Jennifer Fischetto - Dead by the Numbers 01 - One Garish Ghost & Blueberry Peach Jam

by Jennifer Fischetto

  A thin cloud blocks the sun, but it’s still bright out. A light breeze makes me glad I’m wearing long sleeves, but it’s much warmer outside than in. Double the ghosts must mean double the chill. Another reason to help them move on ASAP.

  Enzo leans out the window of his red Jeep. “Why’d you ask about a dead body?”

  I nod toward the building. “Why you think? There are two ghosts in my apartment, and one died last night.”

  He scratches his chin. “There was a body found a bit ago. I’m on my way there now.”

  “Officially?”

  He glances away. “Not exactly.”

  Enzo aches to be a homicide detective. It’s all he’s talked about most of his life. He’s taken the exam and now is waiting for a spot. Since the force isn’t that big, he’s basically waiting for someone to retire or die. Not something he likes to say out loud.

  “Is it a woman?” I ask.

  “Yeah, a clown on the beach.”

  Goosebumps pop up onto my arms. “Crap.”

  I don’t need to say anything more. He nods. “Get in.”

  * * *

  As soon as I jump into Enzo’s Jeep, the clown appears in the back seat. I’m used to ghosts popping up whenever they want. In my shower, in the cart at the grocery store. Weird stuff. But this is my first dead clown, and she’s seriously creeping me out.

  “What’s your name?” I ask her, figuring calling her “the clown” only adds to the creep factor.

  “Emma Tinsdale, but my clown name is Cupcake.”

  Of course. “You mean was.”

  She averts her gaze, and sadness seeps into her eyes.

  Normally, I’d feel shitty, but she helped screw up Izzie’s marriage. Can’t say I’m feeling the love right now.

  “What’d she say?” Enzo asks, searching the back seat through the rearview. Like he’s going to see her. Silly guy. Tricks are for resuscitated sisters.

  I fill him in on all I know so far, including why Cupcake’s lipstick is smeared.

  He gives me that look, the one that wonders if Izzie’s the reason we’re racing to a crime scene.

  I shake my head. “Of course not. I was with her the whole night.” Except for when I passed out and slept soundly outside on the beach. I must’ve been really tired and sauced because I used to have trouble falling asleep to Pop’s snoring from the next room. But I could’ve been in a coma, and I know Izzie wouldn’t kill a person. Just cars.

  Enzo pulls up behind a police cruiser on Broadway. The area is flooded with emergency vehicles, making driving nearly impossible. He puts his truck into park and turns off the ignition. “My badge will only get us so far. I’m not a detective, and I have no right being here.”

  I don’t expect to be able to walk up to the body and start poking around. This isn’t my first crime scene. When I realized the Craig in his apartment wasn’t of flesh and bones and would no longer enjoy the dinner I was making for him, I raced to where the accident had taken place. I don’t recall much before the tunnel vision set in, other than a cop holding me back, the very one I’ve always shared a hate-hate relationship with.

  “This is it? Where I died?” Cupcake makes a noise that sounds like she’s sucking in a breath, but ghosts don’t breathe. As for sucking… Never mind.

  My stomach flips, even though I’m not supposed to care. I follow Enzo out of his Jeep and onto the boardwalk. The crowd is massive—people practically glued together in one long and wide parade. I grab the back of Enzo’s jacket as if I’m a kid, and we push our way through. Luckily, his badge gets most people moving out of the way. I step on a few toes of the ones who don’t. Hey, you gotta move ‘em or lose ‘em.

  We make it to the ramp leading to the beach. Enzo doesn’t need to flash his badge to the officer who’s pretending he’s one of the Buckingham Palace guards, making sure no one unauthorized goes down. Enzo points to me. “Hey, Arnold. This is my sister.”

  Arnold is huge—well over six feet, broad as a quarterback with padding, and a crew cut that shows off his square head well. “I can’t let her go down. Sorry.”

  “Let her stay up here, close to you.”

  “Sure.” He steps aside for Enzo to go down and points to a spot right beside him and away from the main crowd for me to stand. It gives me a perfect view of the beach, too.

