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

by Jennifer Fischetto

  And if I’m being fully honest, I may have fantasized once or twice about finding the goods to not only clear Izzie’s name but to bring down Kevin too.

  I head over to the only pawnshop in town, and Emma and Billy decide to go along for the ride.

  “So what do you guys know about a ghost trying to pull a human over to the other side? Anything?”

  They both look confused. Great. Nothing. How do I find out what Freezer Dude wants and how to stop him?

  The pawnshop owner only offers me four hundred for the necklace, not even a quarter of what I need, but it’ll have to do. After I leave the store, I debate texting the teen. I could use this money for groceries and bills, or give Ma and Pop a little extra for rent next month. They shouldn’t be taking care of me. I’m an adult. At least in age. But what if this boy can get Izzie off?

  I stare at the cash then shove it into my purse. First, I’ll see how it goes with Fawn tomorrow.

  * * *

  When I leave the pawnshop, I head over to the agency. I haven’t ordered any of the costume items I’ll need yet. I don’t want to spend money on something I’ll probably only use a couple more times. Those outfits are expensive. My next gig, according to a message from Danielle, is tomorrow. I’m hoping I can borrow the clothes I wore to the Conroy party and figure now’s a good time to ask.

  When I get there though, Danielle isn’t at her desk. I go through the side door and hear someone taking a deep breath and then a sniffle.

  I head toward the sounds and come to an ajar door. I softly knock while wedging it open further with my foot. “Hello?”

  It glides open, revealing an office as colorful as the lobby, and Timothy is seated behind a large, white desk. He widens his eyes and swivels away from me, so I can’t see him wiping them. “Gianna, what are you doing here?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I was looking for Danielle.”

  “She went home early.” He turns back around. “Can I help you with something?”

  “My outfit won’t be in by tomorrow, and I’m wondering if I can borrow what I wore last time?” I sit in a chair across from him. I don’t wait to be asked, mostly because I don’t think he’ll invite me in.

  “Yeah, that’s fine. It’s not like you can run to Wal-Mart and pick up a costume.” He laughs, but it sounds strained.

  “Right.” I lean forward. “How are you doing?”

  He looks at me, probably a bit startled I’m asking.

  Billy is either still in the car or went back home, but Emma kneels beside Timothy, her brow creased. She looks as upset as he does.

  Before he can answer or kick me out, I say, “Were you and Emma close?”

  She hasn’t mentioned if their relationship was a one-time thing or ongoing, so maybe his tears are about something else.

  When he nods, she sharply inhales. “We screwed around some,” she says, “but it was just fun.”

  Obviously, it was more than that for him.

  “I loved her,” he says.

  Emma gasps. “I had no idea.”

  I watch them for a few minutes. Her by his side, him not aware she’s there. I’m filled with a sudden urge to see Julian and to throw myself into his arms.

  * * *

  Julian’s apartment is on the corner of Monroe Boulevard and Broadway. It’s a two-story building with an open terrace in the center. I find apartment 2B in the back and knock on the door. The hallway smells like curry, which is coming from the apartment next door.

  When he opens it, I take one step over the threshold and throw myself at him. I wrap my arms around his neck and push my mouth against his. He immediately pulls me closer, his hands firm on my hips. And for several dizzying seconds we pretend the last four months never happened.

  I can’t believe I almost let him go. I don’t expect us to pick up as hot and heavy as we were. He needs time to get used to my talents, and I like having my own place. Even if I’m not actually alone.

  As my nether regions start to tingle, he pulls away.

  It takes me and my sore lips to figure out what the heck just went wrong. Why is my mouth cold and not puckered?

  “What?” I ask. “You don’t believe me?”

  He takes my elbow and guides me inside, shutting the door behind us. “About your ability? No, I believe you.”

  “So you don’t like my kisses anymore?” I give out a light laugh, as if I’m joking. But I’m suddenly very serious. He may end up with a shoe upside his head if he’s not careful how he answers.

