Diamonds, Pies & Dead Guys Read online

  "Kevin, what do you want?" My voice cracks.

  "I need to tell you," he says but doesn't add anything else.

  I stop moving and allow him to get right up to my face. That's when I notice his breath has a hint of alcohol on it, but it's not super strong, and his bloodshot eyes could be from crying. I mean, his wife is dead.

  I relax a bit and ask again, "Why are you here?"

  "I didn't kill her. I promise. I didn't do it." He sniffles, and I'm scared he's going to cry. I still have a damp shirt from Michael, and I don't think I can tolerate another blubbering person tonight.

  And yes, I'm totally aware that my empathy has jumped out of the window of a high-rise and is apparently still falling because I'm normally much more sympathetic. But I can't console him of all people.

  "I'm sorry you're going through this, but why tell me?" I'm not the cops. I don't care if he did it or not.

  "The old woman in my building said to find the girl who discovered Hilary."

  What? The woman in the bathrobe springs to mind. Why would she say that?

  "You always find bodies," Kevin says. "You're like a bloodhound."

  I can't help but laugh, and that makes Kevin grin.

  "You need coffee and to go home and sleep this off," I say.

  His eyes widen for a moment. "I can't go back there. I'm renting a room at the motel near the station."

  That's smart. I wouldn't want to return to a murder scene either.

  "Then go there," I say.

  He turns and staggers back toward his car. I can't let him drive off like this. Then both of the Burtons may be dead.

  "Wait!"

  He stops, looks over his shoulder, and stumbles.

  I hold my hand out. "You can't drive yourself home. Give me your keys, and I'll call you a cab."

  "I need to talk to Sanchez tomorrow at one. How will I get there?"

  He said he's staying near the precinct. I wiggle my fingers. "Walk."

  He doesn't give me any flack, hands me his keys, and then goes over and leans on his car.

  I pull out my phone, call the local cab company, and give them directions to where we are and where he's going. When I hang up, Hilary appears.

  Perfect timing.

  She looks to Kevin, to me, and back to him again. Then she points at him and shouts, "He killed me."

  CHAPTER SIX

  The cab has picked up Kevin, and now I'm in my apartment with a ghost trailing behind me. This doesn't promise to be a good night. Again.

  I kick off my shoes, set down my purse, and turn to Hilary. "What happened?"

  She doesn't look at me but the apartment instead. This is technically her second time in here, but the first night she hadn't stayed long. Realizing you're dead probably messes with your thought process. Not that now is the proper time for admiring my blue and white polka dot throw pillows or my collection of recycled glass jelly and salsa jars.

  "We were arguing," she says while turning her back to me and gazing out my front windows.

  She says nothing else, but there has to be more to it than that. One doesn't murder their wife because of a simple argument.

  "And?" Impatience creeps into my tone.

  "He hit me with a glass pie pan. Here." She points to the back of her head where her hair is matted with blood.

  It's not something I want to stare at, so I look away and sit on the couch, pulling my feet up and tucking them crisscross under my knees.

  "Why?" I ask.

  She hesitates a few seconds before saying, "Because I slapped him."

  Something had to have ignited her anger. She was always so calm growing up, and her neutral colored wardrobe and makeup, with her hair usually pulled back into a bun or ponytail, don't scream the wild and passionate type. Then again, maybe that muted appearance is a mask over who she really is. No. I can't believe that. Something set her off.

  "Why?" Do I really need to pull one sentence at a time out of her?

  She turns and looks annoyed. "Because I was angry about my marriage. About his obsession with you."

  "Me?" I nearly laugh out loud. She must be confused from the whack on her head. "I have nothing to do with you two."

  "You haven't had to physically, but you've always been on his mind. He never loved me. He only married me because he couldn't have you," she shouts.

  Whoa, what on earth is she talking about?

  "I should've seen that when he asked me to marry him the same day you came back to South Shore Beach last year. And then an impromptu courthouse wedding with a justice of the peace. I'm an idiot. But I wanted to believe our old feelings from college were rekindled."

