Cupcakes, Butterflies & Dead Guys (Gianna Mancini Mysteries Book 3)

by Jennifer Fischetto

  "Well?" I can't help the anxiousness in my tone. I'm dying to know what she's heard and seen. How cool would it be to spy on anyone I wanted at any time? Of course, being dead would suck majorly, but it's still a cool and, in some cases, handy ability.

  Aunt Stella rolls her eyes hard. "All that crying. The young one is in tears, even though she's trying hard not to break down for the little girl. The man was sniffling. An older woman was blubbering. I heard nothing good because everyone was being sensitive."

  I scoff. "Someone just died, Aunt Stella."

  She bugs out her eyes. "So? Did anyone cry like that when I died?"

  "Yes, all of us."

  "Pfft. Even your mother?" She glances at me from the side of her eye.

  I soften my tone and wish I could reach out and gently touch her hand. "Yes, Ma too. You guys may have been mad at one another before you passed, but that didn't get in the way after."

  She's silent for a moment. "Hmm, well, whatever. It's over now."

  It's far from over, and I hope to learn something about their disagreement before my aunts go home, but for now, I'll drop it.

  "What now?" I ask myself out loud.

  Aunt Stella shrugs, obviously out of ideas. "Until they stop sobbing, I can't learn anything. You'll have to ask one of them yourself."

  Yeah, but there's no way any of them are going to spill to a stranger. Too bad I wasn't close with one of them. Friends. Friends of…

  "Michael."

  "Who?"

  "My old friend, Michael. He's close to them. He's family." Duh, Gi. Why didn't you think of this first? I reach for my cell and find his number. He gave it to me the night we went to the bar.

  It rings twice before he picks up. "I've been meaning to call you, but my mom… Are you okay?"

  "Hi," I say with a smile, although he can't see it. "I'm okay. You guys? That's a dumb question."

  He lets out a heavy sigh. "Yeah, it's been rough."

  "I'm sorry for your loss."

  Aunt Stella rolls her eyes and pretends to stick her finger down her throat.

  "Thank you," Michael says. "It's been quite a shock."

  I hate to ask him to meet me so I can pump him for information. I squeeze my eyes shut as if that will take out some of the sting. "Any chance you have time to chat face-to-face?"

  "I'd love to see you. I'm at home."

  Yes.

  "Home?" I dig through my glove compartment for a pen and a napkin. I always have extra napkins around. You never know when there will be a food emergency.

  "The house I grew up in. Mom still lives in it."

  Of course she does. My parents still live in theirs.

  He rattles off the address, in case I've forgotten. Which I have. It's been a long time.

  "Is now a good time?"

  "Sure. I look forward to it."

  He may not once I get there.

  * * *

  We arrive at Wilma's house, which is in the east end. It's a two-story, narrow home with white siding and a trellis between two front windows. I don't remember it much from when I was a child. I think I may have come over once or twice in kindergarten, but that's too long ago to recall. There are two cars in the driveway. The gray Honda has a Massachusetts license plate.

  Aunt Stella floats beside me as I walk up the walkway. She seems way too giddy for the task at hand. The snow has officially stopped falling, and what's left on the ground isn't much. My boots make a soft crunch sound with each step.

  I knock on the door and wish I remembered gloves. My hands are cold, and my knuckles are chafed. I rub them together, which probably doesn't help the roughness.

  Michael opens the door and smiles. It looks good on his face. And it warms me on the inside. "Hi."

  "Thanks for seeing me at this time."

  He steps back to allow me to enter. "Of course. I can't say no to you."

  I kick the snow off my boots on the welcome mat and step inside. "Since when?"

  He shuts and locks the door behind me and extends his arm, pointing to the living room off the right of the foyer. "I feel like I owe you. Please, have a seat."

  "You don't owe me anything, Michael." But it's nice for him to say. If Hilary had apologized, would I still be irked at her?

  The living room is long, with a white fireplace, a navy rug, and matching furniture. Wilma likes blue. There's a fire roaring, and the heavy blue brocade drapes are parted enough to watch the snow fall.

