This is starting to feel bad.
Winnie reenters the room carrying a tray with a couple of mugs, a floral ceramic teapot, a bowl of sugar, some cream, and two large slices of blueberry pie.
"I hope you don't mind that the pie is leftover," she says as she sets it down.
Dessert for breakfast? This is going to be a great day!
"Of course not. Pie never gets old." I flash a big smile and help her place the items on the table.
It doesn't matter that the blueberries and crust are cold from the fridge. It still tastes amazing.
Winnie stirs some sugar into her cup. "So now that you've helped me with my problem, how can I help you with yours?"
I pour a splash of cream into my mug and ask, "Mine?"
"You seemed troubled when I returned from the kitchen. Anything I can help with? Remember, I am a psychologist and sometimes talking things out is the best way to deal with them."
So she saw or sensed my relationship problems. It's definitely not something I want to discuss. Not with her. It's weird. But there is something else on my mind.
"I have a ghost right now too."
Winnie's thin brows go up. "Do tell."
"She's actually my ex-best friend. We grew up together and parted ways senior year. She told my secret to another close friend, and I couldn't forgive her."
"And now she's passed on?" Winnie asks.
I nod and sip my tea. "Actually, she's been murdered."
Winnie places a hand on her chest. "Oh my. Do you know who killed her?"
Do I? That is a great question.
"I'm not exactly sure. She says it's her husband, but I don't believe her."
"Would she lie about that?"
There isn't any way for Winnie to fully understand unless I tell her everything. From twelfth grade to now. So I do, and by the time I'm done, we've finished our meal and are facing each other.
She's sitting back in her seat, and I'm perched forward in mine. All we need is a therapist's couch and a tape recorder or pad of paper for notes, and this would feel like a real session.
"I now understand why you're hesitant about others finding out your secret," she says.
An immense wave of relief hits me, and I chuckle. "You do? Oh, thank you. Everyone else thinks I'm being unreasonable not forgiving her."
"Well, I didn't say you shouldn't forgive."
Ugh, seriously?
Winnie clasps her hands in her lap. "Forgiveness is about moving on and letting yourself heal. It doesn't mean that what she did was right."
I know that. I've heard it before, but I still don't wanna.
"I'm sensing you're still hurt by her actions, and her not apologizing hasn't helped. Maybe you can find it in you to tell her that. Sounds like she's holding on to a lot of pride."
She may have a point, but I'm not sure I can be that vulnerable with someone I can barely stand to look at.
"If Hilary was to move on today and you never saw her again, how do you think you would feel?" Winnie asks.
Wow, that question feels like a sucker punch.
I think hard for a moment and then say the first thing that comes to mind. "Unfinished."
* * *
After Winnie's, I head home. There is nothing on the work calendar, no new or old client meetings, so I figure I have time for a shower before I head over. Everything Winnie said has me thinking though, so once I'm clean smelling and dressed in my favorite pencil skirt and ruffled white blouse, I stand by my coffee table and call out for Hilary. It's time we talk.
She doesn't appear. I'm not totally surprised. She'd only hear me if she was in the vicinity, and that wouldn't mean she'd show herself. It was worth a shot though.
I text Julian to tell him I'm on the way to the office and grab my keys. My hand grips the doorknob when he texts back.
I won't be in the office today. Take the day off.
What?
I stare at my phone as if it can respond for him.
I drop my keys and purse on the breakfast bar and text back.
We need to talk.
Continued stares don't help. He doesn't respond.
Yeah, real mature, buddy.
Suddenly Hilary is before me, and I flinch. I need to invent some sort of bell or an app that hums whenever a ghost is nearby.
"Did you call for me?" she asks. She looks as hostile as ever.
"Yes, did you hear me? Were you nearby?"
She doesn't answer but asks, "What do you want?"
I think of Winnie's words, but vulnerability is extra hard when the other person is glaring.
"Did you lock Kevin and me in the deli cooler Saturday night?"
She scoffs. Loudly. "Like I'd want to force the two of you in a room together?"
Maybe not, but that doesn't exactly answer the question.
As if she can read my mind, she rolls her eyes and says, "No. Did he declare his love for you?"
Now I'm scoffing. "No. It wasn't like that."
She crosses her arms over her chest. "You both visited my mom last night. Clearly you don't hate him anymore."
"We called a truce. He apologized for his crappy past behavior," I say, hoping she'll get the hint.
"Well, isn't that sweet? You get locked in, and now everything is great." She uses her fingers to air quote "locked in."
"Wait, you think someone placing a wooden spoon in the cooler handle was an accident or a lie? No, someone really did it."
I stare at her face for some sign she's messing with me, but she doesn't give any. She also doesn't seem to be on the same train of thought I currently am.
"Hilary, if you didn't do it, then someone else definitely came in and did it. On purpose." My voice rises. This actually just got serious.
Her frown slowly fades as she realizes what I'm saying. "Was anything stolen?"
"Nothing. So that means either some random stranger had some weird fun and locked us in for no reason, or someone did it on purpose."
"Why?"
I shrug, and my pitch is even higher than previously. "I don't know. Other than you, I don't have any enemies. Does Kevin?"