  She's serious. She believes what she's saying. If I'm honest with myself, I thought their marriage was quick and the timing coincidental with my return, but I didn't suspect it was actually about me. You don't get reacquainted and marry a woman because your arch nemesis returns to town. It's ridiculous.

  "He's never gotten over you," she says.

  Over me? When was he under me? No, that's not what I mean. My head hurts, and I need sleep. Nothing is making sense.

  "I can't stand him," I say.

  "That means nothing."

  "And he's told you this?" I ask, still trying to understand.

  "Not directly, but it's obvious in the way he looks at you."

  So this is just her imagination. I let out a breath and softly chuckle at my relief. I don't want Kevin to like me in that way or any way really. As long as he stops being a jerk, I'm fine. I don't want to be blamed for having been a catalyst to their marital problems. Why are the two people I've disliked most in my lifetime still a part of my life?

  "That means nothing. No one can actually read someone's gazes. I don't know what's been going on between you two, but I have nothing to do with it."

  She shakes her head and goes back to staring at the street below. "You always refused to see what was obvious."

  My annoyance shoots up instantly. "What does that mean?"

  She heavily sighs and asks, "What are you going to do about this?"

  "About Kevin's alleged feelings?"

  She lifts her knee and brings her foot down hard. I don't hear anything, but if she was corporeal, it would've been a powerful stomp. "No! About how he murdered me."

  Oh, right, yes.

  "What can I do?" I ask. My limbs and eyelids are growing heavy, and soon I won't be able to stay awake.

  "You can tell someone, like Sanchez."

  I scrunch up my face. "How? Should I say that I guessed Kevin hit you over the head with a glass pie pan after an argument about me? He wouldn't take it seriously without proof. Besides, Kevin is already a suspect."

  I don't bother to say that I may still be too.

  She huffs. "Tell him I told you."

  I can't help but laugh. "No way. It's a secret."

  "This is my life," she yells.

  "Actually, it's your death, and that changes nothing. I don't divulge my secret, and can you guess why? No? I'll tell you. Because people, namely best friends, can't be trusted."

  She rolls her eyes. "Are you still harping on that?"

  I groan and don't say a word. I'm speechless that she thinks it's not a big deal. It doesn't matter if it happened yesterday, a year ago, or ten. It left a deep scar that still flares up and hurts at times. Namely now.

  "Then go find some proof," Hilary says.

  I'm tiring of this conversation. Can she come back when I'm wide awake? Or never. "The police have already been through your apartment. It's their job to figure this out."

  "What good are you?" she asks.

  "Hey! You don't get to come in here and yell at me because I can't help."

  "Can't or won't?"

  Hilary disappears, and I'm left alone and mildly annoyed.

  Good riddance.

  As if I need anything else on my mind, especially Hilary's and Kevin's marital woes. The sooner the police figure out who killed her, the sooner she can move on and I can officially
be left alone. Since she knows who killed her, why is she hanging around though? Does she want the sweet revenge of seeing Kevin arrested and locked up? That makes sense, but my gut is telling me something is off. Did Kevin really kill his wife? For all the years I disliked and distrusted him, why do I feel like he's innocent?

  * * *

  The next day, I'm at the office, at my desk, and Julian is standing over me, listening to my story about last night. I hate when he does this. The leaning over part. And not just from him but people in general, especially guys. It's claustrophobic and reeks of power and control. I also may be a bit testy this morning. I didn't sleep well after Hilary left, despite my desperate need for it, and I still have Kevin's keys.

  When I got up earlier, his car was gone. He must have a spare set and took a cab over to pick up the Camaro. Apparently, he didn't remember that last night when he mentioned visiting Sanchez today. And that leads to my next question… When did he get that car? I haven't seen it before. Not that I monitor Kevin's vehicles, but it was super shiny and red. It stands out. It has to be new and not cheap. Do homicide detectives make good money?

  "It's a good plan to stay out of the way and let the police handle it," Julian says.

