CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Wednesday morning, I’m woken by another creepy dream of Freezer Dude. After peeing and brushing my teeth, I call Ma to find out about Izzie. Pop is going to the courthouse while Ma opens the deli like usual. I leave a message with Enzo to get back to me when he knows more, and I start to call Julian but decide he needs to make the next move.
I need to prove Kevin is a rat bastard. Since I don’t have a degree in forensic science or a crystal ball, my best choice is figuring out who really killed Emma. And who Plaid Guy is, ‘cause I’m betting they’re one and the same.
So after dressing and cramming a banana into my mouth, I grab my portable mug of coffee and drive to Stacey Anne’s house to discuss the finer things about jam making. I park in front and make a quick decision to knock on the side rather than front door. Something about the two potted plants and a carelessly tossed pair of garden gloves by the side steps tells me this is the informal entrance. I’m hoping to come across as easy, casual, and friendly.
When I asked Emma about the jam last night, after Billy and I got home, she said she wasn’t sure of the company name, but it had a red and white gingham ribbon tied around the neck of the tiny jar. And she didn’t put two and two together that the jam came from Stacey Anne’s shop because the jar had no label on it, and there was no return address on the box it all came in. That would’ve been her first clue that there was something wrong with it.
I knock again on Stacey Anne’s door, but when I don’t hear movement inside I wonder if anyone’s home. Her light blue car is parked out front. Maybe she’s still sleeping?
“Can I help you?”
I’m startled by the soft, high-pitched voice behind me. I spin around to see the woman who’s even more petite close up and looks to be about twelve. She’s dressed in denim capris, a yellow blouse, a full red apron, and dingy, white, slip-on sneakers. She reminds me of a softer version of the clowns.
“Hi, I’m looking for Stacey Anne Ingles. I’m Gianna from Mancini Deli over on Park Place.” Gosh, I hope she doesn’t follow the news closely. Izzie’s arrest is probably everywhere local.
The girl-woman holds a basket of strawberries and pruning shears. “Oh yes, I’ve been there. Great food.”
“Thanks.” Ma and Pop will be so proud.
“How can I help you?” She steps toward the door. Right up near me, she definitely looks more like early thirties. There are fine lines in the corners of her eyes, laugh lines. She’s happy. Or she spends so much time outside she has squint lines.
“I tasted some of your jam, and I am looking into possibly selling it in the deli or adding it to one of our dishes.” And what exactly would that be, Gianna? Pastrami on rye with extra strawberry jam?
Her brows shoot up, and a smile covers her face. “I’m honored, but I have my own storefront.”
“It can’t hurt to sell more though, right?”
She opens the door. “Come inside, and we’ll talk.”
Yes! Now I have to figure out how to steer the conversation where I want it to go. This is so much harder than I thought it’d be.
I follow her into the kitchen, where she sets the basket of fruit by the sink and motions for me to have a seat at the round table by the window. The decor is a cheery yellow with lemon, lime, and orange slices on the curtains and the wallpaper border. Her cabinets have glass doors, and her dinner plates are a mixture of yellow, green, and orange to match.
I’d have to wear sunglasses to hang in here for long.
I sit and look out the window. Her backyard is magnificent—a garden of fruits of various colors. It’s gorgeous. Ma and Pop would love it. They used to have a huge vegetable garden, but the upkeep with the deli was too much. Now, they only grow tomatoes and basil, which they use in practically everything.
“Would you like some tea?” She sets the kettle on the stove.
I think ruefully of the half cup of delicious coffee I still have in my car. “Thank you.”
As the water boils, she busies herself with taking out dishes, and I busy myself by looking around the room. It’s a normal looking kitchen. Canisters, a baker’s shelf with a deep fryer, electric grill, waffle maker, salad spinner, and a box of something. I lean forward and peek inside. Red and white gingham ribbons.
Bingo!
The last thing I check out is a small, built-in desk where a photo of her and a man sits. They’re smiling into the camera, cheek-to-cheek. That has to be Andrew, her husband. And he’s definitely not Plaid Guy. Not unless he lost about a hundred pounds since that photo was taken.
