Diamonds, Pies & Dead Guys Page 5

  I grip the cool doorknob, twist, and pull the basement door open.

  Ma is standing at the top of the stairs, not four inches from my face, holding a wooden spoon over her head.

  I scream like I never have before, which is saying a lot in this family.

  As I take in her frizzy, dark brown mane perfectly framing her face, her wild eyes, her blue top tucked into her mom jean shorts, and her pale, thin legs, I scream again simply because I don't know what else to do.

  Ma lowers her hand and laughs. "Hey, sweetie."

  "Ma! What the heck?" That's the second time she has gotten me in the last few months by standing inside a doorway.

  I take a step back and allow her room to enter the kitchen. Of course, she's still laughing. Hard.

  "What if I accidentally knocked you backwards?"

  That makes her laugh more. Clearly my dark humor comes from her.

  "I was holding on to the banister."

  I roll my eyes and turn away, disgusted she's not taking this seriously.

  "Oh, look at the time. Your brother will arrive soon. Let's get him together," she says.

  All of the fear, adrenaline, and annoyance escapes me, and I look at her with an enormous smile. "Okay."

  "Get on the floor," she says, "and play dead."

  There isn't much space over by the table, so I lie down on the tile in front of the stove with my feet near the double sink. This way I can see Enzo when he rounds the corner. I hang my tongue out of the corner of my mouth and tilt my head to the side.

  Ma raises a single brow. "That's not convincing. Haven't I taught you anything? Roll onto your stomach."

  I do as told because she's Ma and has been scaring her children, husband, and sisters longer than I've been alive.

  She positions my arms and legs, bending a couple slightly, and then she opens the fridge door, which is a couple of feet from my head.

  "Hold still," she says while standing over me.

  Something cold hits my left armpit and shoulder, and I flinch.

  "Don't move. Too much and it'll look fake." She stands up, holding a bottle of ketchup, and grins at the mess she's made on me.

  "Seriously?" I ask and wish I could see for myself. I spot a dribble of the stuff on my shoulder but can't make out the rest. Since when has she added condiments to our scare routines? I have a feeling I'm the first unlucky guinea pig.

  She steps over me and goes to the counter. "Don't worry. I'll buy you a new shirt. I saw the loveliest ones at the mall last week."

  I can't stand shopping for clothes.

  She bends down and slides the chef's knife into position so that it's braced by my arm and torso. Perhaps it'll look like someone has stabbed me. If you're standing far away and are nearsighted.

  "Ma, that's an actual knife."

  "Don't worry. The blade is away from your skin." She pats my head, gently pushing my cheek against the tile. The lemon scent is much stronger down here. At least I know it's clean. Like it ever wouldn't be. Ma takes washing and disinfecting seriously, so the ketchup surprises me even more. She must be feeling good about life because I haven't seen her at this level of scare mode in a long while. The last time was the night before I moved to Connecticut. I was still living at home then, and with my bags packed and ready to go, she snuck into my empty closet. She waited in there while I got ready for bed and slipped under my covers. Then just as I dozed off, she jumped out. I'm a light sleeper, so her scream jerked me upright and had my heart pounding, but the worse part was that despite the dark room, her Noxzema-covered face practically glowed.

  "Don't move," she says and walks to the basement door, which is beside the fridge.

  She sits on what looks like the third or fourth step, leans back, and stretches her arm out of the doorway. The back of her wrist rests on the top step, and her hand dangles in the kitchen.

  And now we wait.

  And wait some more.

  I hope Enzo is on time because…

  The front door opens. "Ma, why is the door unlocked and the alarm off?" Enzo shouts.

  He lingers in the hall. "Gianna?"

  His footsteps get closer, and now he's in the kitchen.

  I'm squinting and trying to not look like I'm squinting. Not that it matters 'cause, with my cheek on the tile, I can't see more than his navy and lime green sneakers and his white-socked ankles. He must've gone home and changed out of his uniform before coming here.