"He's a cop. I'm sure there are a ton of criminals who wouldn't mind kicking his butt or enjoy seeing him fall."
Yeah, Kevin hasn't always been a charming person.
"But I don't know if they're following him around waiting for an opportunity," she says.
Goose bumps break out on my arms.
"Has he ever said something weird like this has happened before?" I ask.
"Why don't you ask him?" she snaps.
"Because I'm asking you."
She sighs and looks away. "I don't know. He didn't talk about work or much of anything."
Ouch. The way she says it makes me feel for her. That marriage sounds like it was torture.
I doubt she wants to talk about her feelings, so I say, "What if this has to do with you?"
The skin between her brows puckers. "How?"
"Who killed you?"
She crosses her arms again. "I already told you."
"The truth would be nice," I say. I don't have time for her games.
"What makes you think I haven't told it?"
I shrug. "Maybe because I don't trust you."
She narrows her gaze and huffs. "Why would you believe he didn't do it? Because he said he's sorry? Do you know how many times he said that to me after we argued? They're just words, Gianna. Anyone can say them."
"Apparently you can't," I shout.
She looks confused for a moment and then says, "Do you really know if Kevin is the killer or not? Can you honestly say that you believe him one hundred percent?"
Without another word, she disappears, and I'm left wondering if Hilary has been telling the truth all along. What if Kevin did it and has been lying to me? It's possible, but it doesn't explain who locked us in the cooler.
And suddenly I really want to know.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I spend the rest of my morning
mulling over all I remember about Saturday night and decide to clean my apartment too. It can really use it. I wish I could say that I saw a strange car slowly passing the gravel parking lot as Kevin and I went into the deli, but I wasn't paying attention. He was yammering about lasagna, and I was complaining to myself about the heat.
I'm elbow deep in scrubbing my kitchen sink with this new "natural" cleanser that has a lemon mint scent, but instead of reminding me of lemonade, it smells medicinal.
If someone was stalking Kevin, for whatever reason, why lock us in? Did they need him out of the way for something? Did they think we needed a cool down? Did they figure no one would find us until the next morning and we'd be dead by then? I already mulled this over that night in the deli's kitchen. I was hoping a fresh day would give me a new perspective, but I'm wrong.
I stand straight. Is there any chance I was the intended victim?
I chuckle and rinse out my suds. No, that's silly. My only enemies or arch nemeses are the very people I'm hanging out with. Kevin, Hilary, and now Michael. A bitterness coats my tongue. There's no way Michael would try to hurt me. I don't care that he's turned out to be a guy I don't fully know.
My stomach tightens. Do I really though?
He's been so angry and the arguing he did with Hilary that night… Brenda made it sound like it was extreme. It is possible she was exaggerating. Over the top to one person can be quiet to another. Maybe other neighbors heard something, like the people right below their apartment. I dry off my hands and change from my ratty T-shirt and shorts to more presentable ones. It can't hurt to ask all the neighbors. Maybe one of them heard something concrete on the last visitor. Someone other than Michael or even Kevin.
The parking area is practically empty when I arrive. Maybe I should have considered the likelihood that the neighbors would be home on a Monday afternoon. I should wait at least until dinnertime. Since I'm here though, I may as well try.
I enter the building and first go back up to floor three to talk to the mini skirt neighbor. She isn't as close in proximity to Hilary as Brenda, but she may have heard or seen something. I raise my fist and knock and instantly feel like Brenda is at her peephole watching me.
Please don't open your door and invite me inside.
Normally I wouldn't mind, but right now I'm on a mission, and I'd like to not share it with anyone else.
I stand there for a minute, and when no one answers, I head down one flight of steps. I hope each level is laid out the same way. Sure enough, there are three apartments on the floor below too. I walk past the first two and knock on the third. This one should be directly below Hilary and Kevin.
The door opens, and a woman in a sleeveless plaid shirt and jean shorts greets me. Her green eyes are bright, and there's a natural downward turn to her mouth. "Can I help you?"
"Hi, my name is Gianna Mancini. I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm hoping you can help me," I say.
She nods me along.
"I'm sure you know about the woman who died above you?" I point to the ceiling, as if she doesn't know the direction.
She nods again, this time shutting her eyes for a moment.
"I'm wondering if you heard anything the night she died that could help in figuring out who killed her?" I bite my lower lip and mentally cross my fingers that she not only did but doesn't mind sharing it with a total stranger.
Her eyes widen and she opens her mouth, but before she gets to say anything, a man steps up behind her. He's slightly balding with a light comb-over, wearing a white undershirt that barely stretches over a small potbelly and a pair of gray sweats.
"My wife and I know nothing. We stay out of other people's business," he says rather sharply.
The wife shuts her mouth and lowers her gaze. It feels like she was going to tell me something.
I nod and offer a polite smile. They haven't asked me why I'm interested. I reach into my purse and find one of Julian's new, crisp, black-and-white business cards.
"Well, if you remember anything, please call me." I hand it to the wife and leave. Hopefully, the husband won't take it from her, and maybe she'll think I'm a PI too. That may give me a little clout if she calls. It could also make her nervous and tear up the card once she shuts the door.