  Yellow police tape sections off a large portion of the sand, and at water’s edge is a body. The wig is missing—she’s a redhead—but the rest of the outfit matches. I visually search the water for a blotch of neon blue, but I don’t see it. A couple of plain-clothes detectives inspect the sand around her.

  “That’s me.” Cupcake stands right beside me. Or hovers.

  I don’t bother looking. I can’t take my eyes off the scene ahead. This is only four blocks from where Izzie and I spent the night. That can’t be a coincidence, can it? But if it’s not, what does it mean?

  Enzo approaches the detectives. One of them turns toward him, and I get a good look of his ugly mug. Kevin Burton. Of course.

  I must make a disgusted sound because Cupcake asks, “What?”

  I shake my head. She doesn’t need to know my business, and it’s not like I can tell her with a cop pressed against my spine. He’ll haul me off to an asylum, and I’ll miss Ma’s manicotti later today.

  Kevin went to school with Izzie. He was best friends with Alice’s father. Before the pregnancy, the three of them hung out at our house frequently. Which made it easy for Kevin to leer at me. I was only thirteen, so some of his innuendoes went over my head. It was never physical. Not then. But Enzo overheard him once and nearly knocked the jerk’s front teeth out.

  When I was in college Kevin tried again, but this time he used his hands. Let’s just say I kneed him so hard I bet his left nut aches whenever he sees me approaching. And because his itsy-bitsy feelings were hurt, he has it in for me.

  When my boyfriend Craig died, Kevin tried to blame the accident on me. As if I stole a car and hit Craig on purpose because he forgot the Parmesan cheese or something at the store. But even without a motive, Kevin tried busting my ass for a week straight. He’d park outside Ma’s and watch the house. Finally Pop called his supervisor, and Kevin stormed away, madder than before.

  He started dating my ex-best friend Hilary right before I moved to Connecticut. I know it was to get at me, but at that point I didn’t care. I was itching to get off this island, away from all the pain, and Hilary and I had stopped talking right after high school anyway. Shoot, maybe Izzie’s right. Do I run?

  The only reason Enzo deals with Kevin now is because they work for the same police station. Kevin was promoted to detective earlier this year. Enzo won’t admit it, but he hates that. I will admit it. So do I.

  Now, Kevin glances up at me. His eyes narrow and his mouth twists into a snarl.

  I consider offering a half smile or flipping him the bird, but he’s not worth the exercise.

  “You sure you want to be here?” I whisper to Cupcake.

  Arnold shifts his weight. I keep looking straight ahead, whistle half a bar of “My Little Sunshine,” and pretend I haven’t said a word.

  I glance to Cupcake as she disappears. Gee, rude much? How about a good-bye? A see-ya-later? Or even a thank you for finding her corpse? Guess she couldn’t hack it. Who am I kidding? I would’ve freaked as soon as I realized there’s no more bacon in my future. Does she really not remember what happened to her? I think back to last night and how she wobbled and seemed out of it. She must’ve drunk a lot not to recall anything. Or she’s lying.

  With all my time chilling with the afterlife, I still don’t know if ghosts can be trusted. Other than dear, dead Aunt Stella in Connecticut, who doesn’t really like me, and D.N.‘s grandmother, I’ve never spent more than an hour with one. They usually move on quickly. I have a feeling Billy’s going to be a handful. Cupcake, too.

  Several cops search under the boardwalk. I can’t imagine anything important being that far away from her body, but what do
I know? I spread mayo on toasted bread for a living. The only rules for sandwich making is don’t slice off a finger or sneeze on the order.

  An officer shouts, “Over here. Get me a baggie.”

  Kevin and an older detective rush over. Enzo follows but stays several feet behind.

  I lean over the railing as do many on the boardwalk, but I can’t see a thing.

  They seem to hem and haw below for an eternity. I glance at Arnold, who raises his brows, also curious as to what they found.

  Eventually, they come back out, and one of them is holding a giant evidence bag with an aluminum baseball bat inside. Is that Paulie’s? No, it can’t be.

  The sun glints off the bag, and I spot blood along the tip of the bat. Cupcake’s blood? As in she was hit with the bat? Was she murdered? My mind flies to the drops of blood on Izzie’s shirt.