  I glance around and realize Aunt Stella's disappeared. Is she snooping in another room, or did she decide to ditch me? I sit on the sofa and stare at the flames in the fireplace. "It's warm and cozy in here."

  Michael points to a Kindle sitting on the coffee table beside a cup of tea. "That's exactly why I'm in here."

  "How's your mother?"

  "As well as can be expected, I guess. She's contemplating whether or not she should hold off the wedding."

  I frown and stare at a box on a back table. In the box are tufts of white tulle, light blue ribbon, and other items I can't make out but I assume are for making wedding favors. "I'd understand if she chose to postpone the wedding because she's grieving. But I hope she won't do it because she feels she should, or that people will think badly of her if she goes through with it."

  Michael gently slaps his thigh. "That's exactly what I said. I'm not sure if she's hearing me right now though."

  "That makes sense. You guys are going through a lot right now."

  He sits beside me, not too close to be inappropriate, but close enough that anyone walking by would assume we're good friends, if not more. Part of me thinks to scoot over little. I don't want to give him any wrong ideas. Not to say he's thinking that way. He knows I'm seeing someone. I can't imagine Michael is inconsiderate or rude.

  I suddenly wonder if I'm the only one thinking about inappropriateness. Maybe the flirting and sitting close and being sweet is him being a friend. Gosh, Gianna, has it been so long since you've had a non-family member as a friend that you don't remember how they behave?

  "When is the funeral?" I ask. I'm not being nosy yet. I want to know so I can pay my respects.

  He shrugs. "I'm not sure. The coroner hasn't released the body yet."

  I frown. I don't know how busy the coroner's office is. I assume very. But I would imagine that with an accidental death there wouldn't be much to do. Maybe a toxicology screen and some general checking out. It's been two days though. I guess I expected that to be over.

  "Is an autopsy being performed?" I ask.

  He reaches for his mug and takes a sip. "I believe so, yes."

  Interesting. Did the cops see something I didn't? That's highly likely considering I don't know what I'm looking for at a crime scene. I should ask my cop brother specifics for the next time.

  Next time?

  If Ma could read my mind, she'd be furious. I don't plan to stumble across dead people on a regular basis. It's not written in my daily planner under Tasks. But I also didn't plan on seeing that house explode or befriending a dead clown. It just happens. Especially around a girl who can see ghosts. Ma's gonna have to accept that.

  "How's Kelly doing?" I ask. "This must be awful for her. Losing a twin has to be worse than a regular sibling." Although if I lost Izzie or Enzo, I'd be devastated, and there would be no consoling me.

  He stares into his mug. "I imagine. I'm an only child. I'm not familiar with it."

  "That's right. You are. You didn't have to share your stuff, and you weren't given hand-me-downs." I can't say I had it bad. I was always on the chunky side. Most of Izzie's clothes never truly fit me, and Ma had to buy me new. But I did get all of Izzie's and Enzo's old toys. The Legos were cool, but the bald Barbies, not so much.

  Michael sets his mug on the coffee table. "I'm sorry. I didn't offer you anything to drink. Would you like something?"

  "No, thank you." I don't want to press him for information about his family while he's grieving, but I'm not sure where else to turn. Raina must've had frien
ds in California, but how will I reach them? Even if Michael, Kelly, or Wilma give me names and phone numbers, it's not likely that I'll call them up and they'll spill Raina's secrets over the phone to a stranger.

  He stares at me for a moment and then says, "What are you thinking? You seem to be deep in thought."

  He is so right.

  "I was thinking about how many people her death affects. Her family, fans, friends. Did she come with anyone, like a boyfriend or friend?"

  He starts to shake his head and then stops. "Her manager."

  Bingo! I try to sound innocent and casual. "Oh, is he in town?"

  "Yeah, I saw him that night after the shower and the next day. Not sure if he's still here, but he was staying at the Oceanview Lodge. I heard him telling Kelly."

  I make a mental note of the name of the place and smile. Michael doesn't know how much he's helped.

  "I'm glad you called," he says. "Losing Raina and seeing my mom upset is, of course, hard, but spending time with you has been an up."

