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

  He knows my favorites well, and under other circumstances, I'd dive into the box face-first. Now isn't the time though.

  I turn and walk over to the couch. I throw a blanket over my legs and lean back against the cushion.

  Julian glances to the coffee table and then the kitchenette counter where the bottle of wine sits, uncorked. He kicks my door shut with his foot and lays the dessert on the breakfast bar—the only place to legitimately eat in this tiny space. I don't have a table. I don't really have a kitchen. It's a strip against the back wall of a stove, sink, fridge, and a counter. Across from that is the breakfast bar with three stools, and then, bam, you're in the living room.

  It's super small. The bathroom doesn't have a tub, only a shower stall, and my bedroom closet is stuffed with boots, handbags, and other accessories. But the whole place, despite its size, is adorable, and I love it.

  "What's wrong? Stomachache from all that salad?" he asks with a smirk while taking off his jacket.

  "No, have a seat."

  "Oh no, what happened?" he sits beside me on the couch and takes my right hand in his.

  "I stopped by Kelly Ward's house to get Ma's scarf, and I found Raina Stone dead."

  His brows shoot together. "What? How? And what is it with you stumbling on dead bodies?"

  Ain't that the truth?

  I explain all that happened. Again.

  "I don't get it," I say when I'm done.

  "Get what? It sounds like she fell and hit her head. Maybe she'd been drinking." He stands up and grabs the bottle of wine, the corkscrew from the drawer, and two glasses.

  I thought of that. "Yeah. No. I don't get why her ghost didn't linger, didn't want to say bye to her family, her sister. Aren't twins supposed to be close? And what's up with that message? Tell who she's sorry, and what is she sorry for? There are too many questions."

  Julian stands on the other side of the coffee table and pours two glasses of wine. I don't have fancy wine glasses. He's using my short, clear, plastic tumblers that I use for everything.

  "Okay, but are those answers important to you?" he asks.

  I sigh because he's right. "I guess it's none of my business, but she told me to tell her sorry. It was a direct command."

  The corner of his mouth lifts for a second. Now that the initial shock's worn down, he's calm and logical. Can't say the same for myself. Everything that's happened tonight keeps looping through my brain. I know I'm too close to make much sense out of it. Then again, I'm not sure if sense can be made out of death.

  In all likelihood, Raina didn't realize that hanging around and saying good-bye was an option. It's not like I have an ad in the yellow pages: Gianna Mancini, Ghost Whisperer. Although, if I could guarantee no creeps would appear on my doorstep, that wouldn't be a bad idea.

  Julian hands me one of the glasses. "Here, this will calm your frayed nerves."

  I take a long sip and shut my eyes as it flows down my throat and into my belly. Not as good as a pint of Chubby Hubby, but it'll do.

  When I open my eyes, Julian's smiling. "Better now?"

  It's sweet of him, but he doesn't get it. "Not really. I want answers, and I'm never getting them now. Do you know how frustrating that is?"

  "Every case that I can't get proof on." He sips his wine and continues to stand before me.

  "Okay, you get it. Good. Well, not good that you can't close all of your cases—or whatever they're called—but good that you understand. It's nice to not be alone."

  "You're never alone."

  I smile and feel the wine's warmth spreading throughout my body. My limbs start to feel slightly heavy. Not too much but enough to make me curl up my legs and snuggle into the corner of the couch.

  Julian grabs the cannoli off the bar and places the box on the table. He grabs a couple of paper plates and sits beside me. He opens the box, places a chocolate chip deliciousness on each plate, and hands me one. Then he grabs the remote and leans back.

  "How about we enjoy the rest of our evening and leave the ghost talk for…never?" He presses the power button on the remote, turning on the TV.

  I start to take a bite and stop. Never? Since when does he not want to talk about my dead so-called friends? I mean, he's not overly enthused when they show up. A person has died after all. But he's usually more chatty than this. Much more. He wants to know every detail. Why is tonight different?

  I stare at his profile—the length of his nose, the curve of his lips, the dark hair starting to curl at his collar. Julian is breathtaking. And while I could watch him all day long, there's something else that I see. Something only I can tell because of how often I gaze at him.

