So she's the medium. "Did you come out here because you knew someone would need water?"
She blows a ring of smoke out of her mouth and chuckles. "No. Unfortunately, I don't get visions. I do read cards and auras though, and you have a lot on your mind."
Doesn't everyone? I hold up my pack of trail mix. "Just hungry."
"Hmm," she says and takes another drag of her cigarette.
I don't disbelieve her abilities. Ma is friends with one psychic who really knows his stuff. But every other one she's been to didn't know or foresee anything. Most of them are scams.
"You don't believe?" she asks.
"No, I very much believe that there are things in this world that we cannot see."
She raises a brow. "You are right."
Maybe she's a fake, maybe not. There's one way to find out, and I do have questions.
I take a step closer but try not to get in the way of her smoke. I'm not a fan of the smell. "What do you know about getting rid of ghosts?"
This time she raises both brows. "You think your home is haunted."
Ha! Ain't that the truth. "No, not my home. I don't want a cleansing. I want to banish a ghost to the other side." There, I said it. She can call the men in white coats, but really, who's going to believe the psychic?
She stares at me, which makes me wonder if I accidentally got a peanut lodged in my nose. Then she points to the window of her shop and the black lettering:
Mystic Aurora – Tarot Card Readings, Tea Leaves, Chakra Cleansing & more
She wants me to pay. I scoff. I know she has bills to pay too, but if she's legit, she'd want to help. A total scam. "Never mind."
I step off the sidewalk and walk across the parking lot, back to the medical building. As I turn the corner, I glance back. She's still standing there. Watching me.
CHAPTER THREE
I let myself into Ma and Pop's and listen to a quiet house. Ma's car is in the driveway. Pop's is gone. I assume Pop is with his guy buying a new freezer, and Ma is in the basement, singing and dusting her collection. I walk into the kitchen, and sure enough, the basement door is open.
"Lorenzo, why are you back so soon?" she shouts up.
"It's me, Ma. Can I find something for lunch?" I open the fridge and admire her fully stocked assortment.
"Of course, honey. There's leftover lasagna in there. Make a plate, and then come down to see my new piece."
Oooh, lasagna.
I pull it out and want to sink my entire face into it but figure that's rude, so I open a cabinet, grab a plate, and stick a healthy-sized portion into the microwave. Ma makes the best sausage and spinach lasagna. I've tried to duplicate it, but it's never quite right. Either too bland if I use fresh spinach and too watery if I use frozen. Plus, the seasonings seem to be off. I think she has a secret ingredient she isn't sharing. Call me cynical, but I don't believe her when she says it's her love.
I sit at the table and chow down while listening to her rendition of "Memory" from Cats. Ma loves her musicals. She told me she auditioned for an off-Broadway production before she had us and before she and Pop married. I sometimes wonder if I'd be sitting here stuffing my face if she'd gotten the part.
When I'm done, I wash my plate, set it in the dish drainer, and head down the creaky basement steps. It's not that the basement is spooky. I'd love it if it was. It's just that the stairs are so narrow I have to walk down sideways. It kinda makes the descent awkward and a bit dangerous. Ma doesn't have this problem, but her feet are a size six while mine are an eight.
I don't see her instantly, but I hear her humming. Then she moves, and I realize she's at the far end of shelves staring at something.
There are rows and rows of shelving down here. They hold up precious items Ma's collected over the years. Not porcelain angels or spoons from every state. No, nothing quite so mainstream. Ma collects what I call murderabilia. If it once belonged to a murder victim, she wants it.
It all started when Ma's sister, Aunt Stella, died. What turned out to be an accident looked like foul play at first. After the police finally realized she'd simply slipped in the tub and hit her head, Ma's obsession with collecting murder objects increased. Now, she has friends all over the country who send her things as well. She goes by the name Clarice in her online groups.
She sees me, and her eyes light up. "Look at this. Isn't it lovely?" She holds out a plain, ordinary blue lighter.
"What's it from?" I ask. It has to be important. Ma wouldn't own it if it simply came from the 7-Eleven, and she surely wouldn't be showing it to me.
