“Yeah, but a lot of good that did me. I had blood under my nails that it took a half hour to scrub off in the shower. You need more soap, by the way. And maybe a few more towels. I threw the DNA evidence into the dumpster out back.”
“Good thinking. That won’t make us look guilty at all,” I snip. “So when you washed up at the manor, did you happen to play patty cake with the wall? Because when I got there, it looked as if another massacre had taken place.”
“No way, no how.” She clutches both Pixie and Lucky. “You know darn well I did more than my fair share of ride-alongs with Daddy when he was taking out the trash.”
I close my eyes at the mention of our father.
It’s true. For a while, Angelo Santini held a position with the crime organization known as the trash man. His position consisted almost solely of cleaning up dead bodies that the mob may have purposely or inadvertently piled up.
It might sound grisly that our father took us along for the ride, but not only were we diligent helpers, we appreciated that it was his way of including us in the family business. Our dad is currently doing time for a RICO charge. He did his best to become an informant, wore a wire to Sunday dinner, the whole nine weasel yards—thus earning himself the nickname The Sunday Sinner.
Fun fact: he’s doing time in the exact same prison where Shepherd Wexler’s father is doing time for killing his wife—Shep’s stepmother to be exact.
“All right,” I say, fishing that earring out of my pocket and holding it out for my sister to see. “Check this out.”
“Wow”—she muses—“Daddy used to buy me donuts after a good cleanup, but I like where you’re heading with the jewelry much better. Next time try to aim for a matching pair. I’ve got two ears, you know.” She tries to snatch the bauble from my hand and I quickly close my fingers.
“It’s not for you. I found this near the hose. It might belong to the killer.” I quickly tell her about Miggy’s coffee klatch book club, about Carrie’s man-eating ways when it came to scooping up Hazel Newton’s boyfriend, and about the fact I saw Jack Butler getting upset with her.
“Anyone else in the book club?”
“Just Miggy herself.” I think on it a minute. “And a woman named Annabelle Sanderson. She was dressed as Little Red Riding Hood tonight.”
“Who wasn’t?” Steph shakes her head at the thought. “What do you know about Red?”
“Nothing really, other than the fact she works at her sister’s pumpkin patch. She didn’t stick around long after the intro. She had to get herself a drink.”
Steph squints at the ceiling. “Anything else on Little Red Lush?”
“Hazel mentioned something about her doing party planning as well.”
She shrugs. “Personally, I think the butler did it.”
“Very funny,” I say, getting up and making us both a cup of hot apple cider before we curl up and watch a horror flick about a haunted mansion. Life imitating art.
We chitchat about our brother, Lorenzo, a womanizer by anybody’s standards, and according to Steph, he hasn’t changed his female-loving ways.
She fills me in on our mother’s latest, greatest cougar-based adventures. Mom has always had a knack for chasing men younger than her—and coincidentally younger than me.
And, of course, we reminisce about our sweet Uncle Vinnie. It was Uncle Vinnie who supplied me with the exit strategy once the heat was on back in Hastings.
I tell Steph all about the fact he didn’t have to dig hard into his gray matter when coming up with my new name. The truth is, he was listening to David Bowie at the time. And for the surname, he asked his three-year-old granddaughter what she’d like to name her next cat, thus Binx was born.
Steph lifts her cider my way. “Sounds Shep-tastic. Only you, Stella, could run for cover and end up in the arms of the hottest detective this side of the Mason-Dixon Line.”
“Yeah, well, that’s still up for debate—the part about the ending up in his arms. I happen to agree with you on that hottest detective stuff.”
About an hour later, once the horror movie kicked in and left us huddling behind a sea of furry cats, there’s a knock at the door that makes us scream like a couple of teenage girls running from a man with a chainsaw.
“I’d better take King in the event it’s Opal wielding a knife. That way I can toss him outside before she gets a chance to stab me in the eye.”
I do a quick look-see out the side window, but it’s not Opal. It’s Shep looking lean, mean, and all around hardened by life, and perhaps a homicide or two. I swing the door wide open.
He lifts a brow. “Can I come in?”
“Only if you promise not to arrest me,” I say, holding out my hand as I let him walk on by.
“Is that King?” Shep’s gone from frustrated to worried for me. “You really do like to live on the edge.”
“That would be me.” Stephanie raises a hand as she crops up between us. “How about a sandwich, Shep? I can throw in some salami, mortadella, and prosciutto with a couple of slices of provolone. Bowie is all out of that cheap sliced bread that tastes like sawdust, but I managed to pick up a few loaves of French bread that would be perfect for a spicy Italian hoagie.”
Shep inches back. “Oh, yes, please.” He’s quick to take a seat at the table while Steph whips up his midnight snack in record time, and both King and Lucky hop up onto the kitchen counter to inspect the thirteen-dollar a pound package of prosciutto. “I think I can get used to this.” He takes a huge bite out of his sandwich and moans.
I won’t lie. Just hearing him growl with approval like that has lit me up on the inside like a hot-to-trot fireball.
“My work here is done.” Stephanie slaps her hands together as she looks to Shep. “So when’s our first date, hot shot?”
I don’t hesitate to smack her. “Hands off, sister.”
“What?” she balks. “Nana Rose always said the way to a man’s bed was through his stomach.”
“I’m positive that’s not what she said.” I give her the stink eye for even bringing up a bed in front of my man. “Shep, my Nana Rose was not a pervert.”
He shrugs as he swallows down another bite. “I didn’t think she sounded so bad.”
Steph smacks me right back. “Newsflash, sis, men are sort of perverts, too. Beer, Shep?”
“I don’t have beer,” I say as I watch her head to the fridge.
“You do now.” She quickly plunks one on the counter in front of the sandwich-hungry detective and opens one up for herself.
“Steph.” I wrinkle my nose at her. “Easy on the liquor. You know the effect it can have on you.” I make crazy eyes at her in the event she doesn’t catch my supernatural drift.
“You mean the effect it can have on our gift?” She glances to the ceiling at the thought. “Well, I happen to like having an all-night preview of—”
“Of all the trouble you can cause tomorrow,” I say, navigating her out of the kitchen and right back into the living room where she still coincidentally doesn’t belong. “Shep doesn’t know about the gift,” I hiss in her ear.