  His jaw is slightly clenched. Not enough to make him look angry but enough to know something is on his mind. Plus, he hasn't looked away from the screen since I started watching him. I can feel or sense when someone my distance is staring at me, so why hasn't he glanced my way? I can't imagine he suddenly has keen interest in Depends.

  "How was work tonight? Anything interesting?" I ask, suddenly suspicious. I'm not sure why, but the feeling, which resembles fear, pitches a tent on my shoulders and weighs on me.

  He looks at me from the corner of his eye, never turning his head. "You know I can't discuss my cases with you."

  "Hmm." My spidey senses are on full alert. "Did you have to go on a stakeout tonight? I thought you were going to the office."

  "I did. Mr. Hamilton wanted to go over some details from a case."

  "Oh." I hate that I am suspicious, but Julian's lied to me before. We've come to an agreement since then. He won't keep anything from me that directly affects me or someone I love, but he can't tell me confidential client or case information. No problem. Or so I thought until now. My curiosity is killing me.

  "And last night? How did that work go?"

  "Fine."

  "What were you doing?" Just because he can't answer doesn't mean I can't ask.

  "You know I can't discuss it."

  "Right. But did it have anything to do with Raina Stone?" I imagine that a movie star, even a lesser known one, might have a local lawyer and his fixer on retainer.

  He still won't look at me. "Gianna…"

  "Yeah, I know. You can't say anything." I turn away, annoyed, disgusted, and slightly hurt. This isn't about me, and I know that if he could share details he would, but it all feels like deceit. I also know I don't have much room to talk because I lie way too often, but I'm usually trying to help a dead person. His work only helps those wealthy enough to not want to have their names in the paper. Is that the same thing?

  Tears cloud my vision, and I bring my glass to my lips. After several moments and more sips, plus a gulp, I sniffle away my sadness and ask, "Can you at least tell me if you were involved in moving Raina Stone's body?"

  "I never said Raina Stone was a client." His tone raises an octave.

  "But you didn't deny it either."

  He huffs, tosses the remote into the space between us, and stands up. He shoves the cork in the wine bottle and carries it, the yellow box, and his plate into the kitchenette. "We can't keep doing this. I swore to you I wouldn't keep anything from you that involves you."

  "I know. But…"

  "But what, Gianna? How does Raina Stone's death affect you? Is this about the scarf?"

  "No," I shout. That's ridiculous.

  "Then what? You're curious. You want to know why she moved on without haunting you for weeks while you investigate her death?"

  A feeling niggles in my belly.

  "Is that it? You're unsatisfied she left without speaking to you?"

  Maybe. But when he says it out loud like that, it sounds foolish and makes me feel stupid. I don't bother answering.

  He grabs his coat, walks over, and kisses my forehead. "I don't want to argue, but my business is off limits."

  I can't look him in the eye, so I stare at his chest and say, "I don't want your work to come between us."

  "Then don't let it. I have to go. Early mor
ning." He walks to my door and opens it. Before leaving, he glances at me. "I promise you I did not move Raina Stone's body."

  When I hear the downstairs door slam shut, I let out a deep breath. I believe him. I know he wouldn't outright lie to me. But there's also something else going on. This isn't just mild intuition like what caused Aunt Stella to scream in Aunt Angela's ear. This feels huge. My gut is screaming, and the idea that Julian's hiding something kills me.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The next day, the deli is super busy, which is fine with me. I tossed and turned during the night. Between little sleep and my argument with Julian, I'm not in a stellar mood. Staying busy is the only way to get through my shift.

  By the end of it, my muscles ache, and I want a hot shower. I actually want a long soak in a tub, but I'd have to go to Ma's to get it, and that's weird. A shower will do. Besides, Ma was tapping her foot on the linoleum, obviously miffed with me, when I walked in late this morning.

  As it turns out, my cop brother, Enzo, found out about Raina being dead and my finding her. He, then, called Ma because he always runs to her whenever Izzie or I do something messed up. It's like we're ten years old again. Ma laid it on thick about how I am a dead body magnet and how dangerous my life has become.

