Diamonds, Pies & Dead Guys Read online

  "What are you doing here?" I swing my legs off the couch and stand up, ready to physically push her out if I need to.

  Wait a minute.

  My brain is coming out of sleep fog and trying to make sense of things.

  "How did you get in?" I ask. I know I locked both the downstairs door at the parking lot and this one up here. There's no way she could—

  "You can see me?" she asks.

  My frown is so deep, she almost disappears.

  "Of course I can see you. Hilary, if this is some kind of twisted joke…"

  That's when I realize she isn't standing by my door. She's floating. Her bare feet aren't touching the floor.

  Crap.

  This can only mean one thing.

  She's a ghost.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I pace the length of my living area, which isn't big, from the front windows to the breakfast bar where Hilary is floating. She's moved farther into the apartment but hasn't said a word since asking if I could see her.

  "This isn't real," I mumble to myself. I'm having a hard time wrapping my head around this. Not because I'm in grief, which sounds horrible of me, but because when I usually see a ghost in my place, it means they want my help.

  No. Nope. Not this time.

  I shake my head as I pass the coffee table for the umpteenth time.

  "I am not getting involved."

  I stop at the windows, a little more winded than usual thanks to my new desk job, and glance out. The street below isn't bustling with traffic like during the day. A few cars drive by, probably on their way home from a bar or club. Boy, do I wish I were any of them rather than me right now.

  "Why am I the only ghost whisperer in town? Ugh, it's not fair."

  I turn and face Hilary. "Where is your husband?"

  She shrugs. "I'm actually dead, huh?"

  Why does it look like she's handling this better than me?

  She just floats there, staring straight ahead with no emotion. Maybe she's in shock.

  "Why aren't you crying?" I ask.

  She cocks a brow. "Why aren't you? We haven't been close in a long while, but I am dead."

  "It may take a bit of time before the tears fall," I say.

  "For you or me?" she asks.

  I don't have an answer, so I turn back to the windows. I can see Julian's office perfectly from here. Too bad he isn't down there right now. I could ask him for advice. What happens if I refuse to help a ghost with their last wishes before they move on? He wouldn't have an answer. He only learned ghosts exist less than a year ago, but he'd be a good sounding board.

  I could call, but I don't want to wake him. According to my phone on the coffee table, it's just after midnight. He still works for his boss, which means he's been having really long days. No, I won't disturb him. I never involve my parents. My brother, Enzo, is probably asleep, and my sister, Izzie, is a million months pregnant and won't be sleeping again after the baby comes. Which means I'm on my own. I'm a big girl. I can do this.

  I face Hilary, who hasn't moved at all, and ask, "What do you want from me?"

  I'm not saying I'll actually help, but I'd like to know what it is. Maybe she simply wants me to get a message to someone. If it means she'll move on, I can do that. Of course, I'm not asking the big questions. Like how did she die? I really don't want to know because if it wasn't natural, then this may not be as simple as I hope.

  She looks fine though. She's wearing the same beige cargo shorts and short-sleeve, white top I saw her in earlier today. The top of her hair is still up, although a few strands at her temples have found their way down, and her earrings are still ever so sparkly. There are no bloodstains or signs that she struggled with someone. Of course, I haven't seen the back of her since she arrived, but I'm choosing to believe her death wasn't violent.

  This is why there should be another person who can communicate with ghosts in town. Someone who can take over or fill in when I need a break. Like how surgeons can't operate on family. I shouldn't be required to help ex-best friends who show up in my living room at midnight. It should be a rule.

  She frowns and shakes her head. "What do you mean?"

  Was that a trick question? "Why are you here?"

  She shrugs and says, "I'm not sure. I felt a pull."

  Oh, so maybe she doesn't want my help. Relief expands my chest.

  "That's the freezer downstairs in the deli. It leads to the other side."

  Her frown reappears. "Of the wall?"

  I smile and almost laugh because it's funny. She really has no clue. "No. The freezer is a portal to the other side. Wherever you go when you're dead."

