Two for the Dough

  “After Sokolowky's I'm going to Mosel's and then to The House of Eternal Slumber.”

  “The House of Eternal Slumber? Never been to that one,” Grandma said. “Is it new? Is it in the burg?”

  “It's over on Stark Street.”

  My mother crossed herself. “Give me strength,” she said.

  “Stark Street isn't that bad,” I told her.

  “It's full of drug dealers and murderers. You don't belong on Stark Street. Frank, are you going to let her go to Stark Street at night?”

  My father looked up from his plate at the mention of his name. “What?”

  “Stephanie's going to Stark Street.”

  My father had been engrossed in his cake and was clearly lost. “Does she need a ride?”

  My mother rolled her eyes. “You see what I live with.”

  Grandma was on her feet. “Won't take me a minute. Just let me get my pocketbook, and I'll be ready to go.”

  Grandma applied fresh lipstick in front of the hall mirror, buttoned herself into her “good wool” coat, and hooked her black patent leather purse over her arm. Her “good wool” coat was a brilliant royal blue with a mink collar. Over the years the coat had seemed to grow in volume in direct proportion to the rate at which Grandma was shrinking, so that the coat was now almost ankle length. I took her elbow and steered her to my Jeep half expecting her knees to buckle under the weight of the wool. I had visions of her lying helpless on the sidewalk in a pool of royal blue, looking like the Wicked Witch of the West with nothing showing but shoes.

  We went to Sokolowsky's first as planned. Helen Meyer looked fetching in a pale blue lace dress, her hair tinted to match. Grandma studied Helen's makeup with the critical eye of a professional.

  “Should have used the green-toned concealer under the eyes,” she said. “You got to use a lot of concealer when you got lighting like this. Now Stiva's got recessed lighting in his new rooms and that makes all the difference.”

  I left Grandma to her own devices and went in search of Melvin Sokolowsky, locating him in his office just off the front entrance. The door to the office was open, and Sokolowsky was seated behind a handsome mahogany desk, tapping who knows what into a laptop. I rapped lightly to get his attention.

  He was a nice-looking man in his mid-forties, dressed in the standard conservative dark suit, white dress shirt, and sober striped tie.

  He raised eyebrows at the sight of me standing in his doorway. “Yes?”

  “I want to speak to you about funeral arrangements,” I said. “My grandmother is getting on in years, and I thought it wouldn't hurt to get some ballpark figures on caskets.”

  He hauled a large leather-bound catalog up from the bowels of the desk and flipped it open. “We have several plans and a good selection of caskets.”

  He turned to the casket called the Montgomery.

  “This is nice,” I said, “but it looks a little pricey.”

  He thumbed back a couple pages to the pine section. “This is our economy line. As you can see, they're still quite attractive, with a nice mahogany stain and brass handles.”

  I checked out the economy line but didn't see anything nearly as cheap-looking as Stiva's missing caskets. “Is this as cheap as you get?” I asked. “You have anything without the stain?”

  Sokolowsky looked pained. “Who did you say this was for?”

  “My grandmother.”

  “She cut you out of the will?”

  Just what the world needs . . . one more sarcastic undertaker. “Do you have any plain boxes or what?”

  “Nobody buys plain boxes in the burg. Listen, how about if we put you on a payment plan? Or maybe we could skimp on the makeup . . . you know, only set your grandmother's hair in the front.”

  I was on my feet and halfway to the door. “I'll think about it.”

  He was on his feet equally as fast, shoving brochures into my hand. “I'm sure we can work something out. I could get you a real good buy on a plot . . .”

  I ran into Grandma Mazur in the foyer.

  “What was he saying about a plot?” she asked. “We already got a plot. It's a good one too. Real close to the water spigot. The whole family's buried there. Of course, when they put your aunt Marion in the ground they had to lower Uncle Fred and put her in on top on account of there wasn't much space left. I'll probably end up on top of your grandfather. Isn't that always the way? Can't even get no privacy when you're dead.”

  From the corner of my eye I could see Sokolowsky lurking in his doorway, sizing up Grandma Mazur.

  Grandma Mazur noticed too.

  “Look at that Sokolowsky,” she said. “Can't keep his eyes off me. Must be this new dress I'm wearing.”

  We went to Mosel's next. Then we visited Dorfman's and Majestic Mortuary. By the time we were on the road to The House of Eternal Slumber I was punchy with death. The smell of cut flowers clung to my clothes, and my voice had locked into hushed funereal tones.

  Grandma Mazur had enjoyed herself through Mosel but had started to fade toward the end of Dorfman's, and had sat out Majestic Mort, waiting for me in the Jeep while I ran inside and priced burial arrangements.

  The House of Eternal Slumber was the only home left on my list. I cut through city center, past the state buildings and turnoffs to Pennsylvania. It was after nine, and the downtown streets were left to the night people—hookers, dealers, buyers, and the kiddie crews.