  Merda!

  CHAPTER SIX

  It takes Paulie six minutes, two knocks, three doorbell rings, and one very loud fist-pounding-slash-kicking before he opens his front door. His eyes look like he poured gasoline on them and lit a match. He wears light blue pajama pants and a white tank, and there’s a small, red stain the size of a blood droplet on the right strap that I’m hoping is from shaving and not beating bodies. What’s with my family and bloodstains? I suddenly feel like a character in a vampire novel.

  He squints, shielding his eyes from the sunlight. “What are you doing here, Gianna? I don’t need a lecture.”

  “Do I look like a schoolmarm? I’m not giving one.”

  When Enzo dropped me off at my apartment, I ran up determined to get the truth from Cupcake, but she wasn’t there. Neither was Billy. You’d think a couple of unemployed dead people would have no place to go and no one to see. Yesterday, I begged for an empty apartment. Today, it’s suffocating. I need answers. So I jumped in my Kia and drove straight here.

  Paulie rubs his face hard with his hand. “Then what?”

  Normally, I’d be a bit miffed that he’s not inviting me in for tea and crumpets, but under the circumstances, I’ll let it go. This time.

  “What happened after Izzie and I left last night?”

  “What do you think?”

  I sigh dramatically. “I don’t know, Sherlock. That’s why I’m asking?”

  “I came home.” He exhales loudly.

  If he thinks he can win in a sighing contest, he’s sadly mistaken. I have experience as a teenage girl. He does not. My sighs and eye rolls are an art form.

  “You didn’t see the clown again, after we left?”

  He frowns. “You think I’m gonna hook back up with her after my wife kills my car?”

  That wasn’t what I had in mind, but it’s interesting how it’s his first thought.

  “So what about the bat?”

  He rubs the back of his neck. “What about it?”

  “Where is it?”

  He shrugs. “In the back of my truck where you tossed it.”

  I can’t tell if his demeanor is flippant because he’s an emotional wreck and can’t be bothered, or because he’s purposely trying to avert suspicion. I realize I’m being super paranoid. I don’t actually believe Paulie is capable of killing a woman over an affair. Over anything. But I still need to make sure.

  I turn and walk to the driveway where his truck is crookedly parked.

  He follows me, steps on a pebble, and winces. The big baby. “What are you doing?”

  “Checking on the bat.”

  He scoffs. “You think I’m lying? First your sister accuses me for months of cheating. Months.”

  I look into the truck’s bed. Nothing. I lift a light blue tarp. It’s empty. “You did cheat.” I remind him.

  “Yes, one time, last night.”

  I face him and place a hand on my hip. “And you don’t think that counts?”

  “Of course it does, but I wasn’t cheating all those times she accused me. I was working late, trying to make money so we could live in this house. I am a good husband.”

  I get his point. Izzie’s badgering was uncalled for, but he’s starting to piss me off. “No matter how misguided or wrong Izzie was, you still chose to cheat. You don’t get to blame that on anyone but yourself.”

  He opens his mouth to say something, but I’m tired of listening. Plus, the temps have risen, and I’m starting to sweat. Perspiration is as horrendous as the DMV line and taxes.

  I start walking off and tap him on the chest twice. “By the way, you have more to worry about than Izzie leaving you.”

  He sucks in a breath as if surprised, like he hasn’t realized that’s even a possibility.

  “The clown’s body was found this morning. She was beaten to death with a baseball bat.”

  He turns a dumbfounded look to his truck.

  “And yours is missing.”

  * * *

  I drive nine blocks east and park in front of Ma and Pop’s. I let myself in through the front door and instantly smile at the aromas of coffee and tomato sauce. It’s great to know the deliciousness hasn’t changed.

  The living room is empty. Clanking sounds come from the kitchen, and the shower is on upstairs. I walk toward the sounds of pots and pans, and find Ma stirring a spoon in her tall, dented silver pot. She cooks all her pasta in it. That thing is probably older than me.

  She’s dressed in a navy blue dress and black heels, but her hair is still in curlers. She still uses the old kind that you stick bobby pins in. And she’s humming “Tomorrow” from Annie. We must be on a new week. “Lorenzo, did you grab my purse.”

