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

by Jennifer Fischetto

  Just the same, I get out of my car and heard toward the back of the property where there’s that breathtaking view of the Atlantic and no peering neighbor eyes. On a quick glance, though, it doesn’t look like many people are home. There are no visible cars parked outside any of the houses.

  Wesley’s yard is small considering how much he must’ve paid for this place. You’d think each house would come with a lot of land, but that’s not Long Island. At least not this area. You’d have to drive farther out into Suffolk County to find more space. Here, or at least in the West End, it’s more like the City where you and your neighbor can lean out your windows and carry on a conversation as if you’re standing side-by-side. You don’t buy or rent a home in South Shore Beach because you want to raise chickens or don’t like people. This town’s draw is the boardwalk and the beach.

  I head back toward the garage and notice two sets of tire tracks on a strip of grassless dirt above the gravel driveway. One set is thinner than the other. Clearly a car and some type of truck or SUV. I pull out my phone and snap photos of them. Not sure if it’ll do any good, but that’s what they do on those TV crime shows.

  I’m about to turn and head to my car when something glints against my sunglasses, blinding me for a second. I look up and catch movement. From the house next door, a dark-haired young man directs his phone at me. He’s leaning over the railing of a balcony, and he has no shame about leering. Then again, I’m the one trespassing.

  “Hey,” I shout up. “Did you just take my picture?”

  “Maybe.”

  “That’s illegal.”

  He laughs. “No it’s not. You’re thinking of video, and that’s only illegal if there’s audio.”

  Is that even true, or is he BSing me? And who is this kid? “How old are you?”

  “Sixteen. How old are you?”

  “Ninety-five.”

  He whistles. “Damn, you look fine for being ancient.”

  I can’t help but smile. “So do you film your neighbors often?”

  “Only the hot ones.”

  He thinks I’m hot? Well… No, Gianna, don’t be flattered. He’s a child and shouldn’t be encouraged.

  Then it hits me. “Any chance you saw a hot redhead here Saturday night? It would’ve been late.”

  He looks off for a second and walks into his house.

  What the hell? Way to end a conversation.

  I consider going over and knocking on their door, but the kid’s probably full of crap anyway. I turn back toward the driveway and start walking to my car.

  A screen door slams, and footsteps hurry toward me. “Hey.”

  I glance over my shoulder. He looks much younger close up. A face full of freckles, light brown eyes, and a small scar above his right eyebrow.

  “You a cop?” he asks.

  “Nope.”

  “Good. I hate cops. They’re so nosy.”

  I almost laugh. He just snapped a photo of a stranger. Isn’t that the same thing?

  “I saw the redhead.”

  He has my attention now. “Saturday night?”

  He nods. “She’s around here a lot. Not as much as that other lady but still a lot.”

  He must be talking about Danielle. “What time did she get here? How long did she stay?”

  He shrugs.

  “But you said you saw her.”

  “I saw her leave, not arrive. And she wasn’t alone.”

  I’m at full attention now. “Did someone leave with her? Wesley? The guy who lives here.”

  “Don’t know the dudes name, but he carried her out. And it wasn’t the house owner.”

  Another man. Plaid guy?

  “Did you recognize him? Was he wearing a plaid shirt and a Yankees’ cap?”

  “I was too busy watching the chick to be checking out his wardrobe. She has a nice rack.”

  Guess he hasn’t figured out she’s the body on the beach. “You didn’t get his plates by any chance?”

  He smiles.

  I nearly squeal. “You did?”

  He raises his phone and shakes it. “Better. I got pics of him and his car.”

  “Let me see.” I reach for his phone.

  He snatches it back and slips it into his pocket. “My rates are high.”

  I scoff. “Seriously? You’re going to extort me?”

  He wiggles his eyebrows. “A guy’s gotta eat.”

  I scoff a second time, louder, and hold out my arms. “You live in the lap of luxury. I doubt you’re having to resort to Spam and bologna.”

  He wrinkles his nose. “Won’t touch the stuff.”

