Two for the Dough

  “Hmmph.”

  “Who was the guy that just paid his respects?” I asked Ranger. “Sandman?”

  “His name is Perry Sandeman. Got the name of Sandman on account of if you irritate him he'll put you to sleep for a real long time.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “He gets around. Buys a little dope from the brothers.”

  “What's he doing here?”

  “Works at the garage.”

  “Moogey's garage?”

  “Yeah. I hear he was there when Moogey got shot in the knee.”

  Someone screamed in the front of the room, and there was the sound of a heavy object being slammed shut. A heavy object like a coffin lid. I felt my eyes involuntarily roll skyward.

  Spiro appeared in the doorway not far from me. Two small frown lines had fixed themselves between his eyebrows. He strode forward, cutting a swath through the crowd. I had a clear view in his wake, and the view was of Grandma Mazur.

  “It was my sleeve,” Grandma said to Spiro. “It got caught by accident on the lid and the dang thing just opened up. It could of happened to anyone.”

  Grandma looked back at me and gave a thumbs-up.

  “Is that your granny?” Ranger wanted to know.

  “Yup. She was checking to make sure Moogey was here.”

  “You've got a helluva gene pool, babe.”

  Spiro tested the lid to make sure it was securely closed and replaced the flower spray that had fallen to the floor.

  I hustled up, ready to lend support to the lid-caught-on-the-sleeve theory, but support wasn't necessary. Spiro clearly wanted to minimize the incident. He made some sounds of comfort to the closest mourners and was busy wiping Grandma's fingerprints off the glossy wood.

  “I couldn't help but notice while the lid was up that you did a nice job,” Grandma said, hovering over Spiro. “Couldn't hardly see those holes at all, except for where your mortician's putty'd sunk in a little.”

  Spiro nodded solemnly, and with the touch of a fingertip to Grandma's back, deftly turned her away from the casket. “We have tea in the lobby,” he said. “Perhaps you would like a cup of tea after this unfortunate experience?”

  “I guess a cup of tea wouldn't hurt,” Grandma said. “I was pretty much done here anyway.”

  I accompanied Grandma to the lobby and made sure she was actually going to drink tea. When she settled into a chair with her cup and some cookies, I went on my own in search of Spiro. I found him loitering just outside the side door, standing in a halo of artificial light, sneaking a smoke.

  The air had grown cool, but Spiro seemed oblivious to the chill. He dragged the smoke deep into his lungs and exhaled slowly. I figured he was trying to absorb as much tar as possible, the sooner to end his wretched life.

  I knocked lightly on the glass door to get his attention. “Would you like to discuss the, um, you know . . . now?”

  He nodded to me, took one last long drag, and pitched his cigarette onto the driveway. “I would have called you this afternoon, but I figured you'd come to see Bues tonight. I need these things found yesterday.” He shifted his eyes over the lot to make sure we were alone.

  “Caskets are like anything else. Manufacturers have surplus, they have seconds, they have sales. Sometimes it's possible to buy bulk and get a good price. About six months ago I put in a bulk bid and got twenty-four caskets below cost. We're short on storage space here, so I stowed the caskets in a rental locker.”

  Spiro took an envelope from his jacket pocket. He removed a key from the envelope and held it up for my inspection. “This is the key to the locker. The address is inside the envelope. The caskets were wrapped in protective plastic for shipment and crated so they could be stacked. I've also included a photograph of one of the caskets. They were all the same. Very plain.”

  “Have you reported this to the police?”

  “I haven't reported the theft to anyone. I want to get the caskets back and generate as little publicity as possible.”

  “This is out of my league.”

  “A thousand dollars.”

  “Jesus, Spiro, these are caskets we're talking about! What kind of a person would steal caskets? And where would I begin to look? You have clues or something?”

  “I have a key and an empty locker.”

  “Maybe you should cut your losses and collect the insurance.”

  “I can't file for insurance without a police report, and I don't want to bring in the police.”

  The thousand dollars was tempting, but the job was beyond bizarre. I honestly didn't know where to start looking for twenty-four lost caskets. “Suppose I actually find the caskets . . . what then? How do you expect to get them back? Seems to me if a person's low enough to steal a casket, he's going to be mean enough to fight to keep it.”

  “Let's just go one step at a time,” Spiro said. “Your finder's fee doesn't involve retrieving. Retrieving will be my problem.”

  “I suppose I could ask around.”

  “We need to keep this confidential.”

  No sweat. As if I'd want people to know I was looking for caskets. Get real. “My lips are sealed.” I took the envelope and stuffed it into my pocketbook. “One other thing,” I said. “These caskets are empty, right?”

  “Right.”

