Cupcakes, Butterflies & Dead Guys (Gianna Mancini Mysteries Book 3) Read online

  "She told me yesterday morning. She couldn't keep it quiet anymore and couldn't risk sharing with Izzie."

  So true. Izzie isn't one for keeping secrets.

  "Is he still the same?" he asks.

  I shrug. "I think so. It's hard to say. I don't remember him that well. I mean, we were kids."

  "Do you still get lusty when you see him?" Enzo laughs.

  I scoff dramatically, as if my volume displays the magnitude of his wrongness. "I don't get lusty. I'm not even sure what that means."

  "You'd start panting and hearts would bulge out of your eyes like on the cartoons."

  I playfully slug him in the arm and chuckle. "I did not."

  "Did too."

  Before I can respond with an indignant "did not," Paulie asks, "Who's Michael?"

  "An old classmate," I say.

  "And you're lusting after him? What about Julian?" Paulie asks.

  I can't tell if he's serious or understands Enzo and my ribbing. His gaze is still on the TV. The commercial has changed to a woman draped over a car.

  "There is no lusting going on with anyone," I say.

  "Poor Julian." A corner of Paulie's mouth lifts, and he looks at me from the corner of his eye.

  Great, I have two brothers who love to tease.

  Pop joins us, and I stand up to give him a big hug and kiss on the cheek. When he lowers himself into the armchair, he asks, "How's Michael?"

  Enzo snickers.

  What's up with everyone's curiosity about Michael?

  I plop back down into my spot. "Fine. He's a photographer."

  Pop's upper lip curls slightly. "That doesn't pay the bills. I guess he's still single?"

  Enzo softly chuckles.

  "Yeah. Why?"

  Pop shrugs and turns his attention to the television. "He was a nice kid. Too bad you guys didn't stay in touch all of these years."

  What's that supposed to mean? This conversation has become awkward, so I spring to my feet and practically run out of the room. "Does Ma need help?"

  Izzie's in the kitchen, popping a cube of Munster cheese into her mouth. She and Ma are both humming "Over the Rainbow." I consider joining in, but I'm all sung out.

  I had a singing gig at a local nightclub not too long ago. I only auditioned as a way to get closer to a woman whose fiancé died in an explosion, but I ended up staying with the gig. It was awesome, but after a while, it put a strain on my voice and throat. I quit. Sometimes I wonder if I made the wrong choice. One night singing at the club was a week's pay at the deli, but it was a relief to not have to get on stage any longer. So I'm on a song strike at the moment. It'll eventually fade.

  The doorbell rings, and I go to it. Julian stands on the other side in black trousers and a steel gray sweater that matches his eyes. He hasn't shaved, so a fine layer of scruffiness makes the lines of his face extra sexy. My chest swells.

  "Hi," he says.

  I stand on my tiptoes and push my mouth against his.

  He grabs my upper arms and pulls me closer.

  The kiss deepens, passion ignites in my belly, and I wish we were alone.

  When we finally pull away, I watch his mouth curl into a smile. "Miss me?"

  "Yes." Plus there's residual guilt from all of the Michael chatter and the drinks he and I shared last night. I step back and let him enter the house. He heads to the living room first, to say hi to Pop, Paulie, and Enzo.

  Footsteps sound on the stairs. Alice runs into the foyer. Her long, light brown hair flies behind her like a cape. She's clutching her phone and one of her graphic novels and looks dazed.

  "Hey, what's going on?" I ask.

  She blinks at me a couple of times before she seems to realize I'm talking to her. "Oh, hey, Aunt Gianna. Yeah, I heard the door. Is Julian here?"

  I jut my chin toward the living room. "Yep. He's in there."

  She smiles and walks past me. For the past couple of months, Julian's taken an interest in Alice's love of graphic novels. I think my niece has a small crush on him. It's understandable. He's crushable.

  It isn't long before dinner is ready, and we're all sitting around the table. Enzo opens a bottle of wine and pours some in all glasses, except for Izzie's and Alice's. Ma passes the basket of warm, sliced Italian bread, and Pop carves the roasted chicken.

  I grab the serving spoon and fork in the salad bowl and fill half my plate with the lightly oil-and-vinegar dressed vegetables. I've been spending a lot of my waking hours with Ben & Jerry, so I figure I should make an effort to undo some of the potential damage. Not that I won't have some breast meat and spaghetti too—just smaller than usual portions.