  Her frown deepens. "Seriously? Why?"

  I go back to the sofa and plop down, suddenly more exhausted than when I woke up. "I don't know. It just is and always has been. I've watched other ghosts pass over through it."

  I don't explain how it's not the freezer itself but the area. Ma and Pop replaced the metal box some months back, and it didn't alter a thing. Ghosts are still drawn to it and cross over.

  "That's where you fell and hit your head, right?" she asks, probably putting the pieces together, although I'm not sure how much she remembers. It's been almost two decades since I told her this story.

  "Yes. I died for one minute and thirty-two seconds, and when I woke up, I could communicate with ghosts. And since you feel that pull, you can move on."

  I instantly get my hopes up. Just nod and I can go back to bed. Okay, so I guess I can guide her downstairs, and then I'll jump into my comfy bed. I can deal with the rest of this in the morning.

  Unfortunately, she shakes her head. "No, not yet."

  I heavily sigh. "Why? What else do you have to do? Is there a message you want me to give to Kevin?"

  At the mention of his name, her eyes widen, and she disappears.

  Ugh, just great. Ghosts have this annoying habit of vanishing without a goodbye or a see you later. Not that I want to see her again. I just wouldn't mind a little courtesy.

  I continue to sit there for a few more moments in case she returns. When she doesn't, I turn off the TV and a lamp and go to my room. My bed is shouting my name. After I quickly use the bathroom, I jump onto it and smile as I lay my head on a pillow. This is perfect.

  Except the room is stuffy and warm. I reach for the remote to my standing fan and switch it on to medium. I'm not in love with summer solely because of the heat and humidity factors, although I enjoy not having to bundle up to leave the house. And summer fruit is a plus. I adore watermelon.

  I turn onto my side and shut my eyes. And blueberries. Especially when they're slightly under-ripe and still a little tart.

  The fan blows a few strands of hair onto my face, and they tickle my nose. Honeydew is also nice and…

  I push the hairs away, but this back-and-forth dance happens three more times until I sit upright and look on my nightstand for a hair tie. There isn't one there.

  I get up and search the top of my dresser. I find a black elastic beside a tube of mascara, secure my hair into a low, bushy bun, and stare at myself in the mirror. I don't look nearly as tired as I feel. Through the glass, I see the right side of my bed where I was just lying, and I realize there's no way I'm going to sleep.

  I loudly groan and grab a pair of black shorts and a yellow tank top. Apparently I'm going to look like a bumblebee. Thankfully it's late enough that no one else should see me.

  If this were any other dead person, I'd already be in my car driving to their body, trying to figure out what happened. The fact that I think I can simply go to sleep makes me wonder if I am in shock. I don't feel it, but maybe that's the point. I don't emotionally feel like anything is wrong. No matter how long it's been since Hilary and I were besties, shouldn't I at least be a little distraught?

  Keys and phone in hand, I hurry down to my car and am grateful there isn't a lot of traffic. As I drive across town, reality slowly seeps in. Hilary is dead, and she's not moving on, which most likely means there's a
reason. Maybe it's as simple as she slipped and fell in the tub. Any unexpected death can leave a ghost unwilling to accept their reality. Yeah, that's it. And when I get there, Kevin will have already found her, and there will be police cars and the morgue guy, and I won't have to do a thing. I can simply turn around, head home, and finally go to bed.

  But as I turn onto their quiet, empty street, I have a sinking feeling I am so very wrong.

  * * *

  Hilary and Kevin live in a brick, three-story building overlooking the boardwalk. The wide street is well lit by streetlamps, and there's a median in the middle with parking on both sides. It's mostly full. The entire block includes several apartment buildings. I'm lucky to find a spot close to theirs.

  I turn off my engine and sit for a moment. Maybe Hilary died hours ago, and the police are long gone. There isn't a timeline for when a ghost visits the freezer. It doesn't have to happen immediately upon death. I take a deep breath and stare at the building in my rearview mirror. I know their address because Kevin mentioned living on this corner once, but I don't know which apartment. I never thought I'd need to go up.