  I went back to look for Grandma, and I was thinking maybe this wouldn't be so bad. Spiro had lost a shitload of caskets. They wouldn't be that easy to hide. It wasn't as if you could pack them into the trunk of your car and drive away. Someone had come in with a flatbed or a semi and taken those caskets. Maybe it was an internal job. Maybe someone from the locker company had ripped Spiro off. Then what? The market for caskets is pretty limited. You could hardly use them as planters or lamp stands. The caskets would have to be sold to other mortuaries. These thieves had to be on the cutting edge of crime. Black-market caskets.

  I found Grandma sipping tea with Joe Morelli. I'd never seen Morelli with a teacup in his hand, and the sight was unnerving. As a teenager Morelli had been feral. Two years in the navy and twelve more on the police force had taught him control, but I was convinced nothing short of removing his gonads would ever completely domesticate him. There was always a barbarous part of Morelli that hummed beneath the surface. I found myself helplessly sucked in by it, and at the same time it scared the hell out of me.

  “Well, here she is,” Grandma said when she saw me. “Speak of the devil.”

  Morelli grinned. “We've been talking about you.”

  “Oh, goody.”

  “I hear you had a secretive meeting with Spiro.”

  “Business,” I said.

  “This business have anything to do with the fact that Spiro and Kenny and Moogey were friends in high school?”

  I gave him an eyebrow raise to signify surprise. “They were friends in high school?”

  He held three fingers up. “Like this.”

  “Hmmm,” I said.

  His grin widened. “I guess you're still in war mode.”

  “Are you laughing at me?”

  “Not exactly laughing.”

  “Well then, what?”

  He rocked back on his heels, hands rammed into his pockets. “I think you're cute.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Too bad we're not working together,” Morelli said. “If we were working together I could tell you about my cousin's car.”

  “What about his car?”

  “They found it late this afternoon. Abandoned. No bodies in the trunk. No bloodstains. No Kenny.”

  “Where?”

  “The parking lot at the mall.”

  “Maybe Kenny was shopping.”

  “Unlikely. Mall security remembers seeing the car parked overnight.”

  “Were the doors locked?”

  “All but the driver's door.”

  I considered that for a moment. “If I was abandoning my cousin's car, I'd make sure all the doors were locked.”

  Morelli and I stared into each other's eyes a
nd let the next thought go unsaid. Maybe Kenny was dead. There was no real basis in fact to draw such a conclusion, but the premonition skittered through my mind, and I wondered how this related to the letter I'd just received.

  Morelli acknowledged the possibility with a grim set to his mouth. “Yeah,” he said.

  Stiva had formed a lobby by removing the walls between what had originally been the foyer and the dining room of the large Victorian. Wall-to-wall carpet unified the room and silenced footsteps. Tea was served on a maple library table just outside the kitchen door. Lights were subdued, Queen Anne period chairs and end tables were grouped for conversation, and small floral arrangements were scattered throughout. It would have been a pleasant room if it wasn't for the certain knowledge that Uncle Harry or Aunt Minnie or Morty the mailman was naked in another part of the house, dead as a doorknob, getting pumped full of formaldehyde.

  “You want some tea?” Grandma asked me.

  I shook my head no. Tea held no appeal. I wanted fresh air and chocolate pudding. And I wanted to get out of my panty hose. “I'm ready to leave,” I said to Grandma. “How about you?”

  Grandma looked around. “It's still kind of early, but I guess I haven't got anybody left to see.” She set her teacup on the table and settled her pocketbook into the crook of her arm. “I could use some chocolate pudding anyway.”

  She turned to Morelli. “We had chocolate pudding for dessert tonight, and there's still some left. We always make a double batch.”

  “Been a long time since I've had homemade chocolate pudding,” Morelli said.

  Grandma snapped to attention. “Is that so? Well, you're welcome to join us. We've got plenty.”

  A small strangled sound escaped from the back of my throat, and I glared no, no, no at Morelli.

  Morelli gave me one of those ultranaive what? looks. “Chocolate pudding sounds great,” he said. “I'd love some chocolate pudding.”

  “Then it's settled,” Grandma announced. “You know where we live?”

  Morelli assured us he could find the house with his eyes closed, but just to make sure we'd be safe in the night, he'd follow us home.

  “Don't that beat all,” Grandma said when we were alone in the car. “Imagine him worrying about our safety. And have you ever met a more polite young man? He's a real looker too. And he's a cop. I bet he has a gun under that jacket.”

  He was going to need a gun when my mother saw him standing on her doorstep. My mother would look out the storm door, and she wouldn't see Joe Morelli, a man in search of pudding. She wouldn't see Joe Morelli who had graduated from high school and joined the navy. She wouldn't see Morelli the cop. My mother would see Joe Morelli the fast-fingered, horny little eight-year-old who had taken me to his father's garage to play choo-choo when I was six.