  "Hilarious, sis," he says and then stops short. "Ma?"

  There's panic in his tone, and I feel bad for him for a moment. He truly sounds worried.

  Laughter sounds. It's low and more giggly than robust. Totally Ma.

  "That's not funny," he shouts and helps Ma to her feet.

  "That's what your sister said when she got here, but I'm having a ball," Ma says.

  I rise, toss the knife into the sink, and get a paper towel for my fake blood. Enzo is scowling at me. I point to Ma before wiping off a few drops on the floor. "Don't blame me. This was her idea."

  Ma chuckles again and opens the fridge. She pulls out a package of chicken pieces—thighs, drumsticks, breasts, and wings. "You two help by peeling the potatoes and making the salad."

  Enzo follows me into the half bath to wash our hands and so that I can get his help in wiping the rest of the ketchup off me, and Ma starts humming "On My Own" from Les Misérables. It brings a grin to my face. I haven't heard her hum her favorite show tunes in a while. She really is in a good mood.

  "So any news about Hilary's death?" I ask Enzo. I may not want to see or help her, but I still want details.

  He shakes his head. "I can't discuss it. You know that."

  "Yeah, but we've talked about things in the past."

  "And they weren't about your ex-best friend." He rinses off and dries his hands on the hanging blue towel.

  "Oh, come on. It's not like I'm involved in the investigation or about to perform surgery on her."

  He smiles and hands me the towel. "Can't."

  But before he can leave, I throw myself into his path and extend my arms in the archway, preventing him from slipping past me. I'm fully prepared to tickle him to get answers if I have to.

  "Here's more of a reason to tell me. I'm not putting myself in the middle of this case. I don't want to help her."

  He gives me a similar look to the one Izzie gave earlier, a cross between disbelief and that they think I'm being mean.

  "I just want some details for curiosity's sake." Which is totally true. I can't help but want to know the details. It's almost like a need. Maybe I'm addicted to murder? Oh, that doesn't sound good.

  I widen my eyes and stare at him until he sighs.

  "Fine. They're still waiting on the autopsy results. They assume the pie plate caused her death, but they don't know for sure yet."

  It looked pretty obvious when I was there.

  "What else?" I ask.

  "There were no signs of a break-in, so she let the person inside or he lives there."

  Kevin. Right.

  "So far, they haven't come up with any enemies or people who'd want to harm her. Other than you."

  I frown. "I didn't want to harm—" I notice his half smile and realize that last part was a playful jab at me. I chuckle and tell him to go on.

  He shrugs. "That's it so far. They tracked her routine for the day. Work, lunch at the café where you saw her, back to work, to a convenience store on her way home, and then home. She didn't leave the apartment, and other than one visitor, according to a neighbor, no one saw her."

  Well, that makes Kevin seem even more likely to be her killer.

  "Are we done now, Miss Marple?"

  I step aside and let him pass. I hang up the towel and take a moment to think about what I learned. It's not much to go on. In fact, it's practically nothing.

  When I reenter the kitchen, he's sitting at the table with a cutting board, peeler, and potatoes.

  I grab the big wooden salad bowl and the chef's knife and se
t it down before sitting across from him.

  "I can add, but probably shouldn't, that they questioned Kevin and let him go, so…"

  "So they have nothing on him that proves he's guilty," I say.

  "At least not yet. Being a cop, he should be better at not leaving behind evidence."

  I chop the romaine lettuce. "If he did it."

  Enzo stops mid-peel. "You think he's innocent?"

  I shrug. "I don't know. It's just 'the husband did it' is so cliché."

  Enzo grins. "That's because statistically murders are usually committed by someone the victim knows. And who better than the person you share a bed with?"

  I think of Kevin and Hilary arguing at the café. "That's morbid and scary. Who'd want to get married or move in with someone knowing that fact?"

  "There are more alive couples than dead ones," Ma says while sprinkling the chicken with oregano. So she's listening to us.