She places a tray on the table and sets a lemon-colored, ceramic mug, lime saucer, and a spoon in front of me. “I grow my own tea, too, and this is a special blend, ginger chamomile. I hope you enjoy it.”
“You grow tea, too. Wow.” I hope I’m not poisoned.
“I just started doing it. I haven’t added it to my inventory yet.” She hurries back to the stove, gets the kettle, and pours water into our cups. Once she returns it to the stove, she grabs a small jar of jam and a plate of crackers and sets them in the middle of the table.
I stare at the jar of peach and blueberry jam. “That’s an interesting combination.”
She giggles. “My husband thought the same until he tried it. Go on. See for yourself.”
I smile because we’ve now entered the personal zone. Bringing up her husband clearly means it’s an open topic, and I can do the same, right? I smear some of the weird, purplish concoction onto a cracker and ask, “How long have you been married?”
“Only a year.”
And he’s already cheated on you? Oh, you poor thing. “You’re newlyweds.”
She’s staring at the cracker in my hand, obviously waiting for my approval. So I bite into it and hope it’s not so awful that I visibly cringe.
It’s not overly sweet. Blueberry is definitely the more prominent taste, with a hint of peach. “Wow, that’s great.” I’m a bit too enthusiastic, but surprisingly, it’s actually good.
She beams but doesn’t reply to my comment, so I bring it up again.
“Your husband must be so proud of your business.”
“Yes, he is.”
“What’s it like being married?” Oh that’s lame. But how exactly am I supposed to bring up Emma?
She shrugs, still smiling, but sadness passes her eyes. “It’s great. Why do you ask?”
“My boyfriend, well, it’s getting serious, and I’ve been thinking about marriage a lot lately. Any tips?”
She stares out the window. “Don’t rush into it.”
“Is that what you did?” I try to make it sound light and giddy, but she turns her gaze on me, and it’s dark and scary.
Exactly what is the jam lady capable of?
* * *
When I get to the deli, it’s mobbed. Not only is there a line inside, but there are people gathered out front. I doubt our new Caprese pasta salad is driving the town to visit in droves, so it must be Izzie’s arrest. Pop is there. Ma must’ve called him in early. It doesn’t look like she’s leaving any time soon either.
I grab an apron in back and am tying it when Pop comes in for a sleeve of plastic cups.
“I haven’t seen it this busy since we opened again after Hurricane Sandy,” he says.
“How’s Izzie? What happened?” I ask.
Pop looks weary. His eyes are sad, his skin paler than normal. He needs a vacation. “The judge set bail at a hundred thousand dollars.”
“Oh my God,” I shriek. “Is she still in jail?”
He shakes his head. “No, I went to a bail bondsman. We only have to pay ten percent.”
“So you have ten grand just lying around?” I know my parents aren’t piss poor. They own their house, and this building. They must be doing all right because they put two kids through college and still manage to lease their cars. Every five years, they trade them in for something new. Plus, they’re generous on birthdays and Christmas. But I don’t know what they have, or had, so
cked away for a rainy day. I hope this ten G wasn’t all of it. Pop doesn’t talk about money though, so it’s no surprise when he doesn’t answer me.
“We also had to put up collateral.” He grabs an extra sleeve of cups.
“What kind of collateral?”
He looks me straight in the eye. “The deli.”
Whoa. Wait. Does that include my apartment? Of course it does, Gianna. It’s attached to the deli. Don’t be so selfish. “What does this mean?”
He pats my shoulder. “Nothing. Izzie will go to court, and everything will be fine.” He heads up front.
Or I’ll find the real killer, and this nightmare will end even sooner.
I take over for Pop by the salads and finish scooping a pound of antipasto. When I hand it off to Pop to ring up, the next person in line steps up.
“Gianna, dear, how is your sister?” Mrs. Pearson, old, gray, and as thin as a twig, grabs my wrist and jerks me toward her over the counter. Due to my lack of height, my sleeve grazes across a splatter of oil and vinegar. There goes that shirt.
“She’s fine. What can I get you?”
Not happy with my answer, she gives me a look of disdain and curls her lip up at the items under the glass dome. “I’m not sure.”
