Izzie frowns. “What does she do?”
“She’s an estate lawyer, and I made the wrong choice in saying I needed to speak to her rather than it was an estate emergency.” Another novice mistake. I don’t know if that would’ve helped or not.
“Let’s go anyway. Maybe we can sneak in. But first I need to stop at the house. These shoes are killing me.”
I glance down at her zebra print pumps. She’s complaining about her heels? “What’s wrong with them?” I ask and put the car into drive.
She pushes the heel of one off and displays a raw scrape on the back of her ankle.
“Yikes.”
We stop at Ma’s long enough for Izzie to throw on red pumps with a slightly scratched heel and for Pop to grill her to make sure she’s okay. Then we pick up coffee from Dunkin’ Donuts, and I drive over the bridge and head to Front Street in Hempstead.
I pull up to a three-story building and have to park across the street, several businesses down. My stomach’s in knots, like I’m about to get caught for doing something wrong. And while I don’t mind doing mildly wrong things—it’s often fun, exciting, and gives my complexion an extra sheen—I really dislike getting caught.
The reception area is small. Izzie checks out the shiny plate of names screwed into the wall, and I head over to the receptionist. She’s thin, curvy, and has long, pointy nails like daggers. I intend to stay on her good side.
“Can I help you?” she asks in an acidic tone.
Someone woke up on the cranky side of the bed this morning. “Yes, I’m here to see Naomi Anderson.”
She taps her keyboard. “What’s your name?”
Yes, what is it? I already made the appointment under my name, and Izzie’s is too high profile now. So what did that leave?
“Um, Hilary Burton.” As the words tumble from my mouth, I want to bathe my tongue in bleach.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t have you listed for today. Are you sure your appointment isn’t for next week?”
“No, I’m certain. I made it a month ago.”
She trails her index nail down her screen and shakes her head. “Nope. Sorry.”
“I know it was made. Perhaps it was deleted.”
She gives me a look of disgust.
“If I can just see her for five minutes.”
Before I’m done speaking, she’s shaking her head. “Ms. Anderson sees clients by appointment only.”
“I do have an appointment. You just can’t find it.” I probably shouldn’t be antagonizing the Wicked Witch of the West.
She points a dagger to the ceiling. “That is incorrect. I am beyond efficient.”
I start to insist, but forcing it is only going to make her bitchier when I come back in a couple of weeks for the real appointment. And her being right doesn’t make me too confident on insisting anyway. I stomp back to Izzie. “What a witch. All she needs is a pointy, black hat.”
Izzie stands tall and stares at the woman. “Okay, I’ll distract her and you barge through,” she whispers. “Naomi Anderson is in room one-seventeen. It must be close by.”
I nod and crack my neck, ready for my mission
She walks over to Cruella. I can’t hear what Izzie is saying, and the woman seems to be having a hard time, too. So Izzie leans down, obstructing her view of me.
I hightail it across the tile, grateful I’m wearing my boots with the rubber soles, and down a hall of office doors. The last one says, 117. Naomi Anderson.
I take a deep breath and push open the door. Three women turn and gasp.
It takes my brain a full second to process, but when it’s done, I can’t help but smile as if I won a jackpot. In a way, I have. I was totally right about this not being a coincidence. I just didn’t realize they knew one another.
Seated behind her desk is a striking brunette who I assume is Naomi. Seated in front of the mahogany monstrosity is Fawn and Stacey Anne.
I love being right.
* * *
That evening, as I yank, tug, and pull on my clown getup, I realize my day hasn’t been as productive as I’d hoped. Yes, catching the three women together is very telling, but what precisely does it tell? It doesn’t prove anything. They know one another and what? I assume they’re in cahoots with the car, escalator, and jam, but why the jam? From what I know so far, none of the women were at Lindy’s or Mitch’s Tavern, so what did roofieing her accomplish? And I’m no closer to finding out who killed Emma.