  “This here's a good opportunity for you,” Grandma said as we pulled up to the curb. “You could use a man.”

  “Not this one.”

  “What's wrong with this one?”

  “He's not my type.”

  “You've got no taste when it comes to men,” Grandma said. “Your ex-husband is a cow's tail. We all knew he was a cow's tail when you married him, but you wouldn't listen.”

  Morelli pulled up behind me and got out of his truck. My mother opened the storm door and even from a distance I could see the stern set to her mouth and a stiffening of her spine.

  “We all came back for pudding,” Grandma said to my mother when we reached the porch. “We brought Officer Morelli with us on account of he hasn't had any homemade pudding in an awful long time.”

  My mother's lips pinched tight.

  “I hope I'm not intruding,” Morelli said. “I know you weren't expecting company.”

  This is the opening statement that will get you into any burg house. No housewife worth her salt will ever admit to having her house not up to company twenty-four hours a day. Jack the Ripper would have easy access if he used this line.

  My mother gave a curt nod and grudgingly stepped aside while the three of us slid past.

  For fear of mayhem, my father had never been informed of the choo-choo incident. This meant he regarded Morelli with no more and no less contempt and apprehension than any of the other potential suitors my mother and grandmother dragged in off the street. He gave Joe a cursory inspection, engaged in the minimum necessary small talk and returned his attention to the TV, studiously ignoring my grandmother as she passed out pudding.

  “They had a closed casket all right for Moogey Bues,” my grandmother said to my mother. “I got to see him anyway on account of the accident.”

  My mother's eyes opened wide in alarm. “Accident?”

  I shrugged out of my jacket. “Grandma caught her sleeve on the lid, and the lid accidentally flew open.”

  My mother raised her arms in appalled supplication. “All day I've had people calling and telling me about the gladioli. Now tomorrow I'll have to hear about the lid.”

  “He didn't look so hot,” Grandma Mazur said. “I told Spiro that he did a good job, but it was pretty much a fib.”

  Morelli was wearing a blazer over a black knit shirt. He took a seat, and his jacket swung wide, exposing the gun at his hip.

  “Nice piece!” Grandma said. “What is it? Is that a forty-five?”

  “It's a nine-millimeter.”

  “Don't suppose you'd let me see it,” Grandma said. “I'd sure like to get the feel of a gun like that.”

  “NO!” everyone shouted in unison.

  “I shot a chicken once,” Grandma explained to Morelli. “It was an accident.”

  I could see Morelli searching for a reply. “Where did you shoot it?” he finally asked.

  “In the gumpy,” Grandma said. “Shot it clear off.”

  Two puddings and three beers later, Morelli peeled himself away from the TV. We left together and lingered to talk privately at the curb. The sky was starless and moonless and most of the houses were dark. The street was empty of traffic. In other parts of Trenton the night might feel dangerous. In the burg the night felt soft and secure.

  Morelli turned my suit collar up against the chill air. His knuckles brushed my neck, and his gaze lingered on my mouth. “You have a nice family,” he said.

  I narrowed my eyes. “If you kiss me I'll scream, and then my father will come out and punch you in the nose.” And before any of those things happened, I'd probably wet my pants.

  “I could take your father.”

  “But you wouldn't.”

  Morelli still had his hands on my collar. “No, I wouldn't.”

  “Tell me about the car again. There was no sign of struggle?”

  “No sign of struggle. The keys were in the ignition and the driver's door was closed but unlocked.”

  “Any blood on the pavement?”

  “I haven't been out to the scene, but the crime lab checked around and didn't come up with any physical evidence.”

  “Prints?”

  “They're in the system.”

  “Personal possessions?”

  “None found.”

  “Then he wasn't living out of the car,” I reasoned.

  “You're getting better at this apprehension agent stuff,” Morelli said. “You're asking all the right questions.”

  “I watch a lot of television.”

  “Let's talk about Spiro.”

  “Spiro hired me to look into a mortuarial problem.”

  Morelli's face creased in laughter. “Mortuarial problem?”

  “I don't want to talk about it.”

  “Doesn't have anything to do with Kenny?”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  The upstairs window opened and my mother stuck her head out. “Stephanie,” she stage-whispered, “what are you doing out there? What will the neighbors think?”

  “Nothing to worry about, Mrs. Plum,” Morelli called. “I was just leaving.”

  Rex was running in his wheel when I got home. I switched the light on, and he stopped dead
in his tracks, black eyes wide, whiskers twitching in indignation that night had suddenly disappeared.

  I kicked my shoes off en route to the kitchen, dropped my pocketbook onto the counter, and punched PLAY on my answering machine.

  There was only one message. Gazarra had called at the end of his shift to tell me no one knew much about Morelli. Only that he was working on something big, and that it tied in to the Mancuso-Bues investigation.