  "How is work, Julian?" Ma asks.

  He and I give one another a secretive look that says we know something we're not sharing. Luckily, no one else picks up on it. "It's fine."

  No one else can know he's a fixer. It would jeopardize his job as well as his safety. His work isn't legal. Plus, there's the whole confidentiality clause. His boss is nice enough, but I've no doubt he'd sue Julian if he broke the clause. My knowing is dangerous enough.

  "How's the deli doing?" he asks, probably to get the spotlight off him.

  Pop beams. "Good. Business is as heavy as usual. We may be able to give Gianna full-time hours soon."

  Oh yikes, I didn't realize they were considering that.

  "When I have the baby, she'll be able to have mine for a few weeks," Izzie says. She, too, works there part-time.

  I took most of her hours in her first trimester when she experienced a lot of morning sickness. I don't want her hours. I barely want mine. This is the perfect time to let them know my potential plans.

  "You may need to find someone else to hire," I say.

  Both of my parents are about to stick a forkful of chicken in their mouths, but my words stop them midair. They raise their brows in unison and stare at me. Their actions are so in sync it's eerie and cool. All of these years of marriage, and it's like they're one person.

  "Are you leaving the deli?" Ma asks.

  I don't want to upset them, but I can't imagine a new job prospect would have them needing the tissues. "Maybe. The party planner at the bridal shower said she may need a new assistant. She said to call her."

  No one says anything.

  My stomach knots. This shouldn't be a big deal. No one believed I'd stay at the deli forever, right? Izzie hopes to take it over when our folks are too old to work anymore, and that's decades off. But me…?

  Ma sets her fork down. A hug smile takes over her face. "I love parties. That's fabulous, Gianna."

  "I don't have it yet, but it seems likely."

  "Of course it is," Pop says. "She'd be a fool not to hire you."

  Pop knows exactly how to make me feel like a million bucks.

  Encouraging smiles and cheers go around the table.

  "Speaking of parties," Ma says. "I left my scarf at Wilma's niece's house. I'll need to stop by, but I don't know when I'll get a chance."

  My ears perk up. Go back to Kelly's and hopefully run into Raina? "I'll go after dinner."

  "Thanks, dear. I appreciate it."

  The doorbell rings, and Ma frowns. While she loves company, she hates having Sunday dinner interrupted.

  "Who can that be? Everyone is here," Izzie says.

  "I'll get it." I stand, in need of water, grab my glass, and walk around the table to the door.

  On the other side of it stands Aunt Angela, Ma's younger sister. Her dark hair looks like it lost in a wind war, and the floral scarf around her throat is tightly wound. What is she doing here? Sunday afternoon equals dinner with her husband and kids too, and they're all in Connecticut.

  "Aunt Angela? Hi."

  She steps inside and shuts the door behind her. She leans forward, kisses my cheek, and turns toward the dining room. "Surprise."

  Ma stands and walks the distance between us. She pulls her sister in for a tight hug. "Why didn't you call and let me know you were coming?"

  "Then it would
n't be a surprise."

  Pop stands and kisses his sister-in-law's cheek. "Where's Franco?"

  Angela's body stiffens. "My husband decided to stay home."

  Ma softly gasps. "You drove here alone?"

  Aunt Angela isn't fond of driving long-distance. Connecticut is only a state away, but the highways are crowded, especially once you hit New York. Plus, there's the Throgs Neck Bridge, and the Long Island Expressway. She finds it stress inducing. It can be if you're not used to it. "It was…interesting," she says.

  "What's wrong?" Ma asks.

  Aunt Angela chuckles, but it sounds forced. "Nothing. Can't I visit my sister? Now, are you going to invite me in, because that chicken looks amazing, and I'm famished."

  "Of course. I'll get another chair," Pop says.

  This is weird. Something is definitely wrong if Aunt Angela is here alone. I practically lived with her and Uncle Franco when I shared an apartment with their daughter, Claudia. We had dinner with them every Sunday, no different than living at home. Except Aunt Angela doesn't have a dress code. She and Uncle Franco rarely went to a gathering without the other. And Aunt Stella, my dead aunt, the eldest of the sisters, frequently followed.

  Whatever is going on with Aunt Angela and Uncle Franco, Ma will get to the bottom of it.

