Two Ghosts & a Love Song (Dead by the Numbers Mysteries Book 2)

by Jennifer Fischetto

  Before I have time to develop a plan, the first two girls finish, and it's my turn.

  "Three," shouts the man, sending waves of panic through my body.

  I stand up and walk to the stage, careful to not bump into the tables and chairs. And considering my nerves, they're not easy to avoid. As I climb the stairs, all I can think about is projectile vomiting and covering the front row à la Linda Blair in The Exorcist. But that's not exactly the best thought to have in mind while needing to open your mouth, so I push it away and think of puppies. They're small, cute, and man's best friend.

  When I reach the standing microphone, I pull my thoughts together and find a spot above everyone's heads that's in the shadows. I can concentrate on that and pretend I'm in the shower.

  "Do you have sheet music?" says a voice to my side.

  I swallow hard and regrettably look away from my spot to the voice. It's the pianist, and he's staring at me hard.

  "No," I whisper and stare at the bald spot on the top of his head. It beats looking him in the eye because acknowledging I'm not alone makes my stomach gurgle more.

  "What are you going to sing? Maybe I know it."

  I think of Ma's love of musicals. I know them all by heart because of her, but there are so many choices, my brain becomes fuzzier.

  "If you're not going to sing, you need to leave the stage," says the man in the audience. He turns and whispers something to the woman.

  I straighten my back and shake my head once, bouncing my curls before my eyes. No, I'm going to do this. To the pianist, I say, "Do you know 'Shake It Off' by Taylor Swift?"

  Hey, what can I say? Ma may love her Broadway hits, but I'm definitely a pop girl.

  He strikes several keys, and the upbeat chords fill the room.

  I turn to the mic, stare at the shadow, open my mouth, and sing the first line. Then the next. And before I know it, the first verse is out, and I haven't lost my voice or this morning's breakfast.

  When I reach the first chorus, I spot movement and look away from the shadow to the audience. Numbers four through seven are dancing in their seats. I smile and don't miss a beat. Soon my nerves dissolve, and I pull the microphone out of its stand.

  As soon as I sing about being lightning on my feet, my feet start moving on their own—left to right and back again. When I reach the spoken verse, number five and six say it with me.

  The man glances back at them, and they immediately shut up, but I ignore it all and continue having a blast. By time I sing my last note, my heart is pumped, there's a line of perspiration on my forehead, and I need a cold beverage.

  "Thank you," says the man. "Leave us your résumé. Number Four."

  That's it?

  I glance to the pianist who's smiling and place the microphone back in its stand. I kinda wanted a "great job" or even "you suck." Some kind of opinion. But they hadn't given one to the girl before me, so I guess I shouldn't be disappointed. I return to my seat and grab my purse. I glance up at Number Five who gives me a thumbs up, and I notice she's holding sheet music and a picture of herself. The big, glossy kind that actors bring to auditions. They want a résumé. Crap.

  I dig through my purse and find another deli brochure. It'll have to do. I grab a pen and write my cell number and name on the back. Then, so they remember me, I add the song title. I hand it to the very confused man and make a beeline for the door. If they don't call, I'll have to just shake it off.

  * * *

  A few hours later, I'm behind the deli counter humming that song and scooping chopped salad into a half-pound plastic container. Chopped salad is something Izzie and I created years ago. We thought it was completely original, but then several years after that, I saw something similar online. So maybe we weren't that unique after all.

  Sick and tired of Ma's usual lettuce, cucumber, and tomato variety, we went about dicing celery, carrots, black olives, green olives, avocado, red onion, radishes, and zucchini and added it to thinly shredded Romaine lettuce. Tossed together with a balsamic vinaigrette, it became a hit for the entire summer. Even Ma, Pop, and Enzo devoured it. I never thought Ma would add it to the deli's menu.

  I ring up the cup of salad with a proud smile and thank the young woman after she pays.

  The bell above the door rings, and I turn to see Carly walk in. My smile widens.