  I set mine on the table. “Ma, it’s me.”

  She half-way turns, brows up. She looks me up and down. “Why aren’t you dressed?”

  “I’m not staying. I need to talk to Izzie, and I’ll be back later.”

  She nods and turns back to her pot. “I think she’s in the shower. There’s time for both of you to join us for church.”

  I roll my eyes. Every Sunday since high school graduation, she asks or states the same thing. When is she going to accept that church isn’t for us?

  “No thanks.” I grab a mug and pour coffee into it. While I add sugar and half-and-half, Ma watches me from the corner of her eye.

  “Are you going to tell me what’s going on between the two of you?” she asks. “This feels like when you were in high school. All the secrets, the whispering…”

  She drops the wooden spoon inside the pot and turns fully. “You’re not pregnant, are you?”

  I snicker. “Hardly.” I’d have to be having sex for that to happen. My eggs are single and fancy-free.

  She pulls out the spoon, rinses it off, and places it on a ceramic spoon holder. “Fine. I won’t press, but you know I’m here for you if you need to talk, right? And there won’t be any judgment.”

  I smile, lean into her, and give a one arm hug, still holding strong to my cup of coffee. “I know, Ma. This isn’t my story to tell though. I love you.”

  She pulls back just enough to push one of my erratic curls behind my ear and kiss my cheek. “I love you too. You’re a good sister and daughter, Gianna. I wish my older sister and I got along like you and Izzie.”

  Oooh, did she just give me a segue into their discord? “Yeah, tell me again what happened between you and Aunt Stella.”

  She narrows her eyes and smiles. “Nice try. It was nothing.”

  But that can’t be true. If it was, she’d spill. One day I’ll get it out of her. Hopefully it’ll be half as juicy as the things I’ve imagined.

  She pats my arm. “Come downstairs. I want to show you my latest collection piece.” She flips the basement light-switch, and we walk down.

  The front half of the room is lined with metal shelving that holds the crazy trinkets Ma’s collected over the years, an antique locket, a blood-tipped switchblade, a stuffed bear with a missing eye. And so much more. This is Ma’s murder room. So to speak.

  It started simply enough when Aunt Stella, Ma’s oldest sister, was found dead in her batht
ub. The cause of death was drowning, but for a week there was suspicion of foul play, due to blood on the candleholder and shoddy police work. During that time, Ma got it in her head that someone snuck into the old house she and her sisters grew up in and killed her. Aunt Stella wasn’t the nicest person, always barking at people, so it wasn’t too farfetched. It turned out she didn’t pull the drain plug before standing up and slipping into her robe. She slipped, hit her head first on a metal candle holder, and then on the side of the tub before going underwater.

  After the truth was discovered and the candleholder returned from the police, Ma took it and put it on her dresser. She never explained why it became so important to her. I think it has something to do with them never getting along. Like maybe this was Ma’s way of finally being close to her sister.

  It spurred a compulsion for Ma to collect murderabilia, but for years the only item she owned was the candleholder. Then Pop bought a computer, opening up a world of murders for her. She began blogging, and before long followers started sending her murder items they acquired. She must own nearly a hundred now.

  We’re pretty sure most of them are fakes, but they make Ma happy. It’s not that she enjoys death. She doesn’t want people to die, but it’s pretty inevitable, and acquiring an object from a case that makes the news gives her some kind of thrill. She takes precautions too. Like getting a PO Box from the post office and using a fake name. The online community knows her as Clarice. Yeah, she totally borrowed the name from Silence of the Lambs.

  Except for our immediate family and one of Ma’s close friends, people in her real life don’t know about her murder shrine. We’re perfectly aware that our hobbies and interests aren’t exactly normal. We, as a family, spend our free time concocting the best ways to scare the crap out of each other. I communicate with the dead. Enzo’s a cop, wanting to investigate the dead. And Ma collects items that once belonged to the dead. We should have our own reality TV show—The Deadly Deli—but I think you need to have a special sense of humor to appreciate it all. Some people don’t get that scaring one another, that jolt of adrenaline is super fun.