  I grab my phone, step out of my Kia, lock the door, and cross the road. The building's front door is all glass, and I can see into the small, brightly lit foyer. Yellowing tile, a couple of mahogany doors, and the bottom column of a wooden banister are all that's in view. As I get closer though, I notice the left wall is full of mailboxes. With any luck, their name will be listed.

  The door opens stiffly with a low creak. Clearly maintenance needs to invest in some WD-40. The air inside is muggy and gross, much warmer than outside, and it smells stale. I peruse the small metal boxes, and on the bottom row in the center is a label that reads: Burton 3C. Of course they're at the tippy top.

  I take the stairs slowly. The building is so eerily quiet that I hate to make any noise.

  When I reach the third floor, apartment A is to the right of the stairs, B is directly across, and C is at the back of the very short hallway. Afraid to wake the neighbors, I raise my fist but hesitate to knock. I doubt whispering Kevin's name will get him to open up. Do I even want to see him? Yes, he was kind this afternoon, but I doubt those feelings will hold after his wife's death. At the best, he'll be inconsolable, and to be honest, I don't want to deal with a crying Kevin any more than the angry one. So what exactly am I doing here?

  Before I can talk myself out of it, I knock. The sound vibrates through the hall, and I bite my lower lip, cringing at how loud it is. Luckily, no one whips open their door to see who is out here. I guess it's unlikely that one knock would wake up the neighbors. The quiet also means Kevin didn't hear me or he's not here. I didn't look to see if his car is parked outside. Hilary's either. Maybe she died somewhere else.

  Instead of leaving, I grab the doorknob. There's no way it's unlocked, but I should try just in case. Surprisingly, it turns with ease, and the door pushes in.

  I snatch my hand away.

  Crap. I didn't expect that to happen.

  My pulse rises and perspiration dots my hairline. I push the door farther open with one finger and softly call out, "Hello?"

  There's a light on somewhere, and it makes a triangular pattern on the floor.

  I step inside, shut the door behind me, and call out again. No one answers. There isn't a sound of any movement. I look around. I'm standing in their living room. A navy, upholstered sofa, loveseat, and armchair with a large, square glass coffee table take up most of the space. A built-in entertainment center faces the sofa, and the wall behind the loveseat is probably windows and possibly leads to a balcony because it's covered in vertical blinds.

  Across from the living room is a round glass table with four black, cushioned chairs. A tall potted plant stands in a back corner, and an analog clock hangs on one wall. Another quick glance around and this clock is the only thing on any of the walls. No photos or paintings. The living space is tidy with no personal items. No framed pictures, magazines, or knickknacks. The remote sits directly center on the coffee table, and nothing else surrounds it. The place is very sterile and looks like a photograph in a design website or a showroom. I don't recall Hilary being overly neat, but it was a long time ago. Kevin doesn't strike me as the type either, but what do I know? You can't tell a person's level of cleanliness by their bite.

  I start to turn my gaze and notice that there is something on the farthest end table, over in the dark corner. I step closer and see it's an empty wineglass. No, two. So they had drinks and forgot to clean up. Nothing mysterious or unusual about that, except that they sorely stick out in an otherwise immaculate environment.

  There's a short hallway with two shut doors and an archway, which is where the light is coming from.

  "Kevin?" I shout. I don't want him to walk out of the bathroom or his bedroom with his gun pointed at me because he hears an intruder. Or even worse, in the nude.

  I shudder at the thought and walk toward the light. I peek inside and holy mess!

  It's the kitchen, and aside from a row of oak cabinets and center island, a black fridge and stove, and a white microwave, there's stuff everywhere. Not normal stuff like a dish drain, cutting boards, or a towel to dry your hands. No, this looks like the kitchen had a fight with someone and lost.