  "But you don't know you're dating or living with a killer until it's too late. Sounds risky," I say and honestly don't mind the idea of living alone for the rest of my life. I'd like to not stay in the apartment above the deli forever though.

  "Life is about taking chances," Ma says. "What has Hilary said?"

  "Nothing."

  "She doesn't remember?" Enzo asks.

  "I haven't seen her much," I whisper.

  "Gianna?" Ma's tone is firm, and I fear I'm about to get sent to my room.

  I sigh. "I haven't, but I'm also not helping her. She can find another ghost whisperer."

  "Gianna Rose Mancini. It's one thing to hold a grudge, but it's another to not help the dead." She scrunches up her nose. "It's so tacky."

  Ugh. I'm tiring of this narrative. Since when do I have to help every single ghost? And it's not like she's even asking me to.

  "I stopped by her mother's and sat with her and Steven today. Does that count?"

  Ma nods and looks momentarily lost in thought. "I need to send flowers. And go to the funeral. Do you know when it'll be?"

  I shake my head. "Not yet. I asked Steven to let me know."

  We fall into silence. Ma at the sink, stove, and counters, cooking the chicken, Enzo finishing the potatoes, and me working next on the cucumber and tomatoes. All I keep thinking about is poor Mrs. Porter.

  I set down the knife, wipe my hands on a napkin from the holder in the center of the table, and stand up. I walk over to Ma, wrap my arms around her waist from behind, and lean my cheek on her back.

  Ma stiffens. "What have you done now?"

  I chuckle and let go. "Nothing. Can't I just hug my mother?"

  Ma smiles, pulls me into her embrace, and smooches my cheek until it tickles and I'm laughing again.

  * * *

  After a satisfying dinner, I head toward home and remember Michael. As I stop at a light, I text him.

  Want to meet up re: Hil?

  Before the light changes to green, he responds.

  Sure. Boardwalk at Lincoln Park.

  That park is across from where Hilary and her family lived when we were kids. It's just a small area with a playscape for little kids, but the boardwalk on the backside of it has benches, and it shouldn't be busy at this time of night.

  The light changes, and I get in a quick reply.

  On my way.

  I hang a left at the next street and turn around.

  I've been to this part of town a trillion times since I returned to town last fall, but today it feels different. It looks the same as it always has—the kid slide, the swings, the pirate ship, and other equipment to scream and play on, the almost full parking area for the apartment buildings that line the opposite side of the street. That part of town reminds me of where Hilary and Kevin live. I don't know what it is. Maybe it's just grief.

  I park and step onto the sidewalk that leads to the boardwalk's ramp. The park is empty. Hilary and I would sneak out of her apartment during sleepovers and come here. We'd sit on the swings and see who could go the highest and talk about our lives, school, or boys for hours. Mrs. Porter never knew. Steven did. He caught us sneaking back in one night. Hilary had to bribe him with candy to keep his mouth shut.

  I reach the top of the ramp and head over to a bench facing the beach.

  There are people, a couple and a man with a dog, walking by. It'll be a few hours before the businesses shut down for the night, but this area is relatively quiet. A hotel, some restaurants, a bar, and other establishments are farther down. The only places close by are another apartment building and a hot dog stand that isn't open. I don't know if they closed early or if the business has gone under. I haven't paid attention until now.

  I sit on the bench and stare at the gentle waves. The sun is setting, and I'm so glad I didn't miss it. Streaks of gold, red, yellow, and pink fill the horizon. It's breathtaking. I need to sit here more often.

  "Hey," says a voice behind me.

  I turn to see Michael, and boy, does he look rough.

  His dark bangs are twisted and messy, as if he's been running his fingers through them for hours. His eyes are bloodshot, and his complexion is splotchy. He's wearing a red T-shirt that's wrinkled, black shorts, and flip-flops. He walks around the bench and sits beside me. Instead of taking in the scenery, he burrows his face in his hands and deeply sighs.

  "How are you doing?" I ask. Apparently the answer is "not good," but I'm not 100% sure why. Is this about Hilary, or is something else going on in his life?