  Even though this is exactly what I told myself I'd do, I'm annoyed at his blasé attitude. I know why I don't want to get involved with who killed Hilary, but shouldn't Mr. Private Investigator be more interested?

  "Why would he stop by to tell me he's innocent if he's not?" I ask out loud more to myself.

  Julian shrugs while lifting a folder and reading the contents. It's just the preliminary paperwork belonging to his latest client. They're scheduled to come in shortly. He has a handful now, and we're both delighted. Yeah, the cases aren't very mentally or physically stimulating, a missing pet and four cases of infidelity, but they pay the bills.

  When Julian looks up from his reading material, he must notice that I'm biting my lower lip, because he frowns. "What are you concerned about? It's worked out great. You don't want to help Hilary, so you're staying out of it. Now I don't have to worry about your safety."

  I stop biting and also frown. "You don't have to worry about me."

  He chuckles. "You have this habit of getting yourself in dangerous situations when you're helping a ghost. Yes, I do."

  Wow, that's a bit condescending.

  "What about you?" I ask. "Between this job and being a fixer, you aren't exactly living a safe life."

  He laughs again, and the sound is starting to grate my nerves. "This is my job. I'm licensed and know what I'm doing."

  I inwardly gasp. Is he saying that I'm an idiot walking around stepping into danger puddles with no sense?

  "And this job is calm compared to the other. Unless I fall out of a tree while rescuing that cat. This is what you wanted, right?"

  Me?

  I wave my hand around the room. "This is for me?"

  He returns to frowning. "Of course. I'm perfectly happy working for Mr. Hamilton. You wanted something less…what is it? Less gray?"

  "Gray?" I ask, no longer hiding the annoyance in my voice.

  He stands straight and stretches. "Yeah. You have a black and white, right and wrong thinking, but if we're being honest, you're gray too. A light gray."

  His smile at the end of his sentence doesn't deflate my rising anger. In fact, it tells me he's oblivious to how he's coming across, and that, bottled with everything else right now, is making me see red.

  "Light gray?" At the same time, I'm full of confusion that he's saying this now. He's never expressed these feelings before.

  "Well, yeah. You lie so much in order to protect your secret. That's gray, even though it's necessary. I understand that."

  Is he saying that I don't understand how he helps his fixer clients by moving dead bodies off their property and whatever other nefarious things he does? Of all the…

  The exterior door opens, and a woman in her midthirties steps inside.

  Great. Now I can't reply and have to pretend I'm okay with all he said.

  The woman is dressed in a long-sleeve blouse and navy dress pants despite the rising temperature outside. Her long auburn hair is slicked back into a low ponytail. Minimal makeup of just some light blush and mascara accentuates her very pale complexion, and small, simple gold studs in her ears and a thin, gold band on her left ring finger are her only jewelry.

  Julian extends his hand. "Hello, I'm Julian Reed, and this is my assistant, Gianna Mancini."

  I smile at the woman, who curtly nods then shakes Julian's hand. "Mrs. Snyder."

  His latest client.

  They walk over to his desk, and Julian glances to me before sitting down.

  With us both working in the same office, this part gets awkward. Even though I work for him, a new client doesn't want to share their intimate details with another person in the room, so Julian and I made a deal that I'd leave whenever he meets with someone.

  It'll become a nuisance when he gets more popular, but until then, I forward the office line to my cell, grab my purse, and step outside. Normally I'd go across the street and have coffee with Ma, but Kevin's key is figuratively burning a hole in my purse. I don't want to keep it any longer.

  I step to the corner and wait for the light to change. I don't bother paying attention to the pedestrian walk signals. If it was up to that indicator, I'd have to grow wings and fly across the four-lane road in the literal ten seconds it turned from red to green and back to red. Instead, I wait until I don't see any cars and dash across.