"That man who was killed in Arkansas, Mike Brady."
I quirk a brow.
Ma smirks, knowing my exact thoughts. "Not from the Brady Bunch. He was a recent college graduate who worked as a salesman and had just proposed to his girlfriend."
I have no idea where this story is going. I haven't heard of this man. I'm too busy dealing with Freezer Dude to learn about deaths in other states. "So, what happened?"
"He disappeared for three weeks. No one saw or heard from him. His family was frantic."
Suspicion creeps into me. "And the fiancée?"
Ma's smirk widens. "That's the thing. People say she was acting normal. Going to work, hanging with friends. She acted as if nothing was wrong."
"Which made everyone notice and suspect her."
Ma points her feather duster at me. "Exactly. They found his body in her bed. He died from cyanide poisoning."
Eww. "No one noticed the smell of his remains?"
She shrugs. "The fiancée lived alone. I guess she didn't invite anyone back to her place. She told police she was tired of him leaving her when he went to work, so she made him stay. His job made him go on a lot of out-of-town trips."
"The woman's obviously insane."
Ma doesn't disagree. "She also told the police that she slept beside him every night."
"Ma, that's sick."
"That's life, dear." She puts the item back on the shelf and continues humming. "Are you eating and leaving?"
Ugh, the attack of guilt is unbearable. "Is that terrible?"
Ma smirks. "Maybe if my daughter appreciated all I do more."
"Ma! I do appreciate you. You're awesome and kind, and I love you."
She smiles and takes the feather duster and dusts my face. "I'm only messing with you. Go on. Go live your life. I plan on staying down here a little longer."
I sneeze as the dust makes it way up my nose. "You're a cruel mother."
She giggles. "Ah, the joy of parenting."
I roll my eyes and kiss her cheek good-bye.
I walk into my apartment and stare at the tiny space. Now what? At least if I was working I wouldn't be so bored. Ma said to go live, but what does that mean when you're broke and don't have any friends?
I plop down onto the couch and reach for the remote when a loud boom blasts. Everything in my place trembles slightly. Oh my God, what was that? Do we have earthquakes on Long Island?
I jump up and race downstairs. The stench of smoke fills the air outside, and I hear people yelling. I run to the road and see people running down the street. Maybe because I'm bored or because I'm nosy, I follow.
I spot a billow of thick black smoke rising toward the sky. It's coming from two blocks down. Now with a purpose, I take off and sprint toward it. That has to be more than a fire. It felt like an explosion. Not that I know what one feels like exactly. The closest I've ever come to one is in the movies.
I hit the corner of Pacific Avenue, and not only does the crowd get thicker but so does the air. It smells rancid, and the smoke burns my throat. I cough and step around a woman and man. I walk across the street, to get a better angle.
The smoke and a small fire comes from the property three houses down from the corner. What once was a two-story house similar to the ones around it now looks like a soot-covered dollhouse. Other than the wall around the intact front door, the rest of the front wall is gone, and you can see inside. There may
be some furniture left in the front room, but it's hard to make out. There's so much smoke and blackness. Sirens are far off but getting closer. In minutes, the street will be filled with emergency vehicles. I'm not so sure I still want to be here.
I take a last look around and spot a black SUV parked a few feet away. I stare at the driver, who's watching me.
Julian.
What is he doing here?
I sprint to his car, open the passenger door, and step up. I slam the door shut and realize my stomach is in knots. I'm just not sure if it's because I fear he's involved in this or that he looks scrumptious. He's wearing faded jeans, black boots, his leather jacket, and a tan sweater. He should've worn the soft gray one. It compliments his eyes so well.
"What are you doing here?" I ask and cough. The smoke is starting to dry out my throat, and I doubt I'll get its odor from my clothes anytime soon.
"Hello to you too," he says with a half-smile.
I softly sigh. "Did this happen because of you? Did you cause this?" I wave my hand toward the burning house.