  One corner of his mouth lifts. “That’ll never be a problem.”

  I smile in relief. These are expensive shoes.

  “Then what?”

  While he hesitates and my uneasiness returns, I check out the room. It’s windowless with a desk and a couple of file cabinets. His work area. To the left is a doorway leading to a kitchenette and probably a living room. The bathroom is straight ahead, and an arch before it is probably the bedroom. Not shabby for one person. It’s definitely bigger than my place. And appears to be ghost free.

  He leads me into the room with the kitchenette. The far wall is covered with a couple of bookcases and a plasma TV. A brown leather sofa and armchair, as well as a couple of tables and lamps, fill the rest of the room. The TV is new, but I remember cold Connecticut nights cuddled together on that sofa. Plus several vigorous horizontal mambo sessions. Leather on a bare bottom isn’t always luxurious though. Especially on a humid summer day.

  He motions for me to take a seat, but I can’t. Partly because of the memories and partly because my stomach is in knots not knowing what he’s going to say. Maybe he doesn’t want to get back together. Maybe he’s decided I’m not worth the heartache.

  “I want to talk,” he says.

  My heart sinks. Or maybe he really moved to New York for his job after all. He always put it before us anyway.

  I wag a finger in his face, trying to sound playful and not like I might burst into tears. “You know, we should take things slowly. There’s no sense in rushing into anything. You have your place here, and I live over there.” I point in the opposite direction. “We can see each other once in a while and…”

  He grabs my hips and jerks me forward. “Once in a while will not be enough.”

  A smile breaks out onto my face as his mouth crushes mine.

  * * *

  I open my eyes to sunlight and blink several times. The night’s memories of Julian carrying me to his bed spring to mind, and I roll onto his side of the mattress to find I’m alone.

  “Hey,” I say. “Where are you?” I sit up and stare at the empty room. A room I hadn’t paid attention to last night. It’s very minimal. There’s a large mattress and box spring on a metal frame, and a small dresser. That’s it. Where’s his old bedroom furniture? The longer I think about it the more I remember it wasn’t holding up well. He must’ve ditched it.

  Water sounds. Then the faucet goes off, and a door opens. Julian, dressed in gray trousers and a light blue button-down steps into the room. He smiles at me, and my insides turn to mush.

  “I really wish I didn’t have to see a client.”

  I realize the sheet has dropped to my waist, and I’m buck-naked. I rise to my knees and am thankful I don’t manage to tumble off the mattress. “Are you sure you have to leave right now? What’s fifteen more minutes?”

  He laughs and turns to the tie on his dresser. “What I want to do to you will take longer than fifteen minutes.”

  Goody. I was exaggerating my abilities of reaching another touchdown after the two games we played into the wee hours of the morning.

  “But it’ll have to be later. Tonight? Maybe dinner first?”

  I plop back down on my butt and try to remember what day it is. “Uh, no can do. I have a birthday party tonight.”

  He frowns. “A catering thing?”

  That’s right. He doesn’t know I’m slumming it as a clown part-time. “No, but it’s a long story, and you don’t have the
time.”

  I grab my tee off the floor and wiggle into it. I reach for my phone as he smacks my butt. It’s seven-oh-five. Shoot, Izzie. I grab my clothes and rush into the bathroom.

  “Where’s the fire?” he asks.

  I pee as fast as possible, not fully emptying my bladder, and dress as if there is a fire. I wash my hands and fly out the door. “I’ve got to meet Izzie. I’ll call you later.”

  Then I’m gone, into my car, and racing to my apartment. I have enough time for a quick shower before meeting my sister.

  When I get inside, a very pissed off Billy greets me. “Where have you been all night?”

  Emma is pacing the floor in front of my couch. When she sees me, relief floods her face.

  “What’s going on? Why are you guys in a tizzy?” I drop my purse onto the floor and head to the bathroom, stripping along the way. It’s not like Billy hasn’t seen me naked before. It’s hard to know when a ghost will walk in on you undressing.