  When I'm safely on the other side, I wave to Ma, who's with several customers, and walk to the back parking lot. Ma's sedan is parked beside my silver Kia. I stare at the empty space on the other side of my car. It's where Kevin had pulled in last night. He had no clue (at least I don't think he did) that Hilary was going to tell me he was guilty just moments after he professed his innocence, so the timing was purely coincidental. I hate coincidences. They don't feel real, but this time is different. He's innocent and then he's not. All in the matter of minutes.

  He came here because that woman told him to find me. The keys can wait. Kevin said he was visiting Sanchez at one. I'll go to the station then, so I don't have to hunt him down at his motel. This gives me several free hours. Right now, I need to talk to Miss Bathrobe.

  I hop into my car and drive to Hilary's and Kevin's apartment. When I'm standing on the top of the third floor, I take a deep breath. I never thought I'd visit here once, let alone twice.

  I glance to Hilary's shut door with the crime tape across it and remember I have Kevin's keys. Not just the ones to his car but his entire set, which means his apartment key should be on the ring.

  Do I go inside and snoop around?

  No, I have no reason to. I'm not trying to help her, and she doesn't even want my help. She says Kevin did it. Case closed. Besides, Sanchez is thorough. There's nothing in there that I can find that they haven't.

  I raise my hand to knock on Bathrobe's door but pause. My gaze is still firmly affixed on Hilary's door.

  But it couldn't hurt to look. Well, technically I shouldn't because of the tape and all. I assume that means they aren't done in there. Do they remove it when they are through? I'll have to ask Enzo someday. So maybe I could look around. I'd be extra careful and not leave fingerprints behind.

  I tiptoe over to the door, and before I can get the keys out of my purse, the door to 3B swings open.

  Miss Bathrobe peeks her head out and spots me. She's not in a robe now. She's about an inch shorter than me, a gold silk scarf wrapped around her head, and she's dressed in a bright purple tracksuit. It's so bright, even at this short distance apart, that it makes me blink.

  "Can I help you?" she asks.

  I turn around fully and walk to her. "Hi, my name is Gianna Mancini, and the man who lives next to you says you sent him to find me."

  The woman takes a step back and gazes at me from the top of my curly, dark brown head to the toes of my black mules. They
're not as casual as open-toe sandals, but they're flat enough that I won't risk twisting an ankle and crashing to the ground like I fear whenever I wear heels. Of course, with this heat, it means my feet are hot. Maybe I should reconsider Julian's nonchalant attitude about casual attire in the office.

  "You're the young lady who found my neighbor dead," she says.

  "Yes, ma'am. She was my friend. Well, actually, my ex-friend."

  The woman's overly thin brows shoot up. "Why were you here so late that night if you two were no longer friends?"

  That is definitely the million-dollar question.

  "I, um…" I don't want to give the same lie I told Sanchez. It's ridiculous, and I'm curious why she sent Kevin my way. Something tells me she'll be less than honest or just refuse to speak to me if she thinks I'm lying.

  "Spit it out," she snaps.

  I open my mouth, not liking to be rushed, and say, "I had a feeling."

  Yeah, 'cause that's not even more lame than what I told Sanchez.

  But this woman doesn't slam the door in my face. She says, "Hmm, I get feelings too. Maybe, if I'd listened to mine, that woman would still be alive."

  Oh wow, what is she talking about?

  She takes a step back. "Come in. We need to chat."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Brenda Johnson pours boiling water from a stainless-steel kettle into two deep blue, sunflower painted mugs, each with a tea bag and a couple of tablespoons of sugar. We're seated at her round dining room table. Her apartment is the same layout as Hilary's and Kevin's except in the opposite direction. Oh, and she has a lot more stuff. Like a china cabinet on the far wall crammed with fancy white and light blue floral plates and enough scallop edged teacups to serve a small nation. There's a long ivy plant seated on top and draped over the side. It reaches halfway to the floor.

  Her living room has a charcoal, oversize armchair with a bright yellow, knitted blanket thrown over the back. The boxy and comfy-looking sofa is in the same blue shade as the mugs, and several tables and a small television complete the space.