  Something red, like ketchup or tomato sauce, is on the back wall. A large, semi-round spot with drips running down. Or it ran down. It looks dry now. There are opened spice containers on a counter and a pot on the stove. A beige purse is on the floor, part of it hidden by the side of the island. I only make out the bottom and half of the strap. I think it's the one Hilary had this afternoon. There's a slotted spoon, a couple of forks, and a butter knife close to the purse. And on top of the island is mail and napkins tossed around with more sauce.

  What was she doing? Food art?

  I start to step back, and something glittery catches my eye. It's on the beige linoleum, up against the baseboard. I walk around the island to get a better look, spot the contents of her purse—lipstick, wallet, compact, tissues—and stop short when I see bare feet.

  Hilary is lying facedown on the other side of the island. There's matted blood in her hair, at the back of her head. The part I didn't see earlier of her ghost self. Glass shards are on her back, a plastic container with some sauce still in it is on the floor, and beside it is three-quarters of a clear, broken pie dish.

  Oh, Hil.

  I may not like her much anymore, but this is an awful way to die. I deeply sigh and call 9-1-1.

  Fifteen minutes later, Detective Sanchez is sitting before me, asking me what happened. We're in the living room, seated on the too-firm sofa, and he's trying super hard not to yawn in my face.

  I know how you feel, buddy.

  "Sorry," he says and gently shakes his head. "Now, you said that you stopped over to talk to Hilary, the door was open slightly, and you came in and found her. Is that right?"

  I nod and watch the other officers dust for prints and take photos. There are only two of them in here, one by the door, and the other in the dining area, but several others are in or near the kitchen. I was concerned about my noise level when I arrived. Now it sounds like a crime TV show on the highest volume.

  "Ms. Mancini, why did you stop by so late?" Sanchez asks.

  I like the man. Always have. When Kevin would be a jerk to me, Sanchez, his partner, treated me with kindness. Plus, his gentle nature reminds me of Pop.

  "I saw her earlier today at that café near the station. She wanted to talk, and I didn't. I was rude, and I couldn't get it out of my head. I figured I'd come over, call to see if she was up, and we could chat. I couldn't sleep."

  Does that even make sense? Only my motivation is a lie.

  He glances up from writing in his little notebook. "So you called her when you arrived?"

  Crap. They'd be able to check my phone records. I need to think clearer. I only had ten minutes from calling 9-1-1 to the first officers arriving to concoct this story.

  "No. I wa
s going to when I saw the door open."

  He stops writing and looks at me straight on. "You drove here in the middle of the night, walked up three flights of steps, were going to call to see if she wanted to chat…at midnight, saw the door ajar, and came in and found her dead on the floor?"

  I smile brightly and nod. Yep, it's the lamest lie I've ever told. I can't very well tell him that her ghost visited me an hour ago.

  He stares at me for a moment longer and then scribbles again.

  "Where's Kevin?" I ask.

  The officer by the door stops dusting and glances my way.

  Sanchez looks over his shoulder, as if he knows my words caught other attention, and then lowers his voice. "I don't know."

  That can't be good. Did Kevin hit Hilary with the glass pie dish? I'm assuming that's how she died. Based on their level of arguing in public this afternoon, I don't know if I'd be surprised to learn he did it.

  "Did you see anyone near the apartment? Downstairs, walking up, outside?" he asks.

  "No, no one."

  Sanchez sets the notebook down on his lap, and I expect him to tell me I can go home and to call if I remember anything. "Where were you tonight?"

  What? That's not part of the script.

  My mind scrambles for an answer while I consider why he's asking. He thinks I may have killed her. That's crazy. But as I replay what I said to him, I see how suspicious my actions look.

  "Um, I left work around six and went home. I was there all night until now."

  Boy, that's not helping either.

  "Was anyone with you?"

  I shake my head and want to cry. They cannot accuse me of murder, especially not Hilary's.

  "Okay, Ms. Mancini. You may go. Get in touch if you remember anything else."

  I jump to my feet. My stomach is twisted into a colossal knot.

  He stands as well and says, "Please don't leave town."

  No, no, no. Take those words back. That's what they say on TV to suspects.

  There's a lump in my throat, so I nod instead of talking and rush across the living room.