Diamonds, Pies & Dead Guys

by Jennifer Fischetto

  "Well?" Winnie asks.

  I turn and face her. It would be easy to just leave and never look back. But could I live with myself if this ghost did something that could harm Winnie? I haven't come across any violent or malicious ghosts in my experience. Well, there was Freezer Dude, but like I said, he calmed down. So Winnie should be fine, but do I want to chance that? It's not like I know everything about them.

  "It's rude of me to leave and have you throw out my plate of food. Besides, it's so delicious. I think I'll stay," I say and step around her to go back to the table.

  She returns to her seat and watches me eat for a minute.

  I need to work up the nerve to admit to her what I saw.

  She patiently waits and sips her lemonade.

  When I've quieted the anxiety in the pit of my stomach by drowning it with food, I look to her.

  "I don't like to discuss this with strangers. I've had a close friend betray me in the past."

  Winnie nods and lays her hand on mine on top of the table. "I will not tell a soul. I'm a psychologist. Think of this as a session with food. Doctor patient confidentiality."

  Oh, I like that idea a lot. She's legally not allowed to tell my secret. Okay, this isn't so bad, then.

  "I thought you wanted me to see if I could communicate with your husband," I say and place a chunk of watermelon in my mouth.

  Winnie picks up her fork and continues eating as well. "No, George is long gone. I felt him around that first year, and the more I healed the less I felt him. At first I wondered if it was my imagination."

  It's possible. People need that comfort when they're grieving.

  "But my ability to sense energies also got stronger, and I've encountered other beings. I can't see or hear them, as I suspect you can, but I can tell when they're present. Please tell this old woman that she's not wrong."

  I softly smile. "You're not old, and you're not wrong. I can communicate with ghosts, and there was one in your dining room just now."

  Winnie's eyes widen, and she sighs. A small chuckle leaves her mouth, and she places a hand on her chest. "It's such a relief to know I don't need to make an appointment with my own therapist."

  We laugh, and then she looks at me with tears in her eyes. "Thank you, Gianna. I really appreciate this."

  "You're welcome." I hesitate before telling the rest.

  Before I can though, Winnie asks, "What does this ghost look like?"

  I describe what I saw and watch Winnie's eyes fill with interest. Then I tell her what the ghost said, and she frowns.

  She rubs her temple. "That makes little sense. I've lived here for thirty years. I've only started feeling her presence for the past month. Is it possible she was always here and only got stronger recently?"

  Winnie is asking the wrong person. I can communicate with the dearly departed, but even after all of these years, I still don't know the ghost rules.

  "I'm not sure. Sorry. From my experience, they don't know what they can do when they first die, and by the time they learn a little, they're moving on. I'd have to come across a ghost that's been here a while to ask. Maybe yours if she'll stick around. They come and go as they please."

  "As extraordinary as your gift is, it must be difficult to be around death so much."

  "It's been interesting." I chuckle, but she doesn't join in. I clear my throat and add, "Lunch was delicious. Thank you."

  Her face lights up, and she jumps to her feet, collecting my plate and hers. "I think we need some pie."

  Oh yes!

  As she goes off into the kitchen, I grab the tray from the chair and place the chicken, salad, and fruit bowls on top. She reemerges holding a couple of plates with two forks and a pie server on top of them in one hand and the most scrumptious looking lattice crusted pie with glistening blueberries in the other.

  "That looks amazing," I say and hope I'm not drooling.

  She sets down the plates and pie and takes the tray from me. I sit on my seat and wait for her.

  When she returns, she says, "I'm afraid I don't have any ice cream to go with it."

  "Oh no, that's fine. I actually prefer it without. I don't like how the ice cream gets the crust soggy."

  She laughs and goes about cutting a couple of wedges. "I'm going to research the house again, just in case I missed something."

  "That's a good idea." I take a bite of the pie. It's still warm, which brings out the buttery richness of the crust and gooey sweet juices of the fruit. The berries softly pop, and there's a slight hint of lemon.

  "Is it good?" Winnie asks. She's smiling, so she probably sees the sheer delight on my face.

  "Oh yes. It's perfection."