After almost getting trampled as Fawn and Stacey Anne ran out, throwing eye daggers at me the entire time, Naomi threatened to call security if I didn’t leave. So no answers. Not that I expected them to spill, but…okay…maybe I was expecting it a teensy bit. Is it too much to ask that criminals be compliant and confess?
When I’m done dressing, I head out and find Danielle dressed in a blue and multi-colored polka dot dress with tights, a curly pink wig, and ballerina flats.
She smiles at me. “Are you ready? You can either follow me there, or we can take my car.”
This is a perfect moment to dig up dirt and try to salvage this day, so I chose the latter.
Danielle obviously doesn’t come from money. We get into her old and battered Nissan, and she drives over the bridge through Island Park.
“So how long have you been a clown?” I ask.
“Three years. When I was a kid, my family went to the circus a lot. I loved the clowns. As I got older and everyone else grew wary of them, I still loved them.”
She and Wesley have the same interest and reasoning. I laugh. “Some people definitely have a phobia. I blame it on Stephen King. Are you close to your family?”
She stops at a red light. “They’re not around anymore.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” That has to stink. If I didn’t have Izzie, Enzo, Ma, and Pop, I’d be beside myself. Lost.
“Thanks. What about you? Why’d you decide to become a clown?”
“A friend recommended it. It sounded like fun.” At least these lies are easy to remember.
She smiles. She doesn’t do it too often. She should. It’s pretty. “And are you close to your family?”
“Very. If it wasn’t for them, I wouldn’t be here.” I grin at my cleverness. Sometimes, it really takes very little to amuse me. I guess that’s better than the alternative.
“Since you don’t have family, does this mean you’ll have a small wedding?” I need to steer and control this conversation somehow.
“Not at all. Wesley has four sisters. Three of them are married with children. It’ll be a big wedding. I’m meeting his sisters and mother tomorrow to go dress shopping for the engagement party. His family is very conservative, and everything is done a particular way. It’s all so new to me, and I hope I don’t fudge it up.”
“I’m sure you’ll do fine.” I went with Izzie and my cousin when they went dress shopping. Both times were the same—a bit frustrating but not the worst experience in my life. I wouldn’t necessarily volunteer to do it again though.
We pull up to Best Western and park.
“This is where the party is?” I ask, while following Danielle inside and to the elevator.
She presses for floor two. “Yep. You’ll see.”
I’m not so sure I’m ready for this. It feels weird. And I’m super nervous. What kind of parents hold a birthday party in a hotel?
When we step off and walk to room two-oh-three, soft music thumps through the door. Danielle knocks. It opens and a young redheaded man with a can of Budweiser in one hand and a wad of singles in the other stands there. His face drops upon seeing us.
We obviously have the wrong room.
“It’s a couple of clowns,” he screams.
Another man, short, broad, with thick dark hair, comes up, pats his buddy on the shoulder, and smiles to us. “Welcome. You’re right on time.”
They step back so we can enter, and I grab Danielle’s wrist. “What’s going on?”
She giggles low and throaty. “Some guys find clown
s sexy. We’re hired to be the pre-entertainment. Don’t worry. We won’t have to strip.”
Well, thank my psychedelic costume for that.
When I walk inside, I’m startled by the room full of raunchy men. One sits in a chair front and center. His ankles are secured to the chair legs with duct tape, and his arms are tied loosely behind his back.
Oh my God, it’s a bachelor party!
The poor guy’s eyes widen, and his face colors so badly I fear he’ll have a heart attack. “Are you kidding me?”
The short guy who welcomed us shouts, “You wanted to be entertained.”
All the men cheer. One rubs the top of the bachelor’s head.
Someone pushes me forward. I stumble and right myself by his feet. I glance to Danielle, who starts swaying her hips. The skirt of her dress bounces around.
Too bad Emma isn’t here this time. I could really use an instructor. And a Valium.
I copy Danielle and try to think of any movies I’ve seen with exotic dancers. None immediately come to mind, so I fake it, rotating my hips and listening to the music.