  One thing we have in common—on the Spam. I have been known to eat a bologna sandwich when desperate.

  Before I know what he’s doing he grabs my phone.

  “Hey.”

  When he hands it back, he’s listed himself as contact No Spam. Cute. “When you get two grand, give me a call. Cash only.” He takes off, back to his house.

  Two grand. “Are you crazy? How do I know you even have pictures? You probably captured something from three weeks ago.”

  He ignores me and keeps walking to his door.

  I should call the cops on his ass. But then they’ll get the info, and I’ll still be clueless. What if it’s Paulie? I doubt it, but what if? And if I’m being honest, I simply don’t want to hand over real evidence to Kevin. I’d rather the killer go free. Almost.

  “Hey, why aren’t you in school?” I shout after him. “Maybe I should call the truant officers.”

  He glances back and wiggles his phone. “That won’t get you the info either.”

  Little creep. There’s just no way. Even if I had that kind of money sitting around, I wouldn’t give it to this thief. He probably doesn’t even have any pictures. No. I’ll find another way to get the information.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I figure one more stop is in order before I find food. My stomach is growling so loudly I’m surprised other motorists don’t shriek and crash their cars, fearing Godzilla is close enough to attack. I chuckle at my goofiness and drive to The Jam Shoppe.

  According to their adorable website with scrumptious pictures of jam on scones, crackers, and flaky rolls, it was established four years ago by Stacey Anne Ingles. It also says how she grows her own organic fruit, and every jar is made with special care, natural ingredients, and love. Gag me!

  The “About” page shows her picture. She’s a blond woman with big green eyes, and she’s holding a jar of jam. No other personal pictures are available though. With no pictures anywhere of Stacey Anne’s husband, I wonder if he’s Plaid Guy.

  I’m not sure what to think about Emma being at Wesley’s. Her story resonates with No Spam’s, but they’re both unreliable. Then again, Wesley’s a stranger. He could be a serial killer for all I know. Until I get definitive answers, I’m keeping all possibilities open.

  As I pull up to the store with the red awning, a tiny blond woman exits and locks the door. That’s Stacey Anne. I follow her to a small house over on Indiana Avenue, and that’s when Emma pops back in.

  She laughs as we watch Stacey Anne walk into her house.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask.

  “You. Have you never watched a P.I. show on TV? ‘Cause you suck at this.”

  “Hey,” I say in a way to sound wounded, but really I can care less if my sleuthing skills are mocked. She’s right. I haven’t a clue and am copying my limited knowledge of crime shows. I need to spend the evening with Law & Order or CSI. Hey, Castle has Nathan Fillion. That’s an instant rise on the hotness thermometer.

  “You can’t watch someone into confessing. You need answers. You need to approach them,” Emma says.

  “So somehow I need to get close enough to a jam maker, an estate attorney, and a hairstylist. The first and last may not be too hard. But I’ll need help.”

  She bows her head. “I am at your disposal. It’s not like I have anywhere else to be.”

  “Thanks, but I need the corporeal
variety.”

  I shift the car into drive and go to my apartment. When I climb the back stairs, contemplating going into the deli and grabbing some eggplant parm rather than cook, I spot Alice seated on the top step.

  My heartbeat jumps into my throat, and I rush up. “What are you doing here? Are you okay? Where’s your mother?”

  Her eyes grow bigger and bigger the more I speak. “Chill, Aunt Gianna, everything’s fine.”

  I narrow my gaze and stare at her hard. “You’re sure?”

  She shrugs. “No one’s dead, if that’s what you mean. I wanted to see your place.”

  She’s lying, but as long as she’s not bleeding I can take a little time to yank the truth from her. I push my key into the lock. “Okay. Come in.”

  As I push open the door, I pray Billy isn’t here. I’d like a quiet hour or so with my niece.

  But there he is seated on the couch watching TV.

  “Oh look at that.” I take the remote and turn the set off. “I must’ve left it on. Silly me.”