  Her smile grows, and we settle in for a few more bites in silence.

  We finish the afternoon with discussions about my family and the deli, and when it's time for me to leave, she doesn't ask me to return or pressure me about my abilities. She's simply thankful for me confirming there's a ghost in her house.

  I, however, am not thrilled about leaving her alone with the ghost. That woman was a little scary. So at the front door, I turn back and say, "Winnie, after you've done your research, I can come back. Actually, anytime you want me to try to talk with her, call me. I'm happy to help you."

  She pulls me in for a tight hug, and I breathe in her cocoa butter scent. "Thank you, Gianna."

  On the drive back to the office, Hilary pops into mind. I may not want to help her, but I don't want to ignore her family. There was a time when her mother, Mrs. Porter, was like a second mom to me.

  I drive past work and the deli and head out of town. This will be good, I say to myself to boost up my morale. But as I ride over the bridge connecting South Shore Beach to the rest of the island, I know I will not walk away from Hilary's mom without feeling emotionally bruised.

  * * *

  Hilary's mother, June Porter, although I've never called her by her first name, lives in an apartment in Freeport, a few towns away from South Shore Beach. Traffic is moderately heavy this time of day, people leaving work early, running errands. I make it to her street in thirty minutes.

  Oak Gardens Apartments is a large brick, two-story building. White trim around the windows, glossy red doors, and lush lawns make this place look fancier than where Hilary and Kevin live. I park in a space close to the door, step onto the sidewalk, and walk the long path that leads to her building. The area is quiet with only the hum of wall air conditioners and a few birds flying by.

  When we were growing up, Hilary, her mother, and her younger brother, Steven, lived in South Shore Beach. I didn't pay attention to where they lived after high school, but when I first saw Hilary at the deli last year, after I moved back to town, she mentioned her mother was living in Freeport. It wasn't hard to Google her address, which shouldn't be easily available and is scary in this day and age.

  The door is slightly ajar, and my heart skips a beat. Images of Hilary's dead body spring to mind. What if Mrs. Porter is in there dead just like her daughter? Kevin went stark raving mad and killed the family. Maybe Steven too, depending on where he lives.

  I shake my head. No, Gianna, you're losing it, probably because of your lack of sleep.

  Just the same, I bite my lower lip and push open the door. "Hello?"

  My voice echoes, and I see a small patch of gray and black diamond flooring and two white painted doors. Each of them has an apartment number on them. Oh, so each red exterior door leads to a mini lobby.

  I chuckle at my assumption, step inside, and knock on the door to my left.

  Footsteps sound, and the door swings open to a young, beautiful blonde with large, round eyes, a tiny nose, and heavily glossed lips. Her tight, perky body tells me she is very lucky in the gene department and/or loves being active.

  "Oh, I'm sorry. I must've knocked on the wrong door. I'm looking for Mrs. Porter," I say and take a step back, ready to turn and leave.

  The woman smiles. "No, this is her place. Come on in. I'm Tanya."

&n
bsp; I step inside, and she yells, "Mom," right in my ear.

  Maybe Mrs. Porter has guests—this woman and her mother?

  "I can come back later if she's busy," I say.

  Tanya shakes her head and shuts the door. "Nah, she's just in her room. She'll be right out. She'll be happy to see you."

  I frown. "You know who I am?"

  "I've seen pictures." She walks through the living room and under an archway, out of sight.

  Who is she?

  I take in my surroundings and grin so wide my cheeks hurt. The hunter green couch with the tear in the upholstery on the left arm is the same one I sat on growing up. It brings back a flood of memories: giggling, watching music videos, flipping through magazines for the how-to articles about hair, fashion, and making yourself irresistible to boys.

  The front window drapes are pulled back, and the sunlight illuminates the rectangular room. A couple of armchairs, tables, and a small TV complete it. Behind me is the doorway to a narrow kitchen with light oak cabinets, and beside that is a dining room with a square dark wood table and chairs and a massive china cabinet. I remember that thing too. It's stuffed with dishes she never uses, figurines she collected, and leftover celebration items, like a paper birthday hat, a sparkler, and a couple of pre-blown balloons. She never let us open the doors and touch anything. Not even the white with dark pink flower tea set that called to us before we got into the music videos and magazines.