  I start to walk to the kitchen for that water when I feel a rush of cold air coming from the shut door. I turn and look as a head pushes through the wood.

  Not any ole head either. It's Aunt Stella. Darn, I should've known she wasn't far behind.

  "Here's Stella," she says with a mischievous grin while pushing the rest of her body inside.

  I gasp. Whoa, that's creepy. I don't know if I'll ever get used to seeing that. I turn and look at the dining room of family. No one is looking my way. Good.

  Aunt Angela, Paulie, and Alice don't know I can communicate with ghosts. Izzie never wanted to tell her husband and daughter. Alice is young and Paulie… I don't know why she hasn't told Paulie. Every once in a while I fear that she's scared to tell him, that he'll look at her differently, that maybe she's ashamed of me. But Izzie loves me. I know this as well as I know that the scent of rose perfume makes her gag. So it can't be that. One day I need to press her and find out what it is exactly though.

  Aunt Angela doesn't know because Ma was afraid that Aunt Angela wouldn't understand. Not in an intellectual way but that she'd make me feel bad. I was only eight when I acquired the ability. Plus, I think Ma didn't want to fully believe it was real or that it would linger. She still doesn't. I've tried not to flaunt it in Ma and Pop's faces. As the years went by, it was easier for Ma to not bring it up, I guess. Maybe that's the same with Izzie and Paulie.

  Needless to say, Aunt Angela isn't aware that her dead sister has been by her side, making wisecracks and giving her unsolicited opinion on every matter. And I do mean every. Sitting at the table and not responding to Aunt Stella's sarcastic puns is beyond difficult.

  To make matters worse, she doesn't fit in physically. As well as being a semitransparent ghost, she wears what she died in—a bright yellow bathrobe, which reminds me of Big Bird. Her brown hair is more gray than dark, and her feet are bare. I hope that when I pass on, I'm wearing gorgeous boots.

  She's currently running a finger along a side table and then staring at it, acting as if she wears a pair of white gloves and found dust. Ma is meticulous about her housework, and there's no way Aunt Stella found any. It's something she'd do if Ma was watching, but she's not, so I don't understand. What's the point? She has to know it doesn't bother me. Dust and I are close buddies.

  She and Ma left things on less than good terms when Aunt Stella died. I don't know why. Ma won't talk about it. But she didn't go to her own sister's funeral. So when Aunt Angela and Uncle Franco decided to move their family to Connecticut, Aunt Stella went with them. Even though I'm the only one Aunt Stella can talk to, she said she didn't feel welcome staying here.

  I'd like to say that I missed her, but I'm not her favorite niece. That would be Aunt Angela's daughter, Claudia. I think it's because I'm Ma's girl. One day I hope to learn the truth. It would be nice to know why I've been snubbed most of my life, even if it isn't personal.

  When dinner is finally finished, I help Izzie clear off the table and try to grab Aunt Stella's attention, but she's still dusting the dining room. I wave at her, but she ignores me.

  "What are you doing?" Izzie whispers in my ear.

  I flinch. She's right behind me. When did she sneak up? I didn't hear or feel her. I stare at her face for a second and wonder if I should lie. I don't like lying all of the time though. Well, I never like it, but sometimes it's the lesser of two evils. "Aunt Stella is here."

  Izzie's brown eyes widen. "No." Then she covers her mouth and stifles a laugh. "So Aunt Angela didn't drive here alone?"

  I softly chuckle. "Nope."

  Aunt Stella finally enters the kitchen. I try to grip her arm before she gets away from me, but I forget for a second, and my hand goes through her.

  She frowns, looks down at our connection, and back up. "Do you need something, dear niece?"

  I sigh and cock my head to the left. "Half bath. Now."

  Izzie takes a step back and watches us, well, really me, as we walk to the other side of the kitchen, near the side door.

  I don't know why Aunt Stella is being obedient, but I'm not complaining. I shut the door behind me. "Why are you here?"

  Aunt Stella does her white glove routine along the top of the sink. "I wasn't going to spend the day with my brother-in-law. That man is a jerk."

  She must know why Aunt Angela is here.

  "Why? What did he do?"

  She stares at me. "You remember him. He's a Neanderthal. Hangs out in front of the television in his underwear and socks."

  I frown. He never did that when I visited. Thank goodness. There are some things family shouldn't see, and your beer belly uncle in his tee and boxers is one of them.