  He takes his hands away but stays hunched over with his elbows on his knees. "I can't believe this happened."

  I momentarily frown, still not sure what he's referring to.

  "You're talking about Hilary, right?" There's no sense in guessing. I may as well come right out and ask.

  He twists his body to face me and frowns deeply. "Of course. What else?"

  His tone is rough and angry and makes me flinch. I'm not expecting it.

  Okay, calm down. It's just a question.

  "I didn't realize you and Hilary remained close all these years." Now there's an edge in my voice too, and if I'm being completely honest with myself, I don't like it.

  I'm not delusional enough to think that if Hilary had kept her trap shut that Michael and I would've ended up married with two-point-five kids and a white picket fence. I'm not even sure if I want those things.

  After Hilary kissed Michael and told him my secret, we mostly stopped talking. I went through most of senior year by myself. My traitorous ex-best friend and my ex-crush still talked and laughed, and they left me out in the cold. She never apologized, just acted like she had done nothing wrong. He and I ended up speaking twice that year. Once several months after the kiss, in the lunch line, and not again until we graduated. Then college happened and I didn't see him again until he returned to South Shore Beach early this year.

  He and I spoke then, and he apologized for how he had treated me. He'd been embarrassed when he learned I had a crush on him, after kissing my best friend, and everything became awkward. I forgave him when we last spoke, but now, with all of the feelings resurfacing, I feel just as distant to him now as I did senior year of high school.

  Michael rubs his face with his palm and then sits upright. "She and I stayed in touch via Facebook."

  My stomach knots. That's more than what I got from him.

  "We hung out some when I came back to town," he says while staring at the sunset.

  I can't be mad at that. Michael and I have spent some time together too. Was I really jealous over which of us spent more time with him? I'm not interested in him in that way, so why would that matter to me? Then it hits me. I don't want him. I just hate the idea that she got what she wanted after hurting me. That she "won," although what exactly was the prize? Michael? And does it matter now that she's dead?

  Boy, do I sound bitter. Let it go, Gi.

  "Yeah, I can't believe it either," I say. Finding her body has not been the highlight of my week. That's for sure.

  I hear a soft sound that almost so
unds like laughter, but when I pull my gaze away from the horizon, I see that he's hunched over again, and this time he's sobbing. His entire upper body shakes.

  Wow. I don't expect this, so I'm momentarily shocked.

  I slide closer to him and put an arm around his shoulders. Should I say something? And if so, what are the magic words?

  Before I can even try to come up with something that probably won't make him feel better, he leans into me. With his face on my chest and his weight pushing me back into the bench, I hold him as he cries. And the entire time, I'm racked with fear. It has nothing to do with a man crying. I've seen Pop and Enzo reduced to tears when our grandparents passed away and once when Enzo's first car, his pride and joy, was totaled because of a careless friend.

  No, right now I'm wondering just how broken I am that this isn't affecting me.

  Less than an hour later, Michael and I part and stand to go home. He apologizes for being a mess, and I tell him not to worry about it and that I'll call him later.

  I pull into the gravel parking lot behind the deli and see another car parked. A shiny red Camaro. Who do I know that owns a car so flashy? It takes me less than a minute to realize the driver is Kevin. Well, crap. I really don't want to deal with him. And he's definitely seen me, so I can't politely put my car into reverse and leave.

  I park and am a bit fearful about getting out. The last time he was at my apartment, he was drunk, demanded to know if I could really see ghosts (Hilary did not know how to keep her mouth shut), and grabbed me pretty roughly. I have no reason to suspect this will be an encore of that night, but I'm still a ball of nerves just the same.

  I step onto the gravel and hold my keys in my fist in a way that I can use them as a weapon if needed.

  He steps out of his car and staggers. Great. So he's drunk again.

  "What are you doing here?" I shout, not wanting to get too close to him.

  He doesn't have that same desire because he wobbles over and keeps coming, no matter how many steps I take backwards.