  “Hey, I was watching that,” Billy says with a whine.

  I glare and whisper, “Scram.”

  Alice doesn’t seem to notice. She drops her backpack on the floor and walks around looking at things, but I don’t have much displayed yet.

  Billy huffs and disappears. I have no idea where Emma wandered off to, but it doesn’t matter right now. I don’t want Alice getting suspicious if I start nodding or whispering at the thin air. When she was first born, Izzie made me pinky swear I wouldn’t let Alice find out about my ability until Izzie says it’s time, and that won’t be before high school. That’s another year at the earliest.

  As far as I’m concerned, we can keep it from her until she’s thirty. I’m not in a rush to try to explain and possibly lose my cool-aunt status. What if she’s freaked out? What if being around me becomes scary for her? Nope. Waiting is great!

  I stand in the middle of the room watching Alice. “How’d you get here?”

  “I took the bus.”

  Smart. The public bus runs twenty-four hours a day.

  “How’s school?”

  She shrugs. “Some of it sucks.”

  “Yeah, it did for me, too.”

  She glances at me with a smile. “At least you don’t tell me it’ll get better.”

  I smile. “Ah, that’s Pop…um…Nonno’s favorite line. He used to say that when I was in school, too. Don’t hold it against him. He means well. And just so you know, it does get better. College is a lot easier on the social level.”

  She smiles. It makes her chubby cheeks and round eyes look even more cherubic.

  “Does your mom know you’re here?” I ask.

  “I told her I was stopping at a friend’s before going home.”

  It’s nice to be considered a friend.

  She peeks in the bedroom and circles back around and plops onto the couch. “Can I get something to drink?”

  “Sure. I have water, milk…” I open the fridge, forgetting what Ma bought. “And apple juice.” What am I five? I seriously need to make a pit stop at a liquor store. I am, however, grateful she added lavender scented Plug-Ins to the bath, bed, and main rooms. She must’ve noticed the salami stench because I forgot to mention it.

  “I’ll have juice.”

  I notice the cold cuts, the fruits and vegetables, and a couple of slices of cheesecake. “Are you hungry?” I grab a glass, and when I don’t hear a response I glance back.

  She’s shaking her head.

  I hand her the juice and sit beside her. “You know anything you tell me remains here, right?”

  With her head bowed she asks, “Anything?”

  I take a deep breath and think about it. “You can talk about anything with me. The only things I’ll have to tell your mother are if you’re doing drugs…”

  She wrinkles her nose.

  Good.

  “If you’re pregnant.”

  She busts out laughing, and her face colors. “I’m only thirteen.”

  Great, now I’ve embarrassed her, but it’s nice to know she’s isn’t sexually active.

  “Or if you’re doing something else harmful.”

  She still won’t look at me. “Like what?”

  “Cutting, suicidal attempts, binging and purging, starving yourself. Things that can kill you.”

  She nods, sips her juice, and places the glass on the coffee table. “What about bitching?”

  I hold back a chuckle. As sure as I am my niece curses, this is my first time hearing it. “That’s completely confidential.”

  She takes a mammoth-sized breath and slowly exhales. “Okay, so I’m going crazy at Nonna and Nonno’s. Mom is always up my butt about my schoolwork and my friends, and she never lets me have fun anymore. Ever since she and Paulie started fighting, she’s been so hard on me.”

  How much does she know? “Do you know what they’re fighting about?”

  “Mom accused him of other women.”

  Damn, she overheard them.

  As a child, when Ma and Pop would argue, they’d either whisper in their bedroom at night when they thought us kids were asleep, or sometimes they’d go into the garage and scream at one another. One night, I woke up, heard the yelling, and got scared. Izzie was already awake at our window, listening. I sat beside her, and she put an arm around my shoulders and told me it would be okay. And she was right. The next morning, Ma was singing while Pop made breakfast.

  Our parents only did the yelling bit once in a while, and they always stayed together. I think the fact that they made it a point not to argue in front of us solidified them somehow. Like, as long as they agreed to that rule and were doing something together, they could get through anything.