  She's wearing jeans, sneakers, and a red sweater. Her blonde hair flows over her shoulders, and she looks about as happy as I feel. "Hi," she says and bounces over to me on the balls of her feet.

  "Hey, what are you doing here?"

  "I was hoping I could convince you to go out dancing tonight." She tugs the side of her bottom lip in between her teeth.

  I wrinkle up my nose. "As in the third wheel on a date with you and Enzo?"

  She giggles. "No, we're not dating."

  I distinctly hear a yet at the end of her sentence.

  "Just you and me."

  Before I get a chance to respond, Ma walks out from the kitchen. Her blank expression immediately hardens at seeing Carly. Damn.

  "Mrs. Mancini, how are you?" Carly must not notice the slight foaming of Ma's mouth because her tone remains perky.

  "Carly, what are you doing here?" Ma practically growls the words.

  Carly's smile flattens.

  I step up because it's not fair the way Ma sometimes morphs into the protective mama bear role. "We're going out tonight. Isn't it great, Ma? You keep telling me to find a life."

  Ma raises a solitary eyebrow. "I mean with Julian."

  I roll my eyes. Beggars can't be choosy.

  "Oooh, do you have a boyfriend?" Carly asks. "Any pictures?" She wiggles her brows, and Ma turns away with a scoff.

  I'm torn between getting Carly out of here as fast as possible (who knows what Ma might say about the past?) and whipping out my phone and showing the pic of Julian fresh from the shower, that I took when I first moved into his apartment in Connecticut. 'Cause the man is super sexy and needs to be displayed.

  Ma huffs as she slams the lid on a display case, so Carly's safety wins out.

  "I'll show you tonight," I say. "Where do you want to go?"

  "How about D'Angelo's in Island Park? I can pick you up around nine."

  "Sure. That sounds great."

  She leans closer and whispers, "Are you living at home?"

  I smirk at the idea of her being afraid to drive to Ma's, as she should be from the looks of Ma's glare. "No, I live in the apartment upstairs. Just pull in back, and I'll meet you down there."

  "Sounds great. See you later." She starts to leave then stops and turns back. "Good-bye, Mrs. Mancini. It was nice seeing you again." Carly doesn't wait for a reply before walking out, which is just as well since Ma grunts.

  I place a hand on my right hip and turn to my mother. "You were rude. All my life you scolded us if we were rude, and you now need a scolding." Not that I plan on giving her one. She is still Ma, and I know where to draw the line.

  Ma's mouth is pursed tightly, but as the bell rings again, it relaxes into a smile. Carly obviously hasn't returned. "Julian," she says in a singsong voice.

  I turn, and my breath hitches. He's dressed in regular old black jeans, a tan sweater, leather jacket, and black boots—nothing special—but my body involuntarily reacts just the same. My pulse quickens, my face heats up, and so do other regions of my anatomy.

  Ma rushes around the counter and opens her arms for a hug.

  Julian wraps his arms around her and gives her a kiss on the cheek. "You look as stunning as ever, Mrs. Mancini."

  She giggles and swats his arm. I want to vomit at how much she likes him. It would be cuter if she wasn't so obviously trying to keep us together. I bet she's plotted out the names of our kids already.

  "What did I say about you calling me Ma? And you'll be coming to dinner tomorrow, right?" she says as she steps back around the counter.

  "Absolutely, Ma. I wouldn't miss it for anything." Then to me, he says, "Hi." It comes out low and slow an
d sexy, and my insides melt. Damn his ease at casual flirting.

  "Hi," I say wanting to sound nonchalant, but I hiccup halfway through.

  He steps over and leans on the counter in front of me, so we're the same height and can look into one another's eyes without me straining my neck. He's thoughtful that way.

  "Are you hungry?" I ask.

  His gaze roams down my body, and his eyes go from light gray to steel.

  Warmth creeps up my neck because Ma is close enough for her to see.

  He must realize this because he shakes his head and looks away for a moment. "I was hoping you'd have dinner with me tonight."

  Ma huffs and walks past me and into the kitchen.

  "I can't. I'm going dancing."