  “You didn’t call,” Emma says. “We were worried.”

  I laugh. How would I call them? “I’m fine. You sound like my parents.”

  “You were gone all night, and the last I knew, you were looking into my death.”

  The emotion in her tone makes my step falter. I stop and look back. “I’m fine. I spent the night with Julian.”

  Her mouth drops and her eyes twinkle. “Oh do tell all. And I mean every explicit detail.”

  I smile and head to the shower. “I don’t have time. Izzie and I are meeting Fawn. Now it’s time to find out who murdered you.”

  She pops up in my shower, and I yelp.

  “Why are you doing this? After what I did with Paulie, why are you helping me?”

  It amazes me how she’s directly under the spray and doesn’t get wet. “Um, I was never one for showering with other women. You think you could step out?”

  Her eyes widen, and she glances down at my tatas. “Oh yeah, sure.”

  Suddenly, she’s gone, and I step under the hot water.

  “So?” she asks from the other side of the curtain.

  “I don’t know. I guess I feel like this is my calling. It’s what I’m meant to do.”

  “Oh.” She sounds disappointed, like I was supposed to give some long speech about how I’m doing this because I care about her. Truth is, I do, in my own way, but this is more about my sister and niece. I don’t want to hurt her feelings more though, so I change the subject.

  “Where’s Billy?” I ask.

  “He saw a cute girl outside and wanted to check her out.”

  Figures. I rinse the shampoo from my hair, add conditioner, and lather up. I have a really good feeling about meeting Fawn. Izzie and I may find out who really killed Emma.

  * * *

  Fawn drapes a bib over Izzie’s sundress and smiles at me through the mirror. Luckily, the place isn’t busy this early, and she’s allowing me to sit in the unoccupied chair beside them.

  We didn’t have enough time to stop and buy a hidden microphone. It would’ve taken us even longer to learn about them, too. Not only was I running behind due to my tryst with Julian, but Izzie’s having a sluggish morning, as well. We decided to use what we have. In my lap is my cell phone. I have my camera app open, set to video, so I only have to press the large green circle when I want to record. Between Stacey Anne’s jam that was in Emma’s stomach and may or may not, but probably may, have contained a powerful drug, and Plaid Guy, I doubt we’ll catch anything incriminating here. But Izzie had the appointment, and she really needs that trim, so what the heck. Recording this can’t hurt.

  “I’m so grateful you were able to get me in so fast,” Izzie says.

  She had the foresight to make the appointment in her maiden name, and luckily the news hasn’t released her photo yet. Pop’s friend helped us out there. But that’s just local. Izzie’s name and photo have been mentioned and shown on the national channels. Hopefully, Fawn hasn’t seen it and won’t recognize her.

  The mirror in front of me has two small pictures of children taped to the edge of it. They must be another stylist’s kids. I look around Fawn’s mirror and all along her section, but I don’t see any pictures—none at all, not of Fawn, a man, nothing. From her Facebook photos, I already know her husband isn’t Plaid Guy, but photos can be so telling. I guess a lack of them is, too.

  “You’re lucky. We had a cancelation.” Fawn grimaces at the uneven ends of Izzie’s hair. “Did you do this yourself?”

  “Yeah. I know it looks crazy. I was experiencing extreme hatred for my husband.”

  “And you took it out on your poor hair.” Fawn grabs a spray bottle of water and spritzes the back of Izzie’s head.

  “Stupid, huh?”

  Fawn shakes her head. “No. You’d be surprised how often I see it. But it’s usually when a wife has decided to leave the marriage. She wants to look different, and the hair’s the easiest place to start.”

  Izzie and I exchange looks in the mirror. Part of it is for show. In the car we rehearsed what we’ll say and how much information we’ll give Fawn. We want to be ready for anything. But Izzie also doesn’t want to blab her business all over town. She’s embarrassed that her husband can’t keep it in his pants. And now she has to face down the humiliation of an arrest. I’m certain most people have at least heard about it by now. This town is only so big.