I snatch my arm back, forcing her to let go, not interested in standing here waiting for her to make up her mind when it’s obvious she’s only here to find out gossip.
“Who’s next?” I shout, not caring when another glare comes my way.
Luckily, the next person orders a pound of potato salad and a half a pound of tortellini and doesn’t want to gab. By the time I get through the inside and outside line, Mrs. Pearson still hasn’t ordered anything. She ends up on the other side of the counter where Pop is slicing ham. He goes in the back to get another side of pig, and Ma pops her head out front to let me know she’s finally heading home and will call me later.
“Oh, Rosa, dear,” says Mrs. Pearson. “How is Isabella? She didn’t kill that poor girl, did she?”
“She’s fine.” Ma ducks back into the kitchen, and I almost laugh at the old woman’s expression. Almost ‘cause I’m also fuming at the audacity of her. Doesn’t she realize she’s talking about Ma’s daughter? And for her to act so casual about it, not to even express sorrow or concern.
“Everyone is so rude,” Mrs. Pearson says under her breath.
“So is asking questions that are clearly none of your damn business while pretending to order something,” I say. Loud.
The young man ordering the ham smiles to himself.
Mrs. Pearson cringes and storms out.
Pop comes back in with the ham and catches the tail end of the old biddy’s departure. Literally. “Did she get anything?”
Just a lashing. “Nope.” I wink at the young guy.
The bell above the door rings, and I turn with a smile. I immediately drop it when Kevin and a trio of cops walk in. Great. Sometimes I wish my folks owned a funeral parlor. Then if Kevin came in, maybe it would be on a gurney.
He steps up to me, stares straight into my eyes, not even glancing at the rows of salads encased between us, and smirks. “Let me see, what do I want for lunch today?”
I fake a smile so big, my cheeks start to hurt. “How about a demotion with a side of planting evidence?”
His face tenses, and my grin goes from saccharine to sugar cane. I lean closer, pretending I’m about to whisper, but still speaking with my outside voice. “If it wasn’t true, you wouldn’t look so guilty right now.”
One of the other cops stares at Kevin’s profile. The other two walk over to where Pop is restocking the Provolone.
Kevin narrows his eyes. “You think you’re clever.” He’s definitely using his inside voice. We’re so far inside, I can barely hear him. Which means he doesn’t want his colleagues or Pop to hear him either. No witnesses?
“No, just right.” I refuse to let him rattle me. I’d like it to be the other way around.
“No one will believe your lies. In fact, when I get done with you, no one will believe when you say the sky is blue.”
I roll my eyes. “What are you yakking about?”
The right corner of his mouth lifts. “Do you really think anyone will care what the girl who talks to ghosts says?”
Involuntarily, I widen my eyes. He knows? But how? Then it hits me. Hilary. That bitch!
My expression makes Kevin smile. Damn. I really need to develop a poker face.
“That’s right,” he says. “I know your crazy little secret.”
This time I lower my voice. “I don’t care what you know. We can each deny it and say the other is lying. But the difference between our secrets is that you can’t prove whether I see ghosts or not. I will, however, prove that you tampered with evidence.”
He stiffens and glances around to see who’s listening. His buddies are giving Pop sandwich orders.
I go in for the kill. “And then what will happen? Mancini deli may get more business so everyone can see the crazy girl who fills plastic cups with potato salad, while you’re drooling in your beer somewhere wondering what happened to your career.”
I don’t give him the satisfaction of replying. I turn and join Pop in creating a ham and Swiss on rye with extra mayo and an eggplant panini with roasted red peppers and spinach.
When the three orders are done, the cops step outside and wait for Kevin. He still hasn’t ordered anything, and I doubt he will. It’s clear he wants the last word but won’t speak in front of an audience. The big baby!
Since I want him gone, I ask Pop to give us a minute.
Pop eyes Kevin, not sure if he wants to leave us alone. He never asked me about the assault I mentioned on Sunday. He probably asked Ma or maybe even Enzo. The phone rings, and Pop reluctantly goes in back to answer it.
I put my hands on my hips and face the asshole. “What?”
