Lula and I dragged Lally out to the curb and waited while Vinnie popped his door locks.
“Scumbags sit in the backseat,” Vinnie said.
“Hunh,” Lula said, hand on hip, “who you callin' a scumbag?”
“If the shoe fits,” Vinnie said.
“If the shoe fits, you'd have your pervert ass in the backseat,” Lula said.
“Why me?” I asked. I realized I sounded like my mother and had a brief panic attack. I liked my mother, but I didn't want to be her. I didn't want to ever cook a pot roast. I didn't want to live in a house with three adults and only one bathroom. And I didn't want to marry my father. I wanted to marry Indiana Jones. I figured Indiana Jones was the middle ground between my father and Ranger. Morelli fit in there, too. In fact, Morelli wasn't too far off the Indiana Jones mark. Not that it mattered, since Morelli didn't want to get married.
Vinnie dropped Lula and me at the office and took Lally to the police station on North Clinton.
“Well, that was fun,” Lula said. “Too bad about the car. I can't wait to see what you get next.”
“I'm getting nothing next. I'm not taking any more cars. From now on, I'm driving the Buick. Nothing ever happens to the Buick.”
“Yeah,” Lula said, “but that isn't necessarily a good thing.”
I dialed First Trenton, asked for Shempsky, and was told he'd gone home early with an upset stomach. I got his home number out of the directory and tried to reach him there. No answer. Just for the hell of it, I ran a fast credit check. Nothing unusual. Mortgage, credit cards all in good standing.
“Why are you checking on Shempsky?” Lula asked. “You think he's involved?”
“I keep thinking about the bomb in the Porsche. Shempsky knew I was driving a Porsche.”
“Yeah, but he could have told people. He could have mentioned to someone you were going to the garbage company in your brand-new Porsche.”
“True.”
“Do you want a ride someplace?” Lula asked.
I shook my head no. “I could use some air and exercise,” I said. “I'm going to walk home.”
“That's a long walk.”
“It's not so long.”
I stepped outside and turned my jacket collar up against the wind. The temperature had dropped and the sky was gray. It was midafternoon, but houses had lights on to fight the gloom. Furnaces were running. Cars rolled by on Hamilton, drivers intent on getting somewhere. There were few people on the sidewalks. It was a good day to be indoors, cleaning out closets, making hot chocolate, organizing a fresh start for winter. And it was a good day to be outdoors, scuffing through the few remaining leaves, feeling flushed from the cold air. It was my favorite time of the year. And if it wasn't for the fact that people were dying left and right, and I couldn't find Uncle Fred, and someone wanted to kill me, and Ramirez wanted to send me to Jesus—it would be a very good day.
In an hour I was back at my building, in the lobby, and I was feeling fine. My head was clear and my circulation was in top form. The Buick was sitting in the parking lot, looking solid as a rock and just as serene. I had the keys in my pocket, and I was still wondering about Shempsky. Maybe I should ride by and see him, I thought. Surely he'll be home by now.
The elevator doors opened and Mrs. Bestler leaned out. “Going up?”
“No,” I said. “I changed my mind. I have more errands to run.”
“All ladies' accessories are twenty percent off on the second floor,” she said. She pulled her head back and the doors closed.
I recrossed the lot and gingerly unlocked the Buick. Nothing went boom, so I slid behind the wheel. I started the car and jumped out. I stood a good distance away and timed ten minutes. Still no explosion. Whew. Big relief. I got back in the car, put it into gear, and drove out of the lot. Shempsky lived in Hamilton Township, off Klockner, behind the high school. Typical suburban development of single-family houses. Two cars, two incomes, two kids per family. It was easy to find his street and his house. It was all clearly marked. His house was a split-entry frame. White with black shutters. Very tidy.
I parked at the curb, walked to the door, and rang the bell. I was about to ring again when a woman answered. She was nicely dressed in a brown sweater, matching slacks, and rubber-soled loafers. Her hair was cut in a short bob. Her makeup was Martha Stewart. And her smile was genuine. She was the perfect match for Allen. I suspected I would immediately forget anything she told me, and a half hour from now I wouldn't recall what she looked like.
“Maureen?” I asked.
“Yes?”
“It's Stephanie Plum . . . we went to school together.”
She slapped herself on the forehead. “Of course! I should have remembered. Allen mentioned you the other night. He said you'd stopped by the bank.” The smile faded. “I heard about Fred. I'm so sorry.”
“You haven't seen him, have you?” Just in case she had him in her basement.
“No!”
“I always ask,” I explained, since she looked taken aback.
“And it's a good idea. I might have seen him walking down the street.”
“Exactly.”