  “My husband is a cheating louse,” Izzie says.

  Fawn, with scissors and comb in hand, stops mid snip. “Oh, I’m sorry. Men can be such jerks.”

  “Tell me about it.” I roll my eyes. I cough dramatically and press the button, hoping I’m the only one who heard the beep.

  Izzie bites her bottom lip. She must’ve heard it, too. Since Fawn doesn’t look over, I assume we’re good.

  “I don’t understand why they can’t keep it zipped. Is it that hard?” I ask.

  Fawn giggles. “Right.”

  “Sounds like you know,” I say with a grin.

  Fawn doesn’t respond or look up right away. It’s almost as if she didn’t hear me, but then she glances my way, and her expression is anything but friendly. Damn, too bad I’m not holding the phone up to record her face. She returns her attention to Izzie’s hair and trims.

  Izzie raises her brows at me through the mirror, as if to say, now what?

  And I’m not sure. Emma’s right. I suck at this.

  “There are some women who seek out married men. They latch onto them and won’t give up until the guy gives in.” Fawn’s tone is heavy and full of anger.

  “Not all guys give in,” I say.

  Fawn and Izzie stare at me as if I’m crazy. I know we’re here to get the truth, but Fawn’s husband is a probably a serial cheater. It’s possible whoever he visited in that house has something to do with his work, but Fawn’s certainly concerned enough to follow him. She can blame his actions on Emma or other women all she wants, but the truth is some men are simply unfaithful.

  “Sorry. Never mind.” I press my lips together and shut up. I even scoot back in my seat to give the illusion that I’m no longer a part of the conversation.

  Izzie clears her throat. “My pig of a husband swore up and down he wasn’t cheating, but I knew. He was coming home later than usual. He was always tired, rarely wanted to have sex, and as soon as he’d come in the door, he’d take a shower.”

  I glance down at the phone. I only have a three-minute window before it turns itself off. I decide to end it and start a second video. I start another coughing fit. By the time we leave, I’m going to be hoarse.

  Fawn shakes her head. I fear she heard the beeping that time, but she keeps cutting. “A friend of mine’s husband is a habitual cheater. He ends it with one and starts with another. He, however, was harder to catch. He never comes home late from work. He’s been leaving the office early, meeting his bimbo, and then going back to work.”

  She’s definitely talking about herself. Ah-ha! I knew it.

  Oh, oops, that’s not something t
o be happy about.

  Izzie tries to shake her head, but Fawn is holding a side section of hair. “What did she do?”

  Fawn gazes at her through the mirror. “Do?”

  “Yeah? Did she leave him? Get even? Run the girl over with her car?” I ask.

  Izzie and I laugh, but there’s no mistaking the look of surprise on Fawn’s face.

  Oh crap! Was she the one who almost ran Emma down?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Izzie and I head to my car and sit there—each of us staring out the windshield. Of the three wives Emma mentioned, one may have drugged her jam, and the other allegedly almost used her car to mow her down. What about the third one? Is Naomi Anderson innocent, or did she push her down the mall escalator? And what kind of coincidence is it that all three of these women did something to harm their husband’s mistress?

  “What do you think?” Izzie asks.

  I turn and look at her hair. Fawn took off just enough to make it even, and she blew it out to create soft waves around Izzie’s face. “First, I think your hair is gorgeous.”

  She flips down the visor and stares at herself in the mirror. “It is, right?”

  I smile. I’m glad she’s not crying in a fetal position on her bed. “And second, I think she’s the one who tried to run Emma over.”

  “How will we find out? Enzo should help.”

  I don’t say anything. I’ll never break a pinky swear. “There’s still one more wife I want to speak with.” One more husband I need to find a picture of. Surely there’s one of Naomi and hers on her desk at work.

  “So, what are you waiting for? Let’s go.” Izzie fastens her seatbelt.

  “Naomi Anderson won’t see me without an appointment, and the closest one I could get was in two weeks.” She must be in high demand.