He frowns at me, and the look of hurt in his eyes is undeniable. "No. This has nothing to do with me. I was on the way to the deli and heard the explosion."
My stomach calms down, and I instantly smile. "Why were you going to the deli?"
He glances at me from the corner of his eye. "To buy some prosciutto."
Oh.
"And to see the pretty woman who works behind the counter," he adds.
Oh!
"Did you run out when you heard the explosion?" he asks.
"Yes, but I wasn't working. The deli's closed today. My folks have to buy a new freezer." I consider telling him about Freezer Dude. He may not freak out, and this would be an awesome test to make sure he's really okay with my ghostly abilities. He only learned about them a week ago.
"Losing business has to hurt," he says, watching the house.
The sirens are much closer now.
"Yeah. Listen…" My finger starts to tingle. No. Not now.
I search the crowd, looking for the old buzzard.
"Listen what?" Julian asks.
Then I spot him. Freezer Dude is up ahead in the crowd of people across from the house. He jumps into a man standing beside him, just like he did to me. The man's body trembles, but it doesn't look as powerful as it had felt. I expect the man to drop onto the ground and have a seizure, but he doesn't. Then Freezer Dude stumbles out. It looks as if he's thrown out. It wasn't voluntary. I'm going to assume that two souls can't occupy the same body, so one pushes the invading one out.
"Gianna?" Julian asks. "What are you staring at?"
Freezer Dude seems to shake himself for a second, as if the experience leaves him as loopy as it does us. Then he looks up, and we lock stares.
Julian touches my arm, but I continue ignoring him. I can't take my gaze away. Not even for a moment.
Freezer Dude gives me one of his slow, creepy grins and poof. He's gone.
I seriously need to do something about this guy.
* * *
Julian pulls up behind the deli and stops beside my car. "You sure you're okay? You seemed to be in a trance back there."
"I'm fine." After Freezer Dude disappeared, I asked Julian to take me home. A fire truck was pulling onto the street anyway. Soon, the police would ask all vehicles to leave and people to get back. There'd be plenty of time to tell Julian about the new apparition in my life. Right now though, I need to find out more about him.
I push open the car door. "Thanks for the ride home. I'll talk to you later."
He stares at me. His eyes drift to my mouth and back up. "Will you?"
I half-chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. "Of course."
He puts his hand on my arm. "You seem more distant than usual."
Really? He wants to talk about our feelings now? As much as I want to, I also want answers from the dead. I look into Julian's chameleon gray eyes, which look smoky right now, and give in. He's more important than Freezer Dude.
"It's only been a week since we said we'd take things slow," I remind him. But I totally get where he's coming from. It has felt like an eternity.
"I'm not trying to push you into coming back. I would just like to see you more."
"What do you mean coming back?" Did he think I'd move back to Connecticut, where he and I met? "I'm not leaving Long Island."
He shakes his head. "No, I don't mean that. I just hope that we'll go back to the way we were when we lived together in Connecticut."
He wants me to move in with him. I like my apartment way too much for that to happen. I guess he could move here… Wait, what am I thinking? The whole reason we're taking it slow is because I hate his job. I hate that disrupting a murder scene was just another day for him. Take Izzie out of the equation, and being a fixer still sucks. What happens the next time his job interferes with the law, someone's freedom, my life?
"Haven't you been working a lot?" I ask.
"It's been mostly days."
I start to ask what he's been doing, but I know he can't or shouldn't tell me, and I'm not sure I want the details. In fact, I'm not a hundred percent what I want, although I know I still love him. This isn't the time to contemplate it all though.
"Well, I'll call you, or you can call me."
Before he stops me again, I say, "Bye," and hop out of his truck. I run up to my apartment, grab my purse, and head back down. I peek through the back door, making sure Julian's gone, then go out to my car. The only lead I have on this demented ghost is the woman. Hopefully there's a connection to him through her.