  "Gianna?"

  I turn toward the archway and see an older, slightly wider, but just as beautiful, Mrs. Porter. Tears immediately spring to my eyes, and before I know it, I'm wrapped in her arms crying. We hold one another, gently rock back and forth, and sob until each of us has a wet shoulder.

  When we pull apart, she cups my face. There's a tremble in her calloused hands, so I place mine on top and press them into my cheeks.

  "You look amazing. So vibrant and still as gorgeous as ever," she says and kisses my forehead.

  I'm so choked up that I lose words for a moment. I didn't expect to feel this emotional, crying immediately. I didn't think seeing her would make today feel different. Oh, I still think Hilary is a traitor, and I'm not the least bit sorry that I haven't spoken to her all of these years, but I am sad she's dead—for the future she doesn't get to have and for her family. I don't know from firsthand experience, but I can imagine that losing a child is the worst. Ma would want to die if Izzie, Enzo, or I were no longer alive.

  "Come sit down." Mrs. Porter takes my hand and leads me farther into the room. "I'll make tea."

  "You don't have to go to any trouble. I just wanted to see you," I say.

  "Today is like a blast from the past," she says with a chuckle that sounds strained. "Michael Sheridan was here earlier. Do you remember him?"

  Remember? He's the reason Hilary and I had that falling out. Well, actually, Hilary is the reason. Michael and I have been friends all of our lives. He was my kindergarten husband. Come senior year, he got hot, and despite knowing I had a major crush on him, Hilary not only told him my ghost seeing secret but kissed him behind a bush, at my house, during a Fourth of July cookout.

  "Yes, Michael and I are friends," I say, although we aren't nearly as close as when we were kids. Wait. How did Michael learn of Hilary's passing so fast?

  "Gianna Mancini?" asks a deep voice.

  I look back to the archway and see a young man with dark blond hair that's a bit too long in the front and shades his eyes. He's around six feet tall, lean but toned, and has Mrs. Porter's smile.

  "Steven?" I ask and can't quite believe it. He was my height the last time I saw him.

  Three giant steps and he's lifting me off my feet in a bear hug.

  I wrap my arms around his neck as he twirls me twice.

  He sets me on my feet, and I realize I'm laughing. "You look great," he says.

  "You too." Who knew Hilary's runt of a little brother would fill out to be so hot. He's four years younger than us. We never went to the same schools, graduating to the next level as he began. He was a pest as a toddler when we were in elementary, but by the time we hit high school, he wanted nothing to do with us any more than we did with him.

  Tanya stands a few inches behind him, still smiling.

  He notices my glance and says, "Oh, you met my fiancée."

  Tanya holds up her hand and displays a large solitaire diamond on a thin gold band.

  I raise a brow and grin. "Congratulations. That's great."

  "Maybe I'll finally get grandbabies," Mrs. Porter says with a chuckle, but then we all must realize that'll never happen from her eldest, because our smiles fade and we grow sullen.

  I try to think of something to say. "Um, have you set a date yet?"

  Tanya shakes her head. "No, he just proposed last week. We're gonna wait to figure out when."

  Her gaze shifts to her future mother-in-law and concern enters her face. It makes me think that they're waiting because of Hilary's death and not wanting to put more strain, even if it's joyous news, on their mother.

  Considering Mrs. Porter's feelings means I like Tanya already.

  "Come join me, Gianna." Mrs. Porter pats the sofa beside her.

  I sit down, and she grabs my hand and squeezes. I've a feeling she's not letting me go easily. I don't mind. If I bring her comfort, I'll stick around.

  "How are you holding up?" I ask her. I'm not sure if that's the right thing to say. Should I be trying to get her to think about something else? I've been through some personal grief, but I'm not overly familiar with the proper etiquette.

  Mrs. Porter pats my hand over and over, as if it's more of a nervous habit than intentional. "I keep thinking about yesterday afternoon. We had a routine. She'd stop here on her way home from work and bring me a Snapple iced tea and a scratch-off ticket. Every single workday."