  He stands straight. "With who?" His tone has an edge to it. Is he jealous? How cute.

  "An old friend."

  He quirks a brow.

  I can't help but smile because I know he's so off base. "An old female friend. Enzo's high-school girlfriend, to be exact. I'll see you tomorrow though."

  He nods but doesn't look as satisfied as when he first walked in.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I wipe perspiration off the back of my neck with a cocktail napkin and then sip my ice water. Despite Carly being our designated driver, I don't feel like drinking.

  D'Angelo's is a weird dance club the next town over. Weird because it's so bare, with a long bar at one end, up near the doors, and then nothing but white walls and speakers for the rest. It's so physically unappealing that I don't understand how they've stayed in business for over a decade. But every time I've been here—and it's been years—it's jam packed with sweaty, gyrating bodies. Like now.

  "Are you pooped out already?" Carly shouts over the house music.

  We've been dancing for the past twenty minutes, and I need a moment to sit. "Yes. I'm not twenty-one anymore."

  She laughs. "You make it sound like you're fifty. You're not even thirty yet."

  She doesn't know about my passion for Cheetos and sitting around doing nothing.

  A petite girl who doesn't even look eighteen turns to us. She holds an unlit cigarette between the fingers of her right hand. "Do either of you have a light?"

  We shake our heads. "Sorry," Carly says. "I quit."

  As the girl walks off, I say, "That's right. I vaguely recall walking in our backyard one day and smelling smoke. You and Enzo were back there, and he told me that if I told Ma, he'd put spiders in my bed." What an awesome brother.

  Carly chuckles. "I remember that. He wasn't always nice to you."

  "You think? I'm still trying to get even."

  "That's what you were doing in his bathroom. Trying to scare him? I can't believe you guys still do that."

  I shrug. "Yeah, it's become routine. So was quitting smoking as hard as they say?"

  She widens her eyes. "Oh yeah. I started at sixteen and only stopped a couple of months ago. It is the hardest thing I've ever done."

  I'm very glad I never started.

  The song changes, and I consider going back in for another dance, but Carly sets her drink on the bar right beside mine and jumps off her stool. "I gotta go to the bathroom. I'll be right back."

  I turn back to my water as she hurries off.

  A couple of young women step to the bar, around Carly's stool, and order drinks.

  One of them glances at me, looks away, and then turns back and stares at me. "I know you," she says. Her words slur, so this round obviously isn't her first.

  "Do you?" She's probably come into the deli, but unless you're a regular, I don't always remember faces. She has straight, black hair that almost reaches her waist and liquid dark eyes. She's slender and petite and wears a white minidress with spaghetti straps and three layers of fringe that shimmer when she moves. It looks amazing against her deep olive complexion.

  She grins and it lights up her whole face. "'Shake it Off' today at Sparks."

  Oh gosh, she witnessed my humiliation. "You saw?"

  I must look as horrified as I feel because she giggles. "Yeah. I work there and heard you as I came in. You were good."

  I sit a bit straighter. "Really?"

  "Oh yeah. And everyone seemed to enjoy it. Sparks is a great place to work, and Natalia, the owner, is really fair."

  That must've been the woman in the audience. "Great to know. Thanks. I'm Gianna, by the way."

  "I'm Zoe."

  It feels like the floor pulls away, and my body is free falling for a moment.

  Zoe looks to her friend, who's frowning at me. Zoe asks me, "Are you okay? You suddenly don't look so good."

  I blink and refocus. "Oh, sorry. I'm just surprised. You're Serena's friend, right? I…uh…" I'm not sure how close they are or if she knows about last night. And I don't know if Serena wants her to know, so I keep hush about it. "I worked for Thomas for a short period of time."

  Her mouth turns down. "It's horrible what happened."

  The bartender approaches and hands her and her friend a drink. She gives him money and tells him to keep the change. Then there's this awkward silence where the friend is nudging her along.

  This isn't the time to grill her, so I say, "Well, it was great meeting you."