  "That's sweet." And now I feel like a jerk for being here with an ulterior motive. I put my wants aside and focus on him.

  We talk some about his mother's wedding. He plans on photographing the entire event. We discuss the weather, life on Long Island, Boston, and what Connecticut was like. We talk about our love for sandwiches and food in general and his insane appetite for jellybeans. Because of it, he visits the dentist every three months to ensure no cavities. That's dedication to oral hygiene. Ma would be proud I have such healthy friends.

  When it's time for me to leave, he walks me to the door.

  "Maybe we can have dinner before I leave town?" he asks.

  I smile and step outside. "I'd love that."

  Aunt Stella is immediately by my side and cackling like usual. "Julian won't love it."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I Google Oceanview Hotel on my phone and discover it's a seedy motel on the edges of town. What is a celebrity manager doing there?

  I reluctantly drive over. I'm not a snob. Everyone needs a place to live. I'm just not fond of getting my tires stolen or my whole car, for that matter. I'm also not crazy about passing drug deals and prostitutes either. Okay, maybe it's not gang territory—at least I don't think South Shore Beach has any gang activity—but I wish I had a car alarm.

  It's your standard motel. Two floors of rooms, all of the doors leading out to the parking lot, which is half empty. The check-in window has caked on grit, making it hard to see inside. The man at the desk is a long, thin guy with an auburn beard. He wears a denim vest over a white and red shirt and jeans. He only needs a bandana and he'd resemble a biker. Well, he'd need the motorcycle too.

  "I'm looking for Van Ford," I say. What's the chance Raina's manager's middle name is Chevy or Impala?

  The motel guy has no regard for privacy, because he looks down for a few seconds and then says, "Twelve."

  Van Ford's room is only a couple of feet away, on the first floor. Good. I can keep an eye on my car.

  I knock three times and hear scuffling inside.

  The door swings open wide and reveals a scrawny, jeans-clad, bare-chested man with a river of dark hair. His bare toes curl when he realizes I'm not whomever he was expecting. He runs his hand through the thick mass of dark hair on his head. "Yeah, can I help you?"

  "Are you Van Ford?"

  "Yeah. Who are you?"

  I hold out my hand and smile. "Gianna Mancini. I'm close friends with Michael Sheridan. He gave me your name and…address."

  He shrugs and shakes his head. "No clue who that is. What do you want?"

  I expect more from the man who manages a movie star's career. A sunnier—or at least friendlier—disposition. And socks. I have a thing about bare feet. I'm weird that way. It's not all bare feet and not all of the time. But knobby ones on grouchy men definitely. Maybe I am a snob.

  "I'm here about Raina Stone. I found her body."

  He raises his brows and looks me over from the top of my head to my boots. "Oh yeah. That sucks."

  That's it? That's all the emotion he has?

  "Weren't you two close? You don't seem too heartbroken."

  He scoffs. "Of course I'm upset. She's dead, and that sucks."

  No one will ever accuse him of being eloquent. I get a feeling from his nonchalant tone of voice that he isn't empathic for many. Or maybe he and Raina didn't have a good relationship.

  "Yes, it does. So, um, what can you tell me about Raina?"

  "Nothing." He grabs the edge of the door as if he's going to shut it.

  I step into the middle of the doorframe. He'll have to shove me back in order to do so.

  "Look, I'm trying to learn as much as I can about Raina. I want to help her family move on."

  He quirks a brow. "That makes no sense."

  He caught that, huh?

  "It makes sense to the family. What can you tell me?"

  Instead of trying to shove me out of his doorway, he leans against the door, folds his arms over his chest, and smirks. "What's in it for me?"

  Eww. I hope he's not suggesting what I think he is.

  I clear my throat and shove that thought as far away as possible. I open my bright green, vinyl purse and dig around for my wallet. I'm glad I chose to not use the pink leather one today. It would've gotten wet, and I would've cried. Replacing it would've taken extra shifts at the deli.

  Inside the black, white, and pink Hello Kitty wallet, I find a twenty. I pull it out and hold it out to the creep.