He obviously has nothing planned because he stands there like a doofus. “I’d watch my back if I was you.”
“That’s really hard to do without a mirror,” I shout as he walks out.
* * *
I go to Ma’s after work, still smelling like oil and vinegar from Mrs. Pearson yanking at me over the counter. When I get there, I find Izzie in the kitchen wearing Ma’s apron.
“What are you doing?” I ask. I expected to find her curled in the fetal position in bed, an empty bottle of Pinot Noir beside her. Not standing at the sink, filling a pot with water.
“Making spaghetti. You hungry?” She gives me a smile.
The basement door is ajar, and when Izzie turns the water off, I can hear Ma humming “It’s a Doggone Life”.
There are so many things wrong with this picture that I don’t know where to begin worrying.
First, what happened to Wing Wednesday? Second, why is my sister acting like all is right in her world? And thirdly, why isn’t Enzo here with a fork and a bib?
Maybe I’m sleeping, and I don’t know it.
Izzie glances back at me. “Well, are you?”
“No,” I say in a daze. “Are you alright? You seem kinda chipper.”
She shakes her head. “I realized that I can cry and whine or I can fight back.”
This sounds promising. “Oh yeah? How?”
She smooths the side of her head, to the elastic band of her stubbly ponytail. “How do you think? My mug shot was horrendous, Gi. My appointment with that hairdresser, Fawn, is Friday. I can’t go to court looking like the bride of Frankenstein.”
I don’t know what to say. I don’t have anything to say. She’s stunned me, and that’s not easy to do.
“Okay.” It’s all I got. “I’ll pick you up?”
She turns on the stove. “Yes, that’s great. Be here at eight. I made it for before work, but that was before the arrest. I won’t be going back to the deli for a while.”
I step forward, ready to hold her up as she crumbles, but she sees my movement from the corner of her eye and whips around.
“Don’
t,” she says. “No hugs or sad voices. This will be fine. It has to be. And I won’t break down. I have a daughter and a…” She abruptly stops.
“Okay, it’s cool. You know where I am if you need something.”
She picks up the wooden spoon as if ready to stir…I don’t know…the water, and she points it at me. “Just make that clown talk.”
I smile. “I will.” I’ll do more than that.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The next day, I head down to work early to help Ma and to cover Izzie’s shift. We’re packed all morning and afternoon, and when Pop comes in, he mutters something about closing for a few days—until the celebrity of knowing a murder suspect dies down. As much as I need the money, I won’t mind a breather either. I need to kick this sleuthing into high gear. So far I have a bunch of theories, but none of them are concrete.
All night, I replayed Izzie in Ma’s kitchen, boiling water and acting as if her world wasn’t in pieces. Being the oldest, she’s always put on a brave face, especially in front of our parents, but when she and I are alone, she usually lets it all out. Maybe she’s afraid if she starts, she won’t be able to stop.
After my shift I go upstairs, take a quick shower to get the meat stench off my skin, and dig into my jewelry box. Most of it is costume stuff, but there are a few real pieces. One being the diamond pendant my cousin gave me when she got married. She almost didn’t walk down the aisle because of an anonymous note, but luckily, true love prevailed.
I was her maid of honor, and while the rest of the bridal party got diamond chips, I received a one-carat, square pendant looped onto a silver chain. I don’t wear it often, and it doesn’t mean a lot, although I won’t admit that to Claudia, but it reminds me of Julian. We met the day before Claudia’s wedding.
It’s the only item I have to pawn to pay my little extortionist, No Spam. There isn’t anyone I can ask to borrow the money from, especially not after Ma and Pop just coughed up ten grand. Of course, I could tell Enzo and get the cops involved. I’ve considered this. It would be easiest and wouldn’t strain my wallet, but I don’t want to risk Enzo’s future promotion by doing something unethical. He’d be required to get the detectives involved immediately, and I don’t want Kevin getting his hands on the picture. And if there isn’t a picture and No Spam is lying, it would make Enzo look like a fool. No, until I know more, I want to handle this on my own.
Jennifer Fischetto - Dead by the Numbers 01 - One Garish Ghost & Blueberry Peach Jam Page 14