One guy slips a dollar into my pocket. I laugh and let loose. The bachelor still looks horrified, but after a bit he’s laughing and howling like his friends.
Another few minutes and Danielle and I have the room hooting and hollering. At one point, I bump and grind with Danielle and wonder if I’ve mortified her, remembering what Emma said about Danielle and Wesley waiting for marriage. She doesn’t seem revolted by my dirty dancing, especially when she joins in and we’re rubbing our butts together. Maybe Wesley is the only religious one, the only one who wants to abstain.
There’s a knock at the door, and when it opens, a busty woman dressed as a sailor walks in. Our time has come to an end. I’ll never admit it, but I’m kinda bummed.
One of the men cuts the bachelor free. He rises, punches his friend in the arm, and gives Danielle and me a hug.
“You were a great sport,” I shout into his ear. “Have fun.”
When Danielle and I walk out, the sailor is using the same moves we did, but she’s shimmying out of her top.
* * *
Back at the agency, I change, scrub off the makeup, get into my car, and check my phone. I have a missed text from Enzo. He wants me to call him. I’ll do better than that. I turn the key in the ignition and head over to his house.
I park, stop, and listen to the silence. I inch up his walkway and creep to the side of his house. It’s never not a time for a scare. I peer into the living room window. It’s empty, but the window won’t budge. Next I hit the spare room. Same problem. I check Enzo’s room next, but it’s locked, too. Doesn’t the man believe in fresh air?
Maybe I’ll get lucky, and the back door will be unlocked.
I reach the corner, turn, and walk straight into my brother. I yelp.
He grins.
I slap his arm. “What the hell are you doing standing here?”
“Waiting for you. I saw you pull up. I know how you think. You can’t scare me. Never gonna happen.”
I growl, more at his smugness than at not scaring him. I’ll get him one day. He can’t expect me forever. “I got your text. What’s up?” I can’t help sounding testy.
“Let’s go in.”
I follow him into the living room and plop onto his sofa. “What new information do you have?”
“What makes you think I have any?” He pulls two bottles of beer from his fridge and tosses one at me. “Can’t a brother invite his kid sister over for some alcohol and conversation?”
“No.”
“Smartass.” He grabs a notepad on the coffee table and sits beside me. “I may have peeked at their case file.”
Oooh, this will be good. I twist the cap off my beer and take a swig. “I guess there’s no way to prove Kevin is a lying rat bastard?”
“No, but he and Sanchez did question those women you mentioned. Um, Naomi Anderson, Fawn Stewart, and Stacey Anne Ingles.”
I set my beer on the table and lean closer. This is better than I thought. “And?”
“There’s not much more than you already know. Stacey Anne was home all night with her husband. Naomi was out to dinner with clients, and Fawn was home alone.”
There goes her husband being home from work on time. “Fawn looked very upset when Izzie made a comment about running over the woman who cheats with a husband. And Emma was almost gunned down.”
“Yeah, they know about the near hit-and-run. It was made by a rental, rented by Naomi.”
“What?” I scream and jump up almost knocking over my beer. “Why isn’t she in jail?”
“Because she didn’t kill her. She has an alibi, and the hair on Izzie’s top belongs to Emma.”
“You mean the hair Kevin planted.” I’m furious, but I also feel sick. This is all my fault. If I’d learned to keep my mouth shut and my knees down, Kevin wouldn’t be so furious, and Izzie wouldn’t have been arrested.
I rub my forehead. “There’s one guy I can’t quite put my finger on. It’s Wesley Vaughn. He works at the high school as a teacher and as a clown for the Jolly Time agency. His family is loaded, and he and Emma were close.”
“Did they sleep together, too?” He scribbles this on his pad.
“No, from what I can tell they were only friends, but I’d swear he lied about Emma being at his house that night. And where there’s one lie, there are usually more.”
“I’ll look into him.”
Friends or not, maybe Emma and Wesley fought, and he bashed her skull in. How would he have gotten his hands on the bat though? Was he at the bar, too? And what about that morning? Who picked her up? There are too many damn unanswered questions.
