expecting her, so I'm sure I look surprised too.
"Hi," I say. "How is she doing?"
"Are you family?" Her expression becomes stern. She's not giving out information to strangers. She knows her HIPAA laws.
"I'm a friend. I'm the one who found her last night and called the paramedics."
She smiles. "Good thing she has friends like you. She will be fine. At least physically."
Yeah, no need to add that it's her mental state that may need curing. Or her broken heart.
I move closer to the bed. Both side rails are up, in case she falls out. She looks so peaceful. So still. So dead.
The woman stands and moves away from the chair, so I can sit. "I can't leave though," she says. "Twenty-four-hour watch for anyone who attempts suicide."
Oh, wow, that's a sucky job.
I nod and stare at the chair. I'm suddenly not so sure I want to stay, to watch her while she sleeps, and I don't want to wake her. She doesn't know me. Maybe sleep is exactly what she needs right now. "I'll come back another time."
The woman nods and offers a slight smile.
I thank her and head back to the elevators. Now what? Where else can I get information about Serena and who would plant a bomb in her house? There's the friend, Zoe. I can drive by her place and see what she knows. I mentally smack my forehead. No, that won't work. I know the building she lives in but not which apartment. Thomas never told me, and I doubt he'll appear if I call out his name. Ghosts are unreliable that way.
I walk across the parking lot to my car. What about their job? Maybe Zoe's there. I glance at my phone. I have two hours before I need to be at the deli. Just enough time to nose around a restaurant. Of course, the luck of the day may have the place closed. I Google the address anyway.
I park across the street from Sparks, and run across the busy street to the shiny green painted entry doors. Sure enough, it is closed. According to the sign hung in a side window, the place opens after four. No lunch. And Mondays they are closed all day. Great. But before I brave the traffic on Park Place and get back in my car, I notice a couple of women dressed in heels and miniskirts heading to the side of the building. I decide to follow.
The back door to the restaurant is held open by a brick. The women walk in. They must work here.
I step over the threshold and immediately feel blinded. The area is so dim, it takes almost a full minute for my eyes to adjust.
When they do, a man steps out of nowhere and slaps me on the chest. It knocks the breath out of me. What the…?
"That way," he shouts and points to a hallway up ahead. Just as fast, he walks off, and I'm left confused, angry, and possibly bruised.
Gosh, that hurt.
I look down and realize he wasn't hitting me for his sheer enjoyment. He slapped a sheet of paper to my top. It's white with a big black number. Three. That just adds to my confusion, but I decide to follow his instructions to see what's going on. I step into the hal
lway and head toward the light.
Yeah, that's not really funny in my line of hobbies. But it is accurate.
Voices sound closer, and there's a bright, shining light up ahead. I pass a kitchen, which is dark and empty, and another couple of shut doors. When I reach the end, I'm in the main dining room. Straight ahead are tables and more tables. To the right of me are the women from outside and a small stage. A man is polishing glassware behind the bar, which sits on the other side of the room, and seated across from the stage are a couple.
The woman has jet-black hair, cut up to her chin, with full bangs. Her dark purple lipstick looks amazingly good on her tanned complexion. Beside her, the man is slightly older with graying temples. His dark hair is thick and short, and a thick mustache makes me think of Tom Selleck. Ma enjoyed some show he was in.
Voices sound behind me, and a handful of women sprint down the hall to our location. Each of them have been slapped with a number. Four stands behind me.
"Any time now," the man at the table says.
The first woman steps onto the stage, hands a sheet of paper to another man at the piano—the piano I just noticed—and walks over to the microphone. What's going on? The piano man strikes the first chord, and chills explode throughout my limbs as the woman sings her first note. Not because her singing is bad. It's pretty good in fact. But because I realize I'm about to audition. To sing. To share my flat notes and off-pitchiness to the world. Or at least this room.
How on earth do I get myself into these situations?
I turn, ready to book the heck out of here, but Five, Six, and Seven are blocking the doorway. I hear finger snapping and turn to see the woman staring at me. She points to all of us and then to the tables behind her.
The women scramble to take seats, and this is the perfect moment to run. I take one step and stop. This is what I wanted though. Well, actually, I was hoping to just talk to Zoe. Not entertain. But I haven't run away screaming yet. Even though I came here to chat, this is an opportunity to get to know the people in Serena's life. What's the chance Zoe will spill something helpful? She probably doesn't know anything. And if she does, who says she'll share it? The best way to learn intel is directly—to infiltrate the people and places with the knowledge. Julian taught me that. I doubt I'll get a singing gig, but I should at least try. When I fail miserably, I can then apply to be a server. The great thing is they're open at night, and it won't interfere with my deli job. And I can't say no to extra income. I gather my courage and head to a table.
Two Ghosts & a Love Song (Dead by the Numbers Mysteries Book 2) Page 8