  Alice sighs. “Mom accuses him all the time, even though he swears he’s not doing it. Sometimes she screams so loud at night, it wakes me up and scares me.”

  Damn, Izzie. I don’t have any real experience as a mom, but doesn’t my sister realize she’s hurting the person who matters most to her?

  “And I know about the woman at the beach. I know she and Paulie were…together,” Alice says.

  I try to hide my surprise. “What makes you think that?”

  She scoffs. “Come on, Aunt Gianna. First, I’m not stupid. I could tell something was wrong on Sunday, especially when the cops showed up. And second, I overheard Mom and Nonna arguing about whether or not Mom should take Paulie back.”

  Crap.

  “Did your mom say if she would?”

  Alice shrugs. “Not that I heard. So, are they getting divorced? Are Mom and I living with Nonna and Nonno for good now?”

  I can’t figure out what Alice wants. Paulie’s only been in her life for four years, so while she may not think of him as a dad, she may. “I honestly don’t know yet. I don’t think your mom does either. They’re going through something very difficult right now, and it’ll take some time to heal. Do you want them to stay together?”

  “I guess so. Paulie’s cool, and I want to go back to my house. I want my room, my friends, and my freedom.”

  I smile. “Yeah, that’s gotta suck. Do you want me to mention it to your mom?”

  She thinks for a minute and shrugs. Gotta love the indecisive emotions of a teenager.

  “Okay, how about I wait, and you let me know.”

  She nods.

  “Any time you want to talk, you just have to text me. Morning, noon, or night, okay?”

  She smiles wide. “Cool.”

  We talk about the latest celebrity gossip for the next hour. She’s totally pro-Lorde and anti-Bieber, which means I think she’s cool, too. Then we get into the car and head to Ma’s.

  Izzie’s is the only car in the driveway when we arrive. Good. I’d like to talk to her without our parents listening. Izzie and Alice may be staying with them, but their life with Paulie is their own business.

  I go inside and wink at Alice. She heads to the kitchen, and I find Izzie up in our old room putting away laundry. “Th
at looks like a lot of clothes. You’ve decided to stay here indefinitely?”

  She glances at me before shutting the bottom dresser drawer. “I don’t know. What do you want, Judas?”

  I take a deep breath and prepare myself for Hurricane Isabella. “Your help.”

  She scoffs. “As if.”

  “It’s important. There are other women whose husbands slept with Emma, too.” Not that Emma and Paulie had sex. Wait. Why am I defending their actions?

  She laughs. “That doesn’t surprise me.”

  “They were very angry. Maybe one of them killed her. If we can prove it, you won’t have that hanging over you.”

  “What do you mean ‘we’? I’m not helping this clown cross-over. She can stick around and rot.” She grabs the basket of clothes and pushes past me.

  I follow her into Enzo’s old room, the one Alice is staying in now. Light blue walls and a navy rug, No wonder ballerina Alice doesn’t love it here. “This isn’t about helping Emma. It’s about helping you and my niece.”

  Didn’t I already explain this the other day?

  She ignores me while putting away Alice’s T-shirts, jeans, socks, and underwear, and she moves into the hall to put towels into the linen closet. When the basket is finally empty, she turns to me with a sigh.

  “Fine. What do you want?”

  “One of the women is a hairstylist, and someone I know needs a trim.” I blatantly stare at her uneven ends.

  She runs her fingers through the back of her hair. “I could use a professional. But how does that help find out if she’s a murderer?”

  “You’ll ask questions. Make her open up. You’re good at that. And isn’t a hair salon a bed of gossip anyway. It was on Steel Magnolias.”

  That makes her laugh. And just like that, I have my sister back.

  “I can do that. Give me her name and number, and I’ll make the appointment.”

  “Great.”

  She frowns. “But how will this help the police? Are they going to believe what I tell them?”

  This I already worked out. “They will if you’re wearing a microphone.”