I get back to my car and decide to check in on Izzie. There's nothing else I can do about this now.
When I arrive at her house, I hear a door slam from outside. What is going on? How did I hear that with all the windows shut? They have central air.
I knock and get ready to use my emergency key if she doesn't answer soon. Only her car is in the driveway. She should be here. I don't want to barge in, so I pull my phone from my purse to text her. I get as far as Are you h—when I hear another slam.
I flinch, and the door opens to Izzie screaming over her shoulder, "Why can't you just listen?"
She faces me with a deep scowl on her face. Her face is flushed and dewy with sweat, a lock of hair is in her eyes, and she's holding her stomach.
I go into instant big sister mode, even though I'm the youngest, and panic. Hey, I never said I knew the job requirements. "What's wrong? Do you need to go to the hospital?"
She blows the lock of hair, but it falls back into her eye line. "Only if they can give a certain fourteen-year-old a new attitude."
Oh, this is about teenage hormones.
I laugh. Loud and long.
Izzie rolls her eyes and waddles backwards. "Get in here and talk to me so that I don't ground her until she's thirty."
I chuckle again and shut the door behind me. "What's the problem?"
"Does there need to be one? It's like she went from sweet thirteen to terror fourteen in twenty-four hours last year. We've been butting heads for months."
I follow her as she walks past the living room toward the back of their two-story Colonial house. The front room is dim. The drapes are mostly shut, which means Izzie may have been in here napping before fighting with Alice. Further evidence is the unfolded throw blanket and pillow on the sofa.
"It'll pass," I say to my sister. "Ma says we were awful too."
Izzie tosses her hands into the air and allows them to slap on her thighs when she lowers her arms. "I don't know how she got through it with two of us."
"Well, we are five years apart. She had a break in the middle with calm Enzo."
We step into the kitchen, and I gasp.
It's a disaster zone. Unwashed dishes crowd the sink, opened food packages like chips, bread, crackers, and cereal line the counters. There's scattered mail, books, an overflowing garbage, and a basket of laundry, which I assume is clean due to the small stack of already folded washcloths on the table.
I've never seen her house like this. Sure, some crumbs on the table, a small, sticky jelly stain shortly after breakfast, but that's cleaned up way before lunch. I don't blame her for not being able to keep up. She's growing a human. But what about the rest of her household?
She waves a hand and squeezes her eyes shut. "I know. It's a mess. Don't tell Ma."
I laugh and nod in agreement. Ma would be over here with her a bucket, lemon cleaners, bleach, disposable gloves, and those heavy-duty black garbage bags. The place could use it, but Izzie doesn't need that kind of support. Ma wouldn't exactly judge, but once she knows you need help, she'll keep coming back. It's super sweet, but it can be interfering too.
The only thing to do is tackle it myself. Today must be my official cleaning day. Before I begin though, I feel like I should also try to make some peace. Alice used to know I'm a cool aunt. Maybe her new 'tude won't think I'm now old and lame. But first…
"Why don't you have a seat. Can I get you anything?"
Izzie rubs her forehead. "No. I was folding laundry before she came home. I should finish that."
I gently pat her shoulder. "Okay, you do that, and I'm going to talk to your daughter."
Izzie waddles to the table and laughs loud. "Yeah, good luck. You may want to put on some armor first."
I gr
in and head upstairs.
The house has three bedrooms and one bath with a finished basement. Paulie talks about adding a half bath down there, but so far no strides have been taken. I don't blame him. He works all the time, is getting ready for a new little one, and Izzie hasn't been able to work at the deli to help out for a couple of months. She plans to take off for at least a month before going back to work after the baby is born, and when she does, she'll be bringing the infant with her.
The bathroom is at the top of the stairs. The door is open and light is off, which means Alice is in her room. I pass Izzie's room and the green nursery and knock on the door closest to the front of the house, which explains why I heard the door slamming so clearly.
I knock and say, "Alice, it's me. Aunt Gianna. Can I come in?"
The door swings open, and my niece stands there with a big grin. "Aunt Gi." She throws herself at me, and we hug.
Okay, I was picturing horns and a pitchfork.
She lets me go, and I enter behind her. When I don't shut the door, she turns back and does it.
Her room is the same as when she was little. Pastel pink walls and carpet with white furniture, but since then, she's added a black comforter to her bed, some black bookshelves, and a neon purple bean bag chair. There are also the usual teen girl items—posters of boy bands, makeup galore—even if she's only allowed to wear lip gloss to school—every shade of nail polish imaginable, clothes scattered on various surfaces, and fairy lights with fake colored bead necklaces stretched across her windows.
"Why are you here?" Alice jumps onto her bed and leans back against her pillows.
"I came by to see how your mother is doing. She's been having a lot of false labor."
Alice's cheerful expression disappears, and she looks a little sullen. Is she worried, or have I hit the issue of her problem? Sure, she could simply be hormonal, but if there's more to it, I hope I can get to the bottom of it before I leave.
"So how are you doing?" I ask.
She shrugs.
Diamonds, Pies & Dead Guys Page 16