  "But what has he done now?"

  She shrugs and turns to the windowsill. She has no intention of sharing what she knows. "Does it matter? Maybe I wanted to visit."

  I quirk a brow. "Yeah, right."

  She glances over her shoulder at me. "I could miss you."

  I chuckle and try to keep quiet. I don't want questions about why I'm in here laughing at myself.

  Aunt Stella huffs. "Fine. If you want the truth, I had a feeling."

  What is she talking about?

  "We all have them, Aunt Stella. They're called emotions."

  She raises a bushy eyebrow. "No, smart aleck. Call it intuition, I don't know. But I had a feeling I needed to be here."

  That's interesting. I don't know Aunt Stella to have intuitive feelings. She's never acted on any before. She's usually just the wisecracking ghost in the corner.

  "You had this feeling at the same time Aunt Angela decides to take a trip here alone? I'm not a fan of coincidence."

  She shrugs and faces me. "Her problems with that jerk have been long going."

  Aunt Angela and Uncle Franco are having issues.

  "But the timing is all me."

  "What does that mean?"

  "I've been screaming in her ear to make the drive for days now."

  That image solidifies in my mind. I try not to laugh. Wisecracker or not, she has a funny bone I admire. "You could've popped over, told me, and I could've figured out a reason to get her here."

  One corner of her mouth lifts. "Nah, my way is much more fun."

  I don't hold back my laughter this time.

  There's a knock at the door. "Is everything alright in there?" It's Izzie. She hates being left out of a juicy conversation. I completely understand.

  I open the door. "We're fine. I haven't learned anything useful though."

  "Tell your mother she forgot to dust the sill," Aunt Stella says.

  "That's the last thing I'll tell her."

  Aunt Stella's eyes widen. "The basement. I bet her collectibles are dusty."
>
  Crap.

  "No," I shout, but she's already out of the bathroom, across the small space, and through the basement door. It must be nice to not have to open doors. Weird but convenient.

  "What's going on?" Izzie asks.

  I tell her what Aunt Stella said and then bite my lower lip.

  Ma collects items from murders. I call it her murderabilia. It started back when Aunt Stella first died. She slipped and fell while getting out of the tub, and for a few days the police suspected her death was caused by foul play due to the gash on her head. Ma grew obsessed during that time. She wanted to know who hurt her sister. It didn't matter that the sisters weren't speaking from before Aunt Stella died. Ma demanded answers. She was happy—as happy as one can be when their sister is dead—when we learned it had been an accident, but that didn't stop Ma.

  She became obsessed with the objects people leave behind when they pass away. And then she went online and started collecting them. A victim's lipstick, a killer's tie. It doesn't matter what the item is as long as she believes it's connected to a crime. She met others who share her passion, and now her friends will sometimes send her items when they come across them.

  The basement holds shelves of these prized possessions. Ma will be upset if something is broken because her dead sister, the one she doesn't know is here, is down there pretending to dust.

  I sigh and open the basement door. I know for a fact that Ma keeps the basement as clean as the rest of the house. Maybe more. But I don't want to feel guilty if Aunt Stella accidentally knocks something over. She may be a ghost, but that doesn't mean she can't move objects when she tries hard.

  I glance back at Izzie.

  She shakes her head. "I'm not hanging out with a ghost in a basement of creepy junk. You're on our own, sis."

  Of course. This should be fun.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Aunt Stella only spends about ten minutes down there. I'm not sure if she gets bored or is unnerved about the items like Izzie. Luckily, nothing is disturbed, and she floats upstairs right as the Mr. Coffee drips its last drop of beautiful brown liquid into its carafe.

  Dessert is New York style cheesecake, coffee, and a platter of fruit. We eat and chat about the deli, about Enzo's job as a cop, his first time as a homeowner, and Izzie's pregnancy. Aunt Angela seems overly interested, and it makes me wonder if she's trying to steer the conversation away from the reason she's here. Aunt Stella gets bored with us and floats away to another part of the house. She's probably rifling through Ma's drawers. Oh, it's possible given Aunt Stella's been a ghost for years and has practiced often. I remember all of the glasses she broke at mine and Claudia's apartment. Claudia didn't understand why perfectly good glassware was hurling itself off counters and tables. We eventually replaced them with plastic.