  He chuckles heartily. "You expect answers for that?"

  "It's all I have."

  "Sorry to hear that." He stands straight and grabs the door again.

  "Okay, wait." I glance to my car and go through its contents. There's napkins, ketchup packets, and an old P!nk CD in the glove compartment, and my trunk isn't any better. I believe there's a pair of leggings, a spare tire, a jack, and an empty container for gas. I guess I should fill the container.

  I glance down at my body. The bag isn't real. I'm only wearing a pair of silver hoop earrings. My bangle bracelets are from a thrift store, and my necklace is a tiny sugar skull on a chain. Both are sterling silver, but they're hardly expensive. The only thing I have on me that's worth anything is my boots.

  No, not my Burberry's. I can't. But if I don't, I leave here with nothing, and who else is going to give me information? They're just boots, right? I can buy more. Eventually.

  "This is riveting but…" he says while gripping the door tighter.

  "Fine. You can have my boots." I reach down and grab the zipper.

  "Why the heck do I want them?"

  I pull off the first one and thrust it into his hands. "Because they're worth two weeks of staying here. You can pawn them."

  He doesn't argue.

  I'm going to regret this, but I'm determined, and once I start something, I have to see it through. I take off the second one, and when it's with its partner, I say, "Spill."

  He stares at his new treasure, shrugs, and tosses them onto his unmade, bacteria-filled bed.

  Oh, my babies. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me.

  "Raina was crazy. Even the movie execs had to know, which was why she probably wasn't getting any more offers."

  Crazy? What is he talking about? "What?"

  He sighs dramatically. "She was Jekyll and Hyde."

  That doesn't make sense. "How so?"

  "Watch her movies."

  "I have. She played wildly different characters. It's called acting."

  He chuckles like he doesn't believe me. "Nah, she was certifiable. Now, can you leave me alone?"

  I scoff. "No, that's not information. It's certainly not worth those boots."

  "Life sucks."

  No, he sucks.

  "Is it possible she was bipolar?" I ask, trying to make sense of his description of her.

  He scrunches up his face and steps close to me. I have no choice but to take a step back or get accosted by his foul-scented breath. "I don't k
now, and I don't care. It's possible. Anything is. Maybe she was abducted by aliens, or the witch I worked for was a changeling." He laughs at his theory.

  I want to point out this is real life and not an episode of The X-Files, but I remain quiet in the hope that he'll tell more.

  He keeps moving toward me.

  I'm firmly outside now. My socks are getting soaked on the snowy slush by his door. Wow, that's cold.

  "All I know is that she was insane, and she got what she deserved." He steps back and slams the door in my face.

  Ouch. How can he say that about Raina? Surely she wasn't as bad as he makes out.

  The cold seeping through my socks makes me run to my car. Darn, I wish I had an extra pair of shoes in here. I pull off my socks because being cold is better than being wet and cold.

  I glance up. Van's door is still shut, but the room beside his is open. There's a man standing in the doorway watching me. He has long, dark blond hair and wears gray sweatpants and shirt. He looks to be about mid-thirties, and a cigarette is hanging out of his mouth.

  How much of my conversation did he hear?

  I start the engine and feel an emptiness in my belly. I want to cry and throw a temper tantrum, but all I do is pout.

  Those were awesome boots.

  * * *

  I dash home, put on new socks and my pink, quilted snow boots from Foot Locker (much more affordable), and grab my three Raina movie DVDs. I immediately head back out, pick up pizza with my twenty bucks, and drive to Izzie's. Paulie is working tonight, and Alice has been spending Mondays at her best friend's house studying. This means my sister is home alone, probably eating popcorn for dinner—her latest craving—and I don't have to sift through these movies by myself.

  Izzie and Paulie bought a house not too far from Ma and Pop. It's a two-story, three-bedroom, Colonial style. A decent size for a growing family.

  I knock twice and take a deep whiff of the pizza. The box is hot. I think grease is soaking through. But I don't care because the mixture of mushrooms, green peppers, and onions smell amazing.

  Izzie opens the door with a frown. "What are you doing here?"