So far, I hadn't seen any sign of Allen. Of course, if he was really sick he might be upstairs in bed. “Is Allen here?” I asked Maureen. “I tried to catch him at the bank, but he'd gone out to lunch, and then I got busy with another matter. I thought maybe he'd be home by now.”
“No. He always comes home at five.” The smile popped back in place. “Would you like to come in and wait? I could make some herb tea.”
The nosy part of me would have liked to snoop through the Shempsky's house. The part of me that wanted to live to see another day thought it wise not to leave the Buick unguarded.
“Thanks, maybe some other time,” I said to Maureen. “I need to keep my eye on the Buick.”
“Mom,” a kid yelled from the kitchen, “Timmy's got an M&M's stuck up his nose.”
Maureen shook her head and smiled. “Children,” she said. “You know how it is.”
“Actually, I have a hamster,” I said. “Hard to get an M&M's up his nose.”
“I'll be right back,” Maureen said. “This will only take a minute.”
I stepped into the foyer and looked around while Maureen hustled off to the kitchen. The living room opened off to the right. It was a large, pleasant room done in tones of tan. An upright piano stood against the near wall. Family photos covered the top of the piano. Allen and Maureen and the kids at the beach, at Disney World, at Christmas.
Lots of pictures. Probably one wouldn't be missed if it happened to jump into my purse.
I heard a kid yelp, and Maureen chirped that everything was hunky-dory and the bad M&M's was bye-bye. “I'll be right back,” Maureen said. The kitchen television was clicked on, and in the blink of an eye, I snatched the nearest photo, dropped it into my bag, and stepped back into the foyer.
“Sorry about that,” Maureen said, returning. “Never a dull moment.”
I handed Maureen a business card. “Maybe you could have Allen give me a call when he gets in.”
“Sure.”
“By the way, what kind of car does Allen drive?”
“A tan Taurus. And then there's the Lotus.”
“Allen has a Lotus?”
“It's his toy.”
Expensive toy.
It was necessary to pass by the strip mall on my way home, so I did a short detour into the lot and checked out the bank. The lobby was closed, but the drive-through window was open. That didn't do me any good. Allen wasn't going to be doing drive-through duty. I rode around the lot looking for a tan Taurus, but had no luck.
“Allen,” I said, “where are you?”
And then, since I was in the neighborhood, I thought it wouldn't hurt to stop by and say hello to Irene Tully. And, what the hell, I might as well show her the picture of Allen Shempsky. You never know what could jog a person's memory.
“For goodness' sake,” I
rene said when she opened the door. “Are you still looking for Fred?” She gave an apprehensive glance to the Buick. “Is your grandmother with you?”
“Grandma's at home. I was hoping you wouldn't mind looking at another picture.”
“Is this that dead man again?”
“No. This guy's alive.” I gave her the photo of the Shempsky family.
“Isn't this nice,” Irene said. “What a lovely family.”
“Do you recognize any of these people?”
“Not offhand. I might have seen the man somewhere, but I can't place him.”
“Could he have been the man Uncle Fred talked to in the parking lot?”
“I guess it's possible. If it wasn't this man, it was someone very much like him. He was just an ordinary man. I suppose that's why I can't remember him so good. There wasn't anything special to remember. Of course, he wasn't wearing a Mickey Mouse hat and Bermuda shorts.”
I retrieved the photo. “Thanks. You've been very helpful.”
“Anytime,” she said. “You always have such interesting pictures.”
I bypassed the street that led to my apartment building and continued down Hamilton to the Burg. I'd been thinking about the bombing, and I had a plan. Since I wasn't going anywhere tonight, I'd lock the Buick up in my parents' garage and bum a ride home from my dad. Not only would it keep the car safe, but it had the added advantage of getting me dinner.
I didn't have to worry about the garage being in use, because my father never put his car in the garage. The garage was used to store jugs of motor oil and old tires. My father had a workbench in there along one wall. He had a vise attached to the workbench, and little jars filled with nails and things lined the back of the workbench. I never saw him work at the workbench, but when he got really fed up with my grandmother, my father would hide in the garage and smoke a cigar.
“Uh-oh,” Grandma said when she saw me at the door. “This don't look good. Where's the black car?”
“It got stolen.”
“Already? You didn't even have it a whole day.”
I went into the kitchen and got the garage keys. “I'm going to put the Buick in the garage overnight,” I said to my mother. “Is that okay?”
My mother put her hand to her heart. “My God, you're going to get our garage blown up.”
“Nobody's going to blow up the garage.” Not unless they were sure I was in it.
“I have a ham,” my mother said. “Are you staying for supper?”
“Sure.”
I put the Buick in the garage, locked everything up nice and tight, and went into the house to have ham.
“It's gonna be two weeks tomorrow since Fred's been missing,” Grandma said at dinner. “I thought for sure he'd have turned up by now—one way or another. Even aliens don't keep people that long. Usually they just probe your insides and let you go.”