  I smile and say, "That's sweet."

  "But not yesterday. She hadn't missed a day in three years except then, and I can't help but wonder if that was an omen that I ignored." Her voice hitches, and it sounds like she's going to cry again, but she holds it back.

  "Mom, do you need something?" Steven asks.

  Mrs. Porter shakes her head and then gets to her feet. "I'll go get the albums."

  Steven steps forward. "I can get them, Mom."

  Mrs. Porter pats her son's shoulder as she passes him. "No, I need to move around. Sit with Gianna until I get back."

  He takes the armchair closest to me.

  "I'll make tea," Tanya says and goes into the kitchen.

  I turn to Steven and ask, "How are you holding up? I'm so sorry for your loss."

  He nods and hangs his head for a moment. "It's hard. It hasn't even been twenty-four hours and…"

  We fall into silence, and I wonder if this is a good idea. Maybe I should have waited before visiting, at least until tomorrow.

  "I'm a little surprised you're here, considering how you and Hilary were no longer friends," he says.

  I suck in a breath because his words are true but for some reason sting.

  "I had to see your mom. I couldn't ignore her, despite my feelings for Hilary."

  He softly smiles. "That's 'cause you're good people. I love…um, loved my sister, but she did you wrong."

  I can't help but feel warmed by his words. It's nice to know he doesn't hold our falling out against me, and I wonder how much he knows about our fight. Did Hilary tell him I can see ghosts too?

  "You know, if you or your mom need anything, you call me. Here." I reach into my purse for a pen and one of Julian's new business cards. I flip it over and jot my number on the back.

  I give it to him. "Call me day or night, it doesn't matter. I'll tell your mother the same."

  He nods again, and this time when he looks up, there are big tears in his eyes.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  That evening, after I lock up the office, I grab my car and drive to Ma's. Impromptu dinners at my parents' house are par for the course. They don't mind. They love having us arou
nd, and Ma eats alone most nights while Pop's still at the deli. Well, some nights. Enzo likes to swing by semi-often. Tonight, it's not about the food, although I am always grateful for a free meal. No, I simply want Ma's company. Visiting the Porters has me feeling mushy and sentimental inside.

  When Mrs. Porter returned, we pored through photo albums of Hilary as a kid, back when I loved her. I was in a fair amount of the pictures, usually with Steven trying to annoy us in the background by sticking out his tongue or trying to hold a V with his fingers behind our heads. Mrs. Porter and I laughed and cried. It was a heavy afternoon.

  Ma's car is parked in the driveway, and I pull in behind it. With my key in hand, I step up to the front door and turn the knob. It's unlocked. That's not unusual on Sundays when we all come over for supper, which begins around noon. But on a weekday…

  I push the door open, step inside, and call out. "Ma?"

  There are no pleasing aromas and no sound. Ma isn't known to run to the door as soon as she hears guests, and she could be in her room, the basement, or the bathroom, so not hearing her footsteps doesn't surprise me, but there's always something cooking or just cooked or cooked the day before and still lingering, so the house only smelling like artificial lemony floor and furniture cleaner does.

  The alarm is off with a solid green light. They had it installed a couple of months ago, and Ma has been keeping it on and secure when she's home alone. That's odd.

  I walk down the hall to the back of the house, looking into the living and dining rooms as I pass. No Ma. No anyone.

  "Ma?" I call again when I reach the empty kitchen. I look down the short hall to the half bath, and the door is open, and the room is dim. Where is she?

  Before I check upstairs, I decide to go to the basement. Other than the kitchen, it's her second favorite space. Ma collects murderabilia—objects from murder scenes, preferably ones that belonged to the deceased. It started when her sister died years ago. Ma kept a candleholder that she assumed was the murder weapon, but it turned out that Aunt Stella's death was an accident. Ma collecting items snowballed from there. She met other people with similar interests online, and soon strangers were sending her things. We don't know if they're authentically from murders, but Ma likes them. And, of course, I've given her things that belonged to ghosts when I can. This time, I won't be doing that. I have no intention of asking Kevin for anything.