  I turned right onto Stark, instantly plunging us into a despairing neighborhood of dingy brick-fronted row houses and small businesses. Doors to Stark Street bars stood open, spilling rectangles of smoking light onto dark cement sidewalks. Men loitered in front of the bars, passing time, transacting business, looking cool. The colder weather had driven most of the residents inside, leaving the stoops to the even less fortunate.

  Grandma Mazur was on the edge of her seat, nose pressed to the window. “So this is Stark Street,” she said. “I hear this part of town is filled with hookers and drug dealers. I sure would like to see some of them. I saw a couple hookers on TV once, and they turned out to be men. This one hooker was wearing spandex tights, and he said he had to tape his penis up tight between his legs so it wouldn't show. Can you imagine that?”

  I double-parked just short of the mortuary and studied The House of Eternal Slumber. It was one of the few buildings on the street not covered with graffiti. Its white masonry looked freshly scrubbed and an overhead fixture threw a wide arc of light. A small knot of suited men stood talking and smoking in the light. The door opened and two women, dressed in Sunday clothes, exited the building, joined two of the men, and walked to a car. The car left, and the remaining men went into the funeral home, leaving the street deserted.

  I zipped into the vacated parking space and did a quick review of my cover story. I was here to see Fred “Ducky” Wilson. Dead at the age of sixty-eight. If anyone asked, I would claim he was my grandfather's friend.

  Grandma Mazur and I quietly entered the funeral parlor and scoped the place out. It was small. Three viewing rooms and a chapel. Only one viewing room was being used. The lighting was subdued and the furnishings were inexpensive but tasteful.

  Grandma sucked on her dentures and surveyed the crush of people spilling out of Ducky's room. “This isn't gonna float,” she said. “We're the wrong color. We're gonna look like hogs in the henhouse.”

  I'd been thinking the same thing. I'd hoped for a mix of races. This end of Stark Street was pretty much a melting pot, with hard luck being the common denominator more than skin color.

  “What's the deal here, anyway?” Grandma asked. “What's with all these funeral homes? I bet you're looking for someone. I bet we're on one of them manhunts.”

  “Sort of. I can't tell you the details.”

  “Don't worry about me. My mouth is zipped and locked.”

  I had a fleeting view of Ducky's casket and even from this distance I knew his family had spared no expense. I knew I should look into it further, but I was tired of
doing the bogus pricing out a funeral routine. “I've seen enough,” I told Grandma. “I think it's time to go home.”

  “Fine by me. I could use to get these shoes off. This manhunting stuff takes it out of a body.”

  We swung through the front door and stood squinting under the overhead light.

  “That's funny,” Grandma said. “I could have swore we parked the car here.”

  I heaved a sigh. “We did park the car here.”

  “It isn't here anymore.”

  It sure as hell wasn't. The car was gone, gone, gone. I pulled my phone out of my pocketbook and called Morelli. There was no answer at his home number, so I tried his car phone.

  There was a short crackle of static and Morelli came on.

  “It's Stephanie,” I said. “I'm at The House of Eternal Slumber on Stark Street and my car's been stolen.”

  There was no immediate response, but I thought I heard some muffled laughter. “Have you called it in?” he finally asked.

  “I'm calling it in to you.”

  “I'm honored.”

  “Grandma Mazur is with me, and her feet hurt.”

  “Ten-four, Keemo Sabe.”

  I dropped my phone back into my pocketbook. “Morelli's on his way.”

  “Nice of him to come get us.”

  At the risk of sounding cynical, I suspected Morelli had been camped out in my parking lot, waiting for me to come home so he could get briefed on Perry Sandeman.

  Grandma Mazur and I huddled close to the door, ever on the alert should my car cruise by. It was an uneventful, tedious wait, and Grandma seemed disappointed not to have been approached by drug dealers or pimps looking for fresh blood.

  “Don't know what all the to-do is about,” she said. “Here it is a perfectly good night, and we haven't seen any crime. Stark Street isn't what it's cracked up to be.”

  “Some slimeball stole my car!”

  “That's true. I guess this evening wasn't a complete bust. Still, I didn't see it happen. It just isn't the same if you don't see it happen.”

  Morelli's truck turned at the corner and made its way up Stark Street. He double-parked, set his flasher, and sauntered around to us. “What happened?”

  “The Jeep was parked and locked in this empty space here. We were in the funeral home for less than ten minutes. When we came out, the Jeep was gone.”

  “Any witnesses?”

  “None that I know of. I didn't canvass the neighborhood.” If there was one thing I'd learned in my short career as a bounty hunter, it was that no one saw anything on Stark Street. Asking questions was an exercise in futility.

  “I had the dispatcher notify all cars as soon as I got your call,” Morelli said. “You should come down to the station tomorrow and fill out a report.”

  “Any chance I'll get my car back?”