  I promised her that it was a fluke. Raina most likely fell and hit her head, and I was far from danger. I'm not sure if she believes me, even though it's true. She barely spoke to me for the rest of her shift, but when Pop came in to relieve her, she gave me a hug and kiss bye. With a stern, "Stay safe."

  Now my shift is done, and I'm envisioning a long, hot shower. I give Pop a peck bye and step into the kitchen. I remove my apron, grab my purse, and head to the back door. Living above your job definitely has its perks.

  "Boo!" Aunt Stella shouts before appearing directly in front of me.

  I flinch and softly cry out.

  She cackles, and since we're practically nose-to-nose, I can almost see her tonsils.

  I step back and look over my shoulder to see if Pop is watching. He's still up front with a customer. It's just me and my dead aunt in the kitchen. "You scared the crap out of me."

  She continues obscenely laughing. "I know. Isn't it great?"

  "No," I say, annoyed because my heart is still thumping a mile a minute, but truth is, she's not lying.

  My siblings and I love to scare one another. Jumping out of closets, grabbing ankles from under beds. We've been doing it all of our lives, but we haven't had a good Mancini scare in months. Enzo and I vowed to not scare Izzie while she's pregnant. We no longer include our parents. That only leaves my brother and me. He's been working a lot, and we've taken a small break from hanging out. I don't think it's a conscious choice. He's just needed space since his ex left town.

  Aunt Stella's still laughing. Was my expression that funny?

  "What are you doing here?" I ask.

  She twirls, which makes her bathrobe flair open by her thighs. Since she died by slipping in the bathtub, after rising and putting on this robe, I know she's au naturel beneath it. That's the last thing I want to see.

  I shut my eyes and take a step toward the back door, which is a stupid move considering I bang into the table. Again. Now I'll have a bruise on my other hip.

  Aunt Stella cackles more, which makes me flinch again. I'm gonna need Prozac if she and Aunt Angela are staying around for a while.

  I open my eyes and softly growl. "Are you here to drive me crazy?"

  She floats closer, gets right up to my ear, and whispers, "That wasn't the plan, but if you'd like." Then she twirls again. This time she stops in the middle of the sink.

  If that isn't an odd image, I don't know what is.

  I smirk because it's ridiculous looking and step outside.

  Snow falls from the sky in big fat flakes. The ground is lightly covered with the stuff. It's our first snow of the year. It should be light and fluffy. That's good because I'll be shoveling back here—a path in front of both doors and to our cars. I don't want Pop or Ma to do it. This means I'll have to buy a shovel though.

  "Look at me," Aunt Stella cries out like a little kid. She's lying on the ground, trying to make a snow angel.

  I smile. She may be snarky and grumpy, but she's also a hoot at times. I wish I knew her better when she was alive. "You know that won't work, right?"

  Aunt Stella frowns and then scrunches up her face. She looks constipated. Then she bounces up, and there's a light indentation of an angel.

  I chuckle. "Well done."

  She looks peckish, as much as a dead person who no longer breathes and can't turn green can look. "I knew I could."

  "Are you here because you're bored, or do you want something?" I unlock the door leading to my apartment.

  "I have legit concerns."

  I quirk a brow. "Since when do you speak slang?"

  "Franco hired contractors to update the kitchen. Two of them were young and hip. I pick things up quickly."

  I chuckle and climb the narrow flight of stairs. "How does the kitchen look?"

  "Like a kitchen."

  When I unlock my apartment door, Aunt Stella is already in my living room. She's staring at the framed photos I hung on the wall behind the couch. Black frames, white mats, black-and-white photos of the beach—one with a little girl playing in the sand and the other with a woman holding the child's hand. And each picture has one pop of pink in the child's bathing suit. I found them at a discount store. They remind me of Ma and me.

  I toss my purse by the table beside the sofa. "I need a shower. Are you sticking around?"

  She shrugs and mumbles something incoherent.

  "Okay, I'll be right back." I have no idea what she'll do while I'm gone. I hope she's too wiped out from the angel-making to snoop in my drawers. I don't want her finding anything too personal, like a pink, fuzzy pair of handcuffs and my purple vibrator. She'd never let me hear the end of it.