  Her smile returns to her face, and the sadness falls away so quickly and easily. I doubt she knew Thomas, which suggests she and Serena aren't that close. "You too. Good luck with the job. I hope you get it."

  "Thanks."

  She nods and walks off with her friend.

  From the corner of my eye, I see someone walking closer. I don't know why I become very aware of their presence until I turn and realize it's Detective Kevin Burton. The last thing I want is to speak to him, so I jump off my stool and plan to meet Carly near the bathroom. But I only make it three steps from the bar when Kevin is so close I can smell the gallons of cologne he poured on and the stale beer on his breath. Great. He's drunk. He was drunk during our last altercation too.

  I start to walk around him, but he grabs my arm and holds me still. In my ear he says, "I haven't forgotten."

  Unfortunately, neither have I. To truly understand our hatred for one another, one would have to know that Kevin used to hang with Izzie's ex, Alice's father. So Kevin spent time at my house when they were teens. When he made a pass at me, Enzo stepped in to protect me. Ever since then, it's as if Kevin's had it in for me. I can't imagine why one rejection over a decade ago fueled our feud, but it has. Over the years, other incidences kept it ignited, but marrying my ex-best friend last month—the day I arrived home to South Shore Beach—and bullying me in my own apartment stepped way over the line. Oh, and let's not forget how he tried to falsely incriminate Izzie when she was arrested. Although that one I can't prove.

  Suffice to say, my desire to see him burn is pretty high. And even though he has more power and physical strength than I do, I never back down to him. I can't give him the satisfaction. But part of me assumed he'd leave me alone after the two ghosts gave him a scare. Maybe it's time Julian learns what happened that night in my apartment.

  "Let go of me." I yank my arm free of his grip, which tells me he isn't all that serious about tormenting me.

  Suddenly, Carly's by my side. "You okay?"

  I nod, not really able to form words. Seeing Kevin and having him slur all over me again has me shaken up more than I thought it would. Last time I had a couple of ghosts to help me. This time there's a roomful of people, but I feel more vulnerable.

  "Let's get out of here," she says.

  I'm not about to argue. I nod and lead the way outside.

  * * *

  Sunday dinner is like a holy event at Ma and Pop's house—at least according to Ma. There's a dress code—somewhere between business casual and black-and-white gala—and a strict timeline. If you show up late and it's before dinner, she'll give you a stern eye and keep tossing the salad. If you show up during dinner, have fun choking down the manicotti while she brings up story after story about how if she'd been late in her day
she wouldn't be able to sit for a week. I guess my great-grandparents were tyrants. And if you're not going to make it to dinner at all, don't bother showing up and get a doctor's note that you contracted an almost fatal strain of malaria.

  Okay, so Ma isn't violent, and she and Pop never hit us growing up, but she gives an evil eye so menacing you'd wish you were a passenger on the Titanic.

  The early afternoon starts like every other Sunday since I've been home so far. I arrive, and Ma and Pop are cooking. The TV in the living room blares because Pop is either going deaf and won't admit it, or he likes to pretend he's actually at the football stadium. Izzie, Paulie, and Alice are already there. My brother-in-law is always eager for Ma's cooking. I love spending Sundays with my family. I'm just not super eager to spend it in the pointy black heels presently on my feet. Now, if Ma changed it so I could wear sweats and sneakers, I'd arrive early.

  I walk into the kitchen as Ma takes the pan of manicotti out of the oven. She looks over my choice to wear my red dress with approval as well as disdain. I wear the same outfit every Sunday. It's my slight rebellion to the dress code. Okay, so sometimes I may not act my age. I chuckle to myself. What am I saying? I never act my age, but really, is that a bad thing? I figure when I'm sixty, I'll be acting forty, and it'll work itself out.

  "You're almost late," Ma says.

  "Sorry." I won't tell her that Carly and I had a late night dancing. I do, however, rush forward and grab the pan from her hands and set it on the pot holder on the dining room table. We're using Ma's fancy dishes today. The white ones with the white leaf pattern etched along the rim. This means Izzie set the table. She has Ma's flair for "dress up."