  “There's always a chance.”

  “I saw a TV show about stolen cars,” Grandma Mazur said. “It was on these chop shops that take cars apart. Probably by now there's nothing left of that Jeep but a grease spot on some garage floor.”

  Morelli opened the passenger-side door to his pickup and hoisted Grandma onto the seat. I scootched up beside her and told myself to think positive. Not all stolen cars ended up as spare parts, right? My car was so cute that probably someone couldn't resist taking it for a short joyride. Think positive, Stephanie. Think positive.

  Morelli made a U-turn and retraced back to the burg. We made a perfunctory stop at my parents' house, only staying long enough to deposit Grandma Mazur in the Lay-Z-Boy rocker and reasure my mother that nothing terrible had happened to us on Stark Street . . . aside from having my car grand-thefted.

  On the way out my mother handed me the traditional bag of food. “A little something for a snack,” she said. “Some spice cake.”

  “I love spice cake,” Morelli told me when we were back in his truck, heading for my apartment.

  “Forget it. You're not getting any.”

  “Of course I am,” Morelli said. “I went out of my way to help you tonight. The least you can do is give me some spice cake.”

  “You don't really want spice cake, anyway. You just want to come up to my apartment so you can find out about Perry Sandeman.”

  “That's not the only reason.”

  “Sandeman wasn't in a talky mood.”

  Morelli stopped for a light. “Learn anything at all?”

  “He hates cops. He hates me. I hate him. He lives in a walkup on Morton Street, and he's a mean drunk.”

  “How do you know about him being a mean drunk?”

  “Went to his home address and talked to one of his neighbors.”

  Morelli slid a glance at me. “That was pretty ballsy.”

  “It was nothing,” I said, making the most of the lie. “All in a day's work.”

  “I hope you had the sense not to give out your name. Sandeman won't be happy to find you snooping around his crib.”

  “I think I might have left my card.” No need to tell him about getting caught on the fire escape. Wouldn't want to weigh him down with unnecessary details.

  Morelli gave me a boy, are you stupid or what look. “I understand they have positions available for makeover ladies at Macy's.”

  “Don't start with that makeover stuff again. So I made a mistake.”

  “Cookie, you're making a career out of making mistakes.”

  “It's my style. And don't call me Cookie.”

  Some people learn from books, some listen to the advice of others, some learn from mistakes. I fit into the last category. So sue me. At least I rarely made the same mistake twice . . . with the possible exception of Morelli. Morelli had this habit of periodically screwing up my life. And I had a habit of letting him do it.

  “Have any luck on the funeral circuit?”

  “None.”

  He cut the engine and leaned close to me. “You smell like carnations.”

  “Watch it. You'll crush the cake.”

  He looked down at the bag. “That's a lot of cake.”

  “Un-huh.”

  “You eat all that cake, and it'll go straight to your hips.”

  I heaved a sigh. “Okay, you can have some of the cake. Just don't try anything funny.”

  “What's that supposed to mean?”

  “You know what that means!”

  Morelli grinned.

  I thought about looking haughty, but decided it was too late, and I probably couldn't pull it off anyway, so I settled for a grunt of exasperation and levered myself out of the pickup. I stalked off with Morelli following close on my heels. We rode the elevator in silence, exited at the second floor, and stopped short at the sight of my door slightly ajar. There were gouge marks where a tool had been inserted between jamb and door and used to pry the door open.

  I heard Morelli unholster his gun, and I slid a glance in his direction. He motioned for me to step aside, his eyes locked on the door.

  I pulled the .38 out of my pocketbook and muscled my way in front of him. “My apartment, my problem,” I said, not actually anxious to be a hero, but not wanting to relinquish control.

  Morelli grabbed me by the back of my jacket and yanked. “Don't be an idiot.”

  Mr. Wolesky opened his door with a bag of garbage in his arms and caught us scuffling. “What's going on?” he asked. “You want me to call the cops?”

  “I am the cops,” Morelli said.

  Mr. Wolesky gave him a long, considering look, and then turned to me. “He give you any trouble, you let me know. I'm just going down the hall with my garbage.”

  Morelli stared after him. “I don't think he trusts me.”

  Smart man.

  We both peeked cautiously inside my apartment, entering the foyer glued at the hip like Siamese twins. The kitchen and the living room area were empty of intruders. We immediately went to the bedroom and bath, checking out closets, looking under the bed, peering out at the fire escape beyond the window.

  “It's clear,” Morelli said. ?
??You assess the damage and see if anything's been stolen. I'll try to secure the front door.”

  At first glance damage seemed to consist exclusively of spray-painted slogans having to do with female organs and anatomically impossible suggestions. Nothing seemed to be missing from my jewelry box. Sort of insulting since I had a very nice pair of cubic zirconias that I thought looked every bit as good as diamonds. Well, what did this guy know? This was a person who'd misspelled vagina.