I pull up in front of the house I saw her walk out of and park. I glance at the time on my cell. I have plenty of time to sit here before heading to Enzo's for dinner. This street looks like every other. Nothing unusual stands out to me. It's pretty quiet. No movement. Not even a barking dog. There are no cars parked anywhere on this side of the road. There's a red sports car across from the corner house, but that's it. There isn't a car in her driveway, and it hits me that I'm not sure if this is her house or the one she went to around the corner.
I lean my head back and think of Julian. I want to get more serious. I want to spend nights in his arms. I want to know he's there for me no matter what. But I'm not sure he'd put me before his stupid job. And how can I trust someone like that? More importantly, his work is just plain wrong. Just because someone rich can pay for cleanup doesn't mean it should happen. Whatever. I don't want to think about this anymore.
I concentrate on the house.
Two hours later, my neck has a kink, and no movement has happened anywhere on the block. It's like a well-manicured ghost town. I grab a pen from my purse and a napkin from the glove compartment and jot down the address. Then I start the car and head to dinner. Sitting around doing nothing makes a person hungry.
* * *
When I pull up to Enzo's, I'm a bit early. He leaves the station by four, but he still has to drive home. I wiggle in my seat, starting to feel cramped. I don't know how private investigators and cops do stakeouts. This would drive me crazy on a full-time basis. Not to mention that I stopped and picked up fried chicken, and while my car smells amazing, my stomach is making unhappy sounds. It wants me to tear into the succulent, moist meat and its crunchy shell.
Ten minutes later on the nose, Enzo pulls up in front of his house. He steps out and frowns at me.
I grab my bucket o'chicken and purse and follow him inside.
He eyes my bucket. "I thought I was cooking?"
"Yeah, since when do you cook? I'm ravished and wanted to make sure there was something edible." I set the bucket on his coffee table and kick off my sneakers.
"Funny." He heads into his room, and I run into his bathroom in desperate need to relieve my bladder.
When I'm done, I hear him in the kitchen. I go to the living room and take my new favorite spot—the right corner of the couch. I grab the remote and turn on his television. Yes, this is my same routine at home, but here
there's someone to talk to when the commercials come on.
Enzo walks into the room with a bowl of salad on top of some paper plates, a bottle of French dressing is wedged into the crook of one arm, a couple of beers in the other, and two forks in his hand.
I help him lower it all to the table carefully and see that he's no longer in uniform and is now wearing jeans and a red tee. Thank goodness. It's not easy digesting while staring at all that blue. I don't have a problem with cops. Well, not most of them. I've never been arrested or even had a speeding ticket. The closest I got to feeling like I might be fitted with handcuffs was when Izzie was arrested. And even though my own brother is one of them, I feel a bit uneasy in their company. Maybe it has something to do with that asshat, Detective Burton. The cop who has a vendetta against me because I rebuffed his advances when I was in college. Our animosity has become so much more than that, but that's when it started.
"Why are you here?" Enzo asks.
"For dinner. Duh." I peel back the lid to the bucket and grab a succulent breast. Yum!
"I mean, why have you been coming by so much?" He puts both drumsticks on his plate and sits on the opposite end of the couch.
"Can't a sister spend time with her big brother?" I peel a piece of the breading-slash-skin off and set it on the side of my plate. I'm saving that sucker for last.
"No." He bites into a drumstick and continues staring at me, waiting for an answer.
I tell him how Izzie's pukey, and I'm bored. "Besides, what do you have to do that's so important?"
"I have plans."
"Tonight?" Man, I hope I'm not about to get booted out.
"No. Tomorrow." He grabs a beer and pops it open.
"Oooh, is it a hot date? Enzo and some lucky lady sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G." I can't help teasing him. When you talk about sex in any way, his face gets all red. Like right now.
He throws a piece of chicken crust at me. Is he crazy? Dude, that's the best part. The only reason to eat it.
I maneuver my neck and jut out my head. It lands right in my mouth. Score!
He smirks and shakes his head. "No. I'm going to see a game with a friend." His voice dips when he says the last word, and I immediately think of Kevin, aka Detective Burton, aka the man who wants to ruin my life.
Two Ghosts & a Love Song (Dead by the Numbers Mysteries Book 2) Page 3