  The hot, steaming water feels glorious against my skin. When all of the soap is rinsed off, I scrunch my hair with the oversized green bath sheet and slip into black leggings—my favorite clothing ever—socks to keep my toes warm, and an oversized, purple flannel over a white tank top. It's my sit-at-home attire. Super comfy and warm.

  I open my bedroom door and find Aunt Stella is checking out my various fragrances, body sprays, and makeup on top of my dresser. "Did you come by to snoop?"

  "No. I'm here to offer my help."

  I frown, walk into the living room, and plop onto the sofa. "With what?"

  She looks to the ceiling. "I may have stopped by last night and heard you arguing with McHottie."

  She was that chill I felt. I purse my lips and raise a brow. "Eavesdropping is rude, and Mc words are so 2005."

  She blows a raspberry into the air. "Like you haven't eavesdropped to catch those murderers? Yeah, I know what you've been up to, and I'm here to help."

  I raise my chin and look down my nose at her. "How?"

  She holds out her arms and grins. "I am the perfect snoop. No one else can see me."

  It only takes me about three seconds to realize how awesome of a plan this is. She can totally sneak into places I can't. Why haven't I thought of that?

  I jump up and grab my charcoal and black checkered, knee-high, Burberry rain boots. They were more than a week's pay, but other than an old Gucci pair I found at a thrift store, they're the most expensive pair of boots I own. The Gucci's make me feel empowered, but I don't want to ruin the leather in the snow. These Burberry ones are perfect for snow and sleuthing.

  I drive over to Kelly's house and park across the street. There's no crime scene tape on the door, which is a good sign. It also suggests this is a wasted trip. There are a few cars parked in the driveway. None of them are the rental.

  My heart feels heavy again. Why didn't I talk to Raina at the shower? Not because I still want a photo of us, although I do, but because she's gone. It's incredibly sad. And permanent.

  "Which house?" Aunt Stella asks.
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  I point to the light blue one.

  "I'll take a look around and be back." She disappears.

  Too bad I hadn't thought of this earlier. Not just with Aunt Stella but with every other ghost I've encountered in the past couple of months.

  I bite my lower lip and stare out my window. The snow is tapering off, thank goodness. I'm not super fond of driving in it while it's still storming. Once the streets are plowed, I'm fine. Condensation has formed on my windows. I lower the driver's side and use the sleeve of my coat to wipe it down.

  A gust of frigid air blows my hair back and freezes my cheeks. I raise the window and rub my hands together. I turned the engine off to conserve gas. I can't afford to waste it, but I'm contemplating doing exactly that.

  My cell buzzes. It's Julian. I wait a second, not sure if I want to speak to him right now. But I can't resist that adorable face in the display photo. I took it last year when he and I were living together in his Connecticut apartment. It was a lazy Sunday morning, and we were drinking coffee and reading in bed.

  "Hello?"

  "Hey. How are you?" He sounds upbeat but hesitant, as if he's not sure of my mood or if I'm still annoyed.

  "Okay. You?" I'm not sure how to respond, what I'm feeling. I know that everything isn't fine between us though. It won't simply blow over either. I expect him to apologize. I may have been nosy, but he… Technically, he did nothing wrong. But I can't shake those betrayal feelings.

  "Are you home? I have some free time. I thought maybe we could get dinner."

  I glance to Kelly's house. "Um, I'm out."

  "Oh. Where are you?"

  I nibble off my deep purple lipstick. "I'm with my aunt."

  He may assume I'm talking about Aunt Angela, but it's not a lie. If he can avoid the truth, then why can't I?

  "How about another time?" I ask.

  He clears his throat. "Yeah, that's fine. Give me a call later?"

  "Yeah."

  After an awkward good-bye, I turn off the call and toss my cell into my purse on the passenger floor. I turn my attention back to the house as Aunt Stella floats out.

  She's wearing a goofy grin, and I can't tell if she has good news, bad news, or no news at all. She settles into the seat beside me and wiggles around several times before stopping.