My father hunkered down over his plate.
“Of course, maybe they started probing Fred and he croaked. What do you think they'd do then? You think they'd just pitch him out? Maybe their spaceship was over Afghanistan when they tossed Fred, and we'll never find him. Good thing he isn't a woman, what with landing in Afghanistan and all. I hear they don't treat women so good over there.”
My mother paused with her fork halfway to her mouth, and her eyes darted to the side window. She listened like that for a moment and then resumed eating.
“Nobody's going to bomb the garage,” I said to her. “I'm almost sure of it.”
“Boy, wouldn't it be something if someone did bomb our garage,” Grandma said. “That'd be a good story to tell at the beauty parlor.”
I was starting to wonder why I hadn't received a call from Ranger. It wasn't like him not to get back to me right away. I set my shoulder bag on my lap and pawed through the clutter, looking for my cell phone.
“What are you looking for?” Grandma asked.
“My cell phone. I've got so much junk in my bag I can never find anything.” I started pulling stuff out and setting it on the table. Can of hairspray, hairbrush, zippered makeup pouch, flashlight, minibinoculars, Ranger's license plates, bottle of nail polish, stun gun . . .
Grandma leaned over the table to take a better look. “What's that thing?”
“Stun gun,” I said.
“What's it do?”
“It emits an electrical charge.”
My father forked in more ham, focusing his concentration on his plate.
Grandma got out of her seat and came around to examine the stun gun. “What do you do with this?” she wanted to know, picking it up and studying it. “How does it work?”
I was still rooting through my bag. “You press the metal prongs against someone and push the button,” I said.
“Stephanie,” my mother said, “take that away from your grandmother before she electrocutes herself.”
“Aha!” I said, finding my cell phone. I pulled it out and looked at it. Dead battery. No wonder Ranger hadn't called.
“Look, Frank,” my grandmother said to my father, “did you ever see anything like this? Stephanie says you just stick it against someone and push the button . . .”
My mother and I both jumped out of our seats. “No!”
Too late. Grandma had the prongs pressed against my father's arm. Zzzzzt.
My father's eyes glazed over, a piece of ham fell out of his mouth, and he crashed to the floor.
“He must have had a heart attack,” Grandma said, looking down at my father. “I told him and told him, he uses too much gravy.”
“It's the stun gun!” I yelled at her. “That's what happens when you use a stun gun on someone!”
Grandma bent down for a closer look. “Did I kill him?”
My mother was on her knees alongside my grandmother. “Frank?” she shouted. “Can you hear me, Frank?”
I took his pulse. “He's okay,” I said. “Grandma just scrambled some brain cells. It's not permanent. He'll be good as new in a couple minutes.”
My father opened an eye and farted.
“Oops,” Grandma said. “Someone must have stepped on a duck.”
We all backed away and fanned the air.
“I have a nice chocolate cake for dessert,” my mother said.
I used my parents' phone in the kitchen and left a new message on Ranger's machine. “Sorry about my cell phone. The battery conked out. I'll be home in about a half-hour. I need to talk to you.” Then I called Mary Lou and asked her to give me a lift home. I didn't think it was such a good idea to ask my dad to drive so soon after getting zapped. And I didn't want my mom to take me and leave my grandmother and father alone in the house together. And first and foremost, I didn't want to be there when my father went nuts at Grandma Mazur.
“I've been dying to hear from you,” Mary Lou said when she picked me up. “What happened with Morelli last night?”
“Not a lot. We talked about the case he's working on, and then he took me home.”
“That's it?”
“Pretty much.”
“No fooling around?”
“Nope.”
“So let me get this straight. Last night you were with the two sexiest men in the entire world, and you didn't score with either one of them?”
“There are other things in this life besides scoring with men,” I said.
“Like what?”
“I could score with myself ”
“You could go blind doing that.”
“No! I mean, I could feel good about myself. You know, like when you do a job and it turns out excellent. Or when you set a moral standard for yourself and stick to it.”
Mary Lou gave me the open-mouth, wrinkled-nose, this-is-a-load-of-bullshit look. “What?”
“Well, okay, so I've never had any of those things happen, but they could!”
“And pigs could fly,” Mary Lou said, “but personally, I'd rather have an orgasm.”
Mary Lou swung into the lot and stopped short, jerking bot
h of us against the shoulder harness. “Omigod,” she said. “Do you see what I think I see?”
Ranger's Mercedes was parked in shadow just beyond the door.
“Damn,” Mary Lou said, “if he was waiting for me, I'd need Depends.”
Ranger was leaning against the car, arms folded across his chest, not moving. Very foreboding in the dark. Definitely Depends material.