This is when I should tell Enzo about No Spam. I won’t have to fork over that cash.
“Did Sanchez and Rat Bastard Kevin look into the Plaid Guy I saw at both bars? Or did they talk to a bartender named Andy?” I planned on being at Lindy’s tomorrow night for his next shift.
Enzo checks his pad. “I didn’t write anything down, so they must not have.”
Of course. Once they had that hair, nothing else mattered. I don’t want No Spam’s picture ending up in Kevin’s hands. I realize I may be foolish to think I could be a better investigator than him.
Investigator!
Why don’t I ask Julian to help? He can find who killed Emma. Of course. Why didn’t I think of this before? Can he help get the photo from No Spam? That’s silly, Gianna. How could he? He’s a P.I. not a cop. He has no authority, and he’s not going to steal it from the kid.
One thing is for sure. I need concrete answers. No more pansy-assed questions. And the only way I know of to get what I want is to pay my little extortionist.
* * *
The next morning I awaken after another disturbing and odd Freezer Dude dream. I check my phone. I had texted No Spam last night after leaving Enzo’s, but he never got back to me. I send another text and go pee. I’m finishing tinkling when I hear the chime on my phone.
Meet me at diner on PP and Jeff now.
I assume that’s Park Place and Jefferson Avenue. I dress in record speed, not really paying attention to what I put on, and dash out to my car.
This is it. I can feel it. I’m going to get answers, and I will take the picture to Sanchez. Not Kevin. Sanchez will have to reopen the case. One hair doesn’t mean anything. Well, one hair and fingerprints on the murder weapon, but who’s counting?
When I pull in, No Spam’s already seated and eating.
I slide along the booth seat across from him. “Were you already here when I texted?”
He nods while stuffing French fries into his mouth. “Yep.”
The waitress comes over. I order coffee, too nervous to enjoy food.
“So, are you going to tell me about that night?”
His brows go up. “You got the money?”
I pull an envelope out of my purse and place it on the table, drug dealer style. I slide it over to him.
&nbs
p; He licks the ketchup off his fingers and peeks into it. He slides it back. “That’s not even half.”
I slide it back but don’t take my hand off. “Yeah, well this is all you’re gonna get. If you don’t accept it and give me the photos, I’ll call my brother, the cop, and have him deal with you.”
His eyes widen, but he still tries to act nonchalant.
“I’m sure he’d be happy to sit your ass in an interrogation room all day. Maybe get a search warrant for your house. Inform your parents.”
He holds up a hand. “Okay. Fine. I get it.”
I remove my hand, and he takes the envelope and sticks it into his backpack.
The waitress arrives with my coffee.
When she walks off, I ask, “So? Where is it?” If he even thinks of leaving here without giving me the goods, I will tackle his scrawny butt to this sticky floor.
He picks up his phone, swipes, and after twenty seconds or so, he lays his phone back on the table. He returns to his food as if I’m not here.
“Well?”
My phone vibrates.
He smirks.
I snatch it out of my purse. It’s a text from the little creep. He sent me the photo. But as I tap the message, I realize it’s not a photo. It’s a video. Even better.
I press play, and I’m staring at the moon, then a panoramic view of the beach. A door slams in the background. Hushed voices and shuffling feet.
Damn, his phone can pick up sound great. I need to get one of those.
The camera turns, and now I’m staring at Wesley’s driveway. A man is carrying something over his shoulder. It’s Emma wrapped in a sheet. I can make out part of her face, and a lock of red hair spills out from between the sheet. The person walks to the back of his truck and sets her down.
The camera shifts back to the doorway. Wesley’s standing in it. There’s blood on his hands and shirt. He seems to be crying.
So he did kill her. And then he called someone to get rid of the body.
The camera shifts again. The truck is pulling out of the driveway. Once it reaches the street, it stops for a second, and the driver turns his head to look at Wesley.
Jennifer Fischetto - Dead by the Numbers 01 - One Garish Ghost & Blueberry Peach Jam Page 16