Eleven on Top

  “Yeah. I'm a little creeped out.”

  “I was hoping you'd want to go home with me because I'm smart and sexy and fun.”

  “That, too. And I like your dog.”

  “That car bomb was meant for you,” Morelli said.

  “I thought my life would get better if I stopped chasing after bad guys.”

  “You've made some enemies.”

  “It's Spiro,” I told him.

  Morelli stopped for a light and looked at me. “Spiro Stiva? Constantine's kid? Do you know this for sure?”

  “No. It's just a gut feeling. The notes sound like him. And he was friends with Anthony Barroni. And now Barroni's dad is missing, and people say Anthony is spending money he shouldn't have.”

  “So you think something's going on with Anthony Barroni and Spiro Stiva?”

  “Maybe. And maybe Spiro's whacko and decided I ruined his life and now he's going to end mine.”

  Morelli thought about it for a moment and shrugged. “It's not much, but it's as good as anything I've got. How do the other two disappearances fit in?”

  “I don't know, but I think there might be one more.” And I told him about Kloughn's client. "And there's something else. Kloughn's client's husband disappeared in their brand-new car. Michael Barroni also disappeared in a

  brand-new car."

  Morelli slid a sideways look at me.

  “Okay, so I know lots of people have new cars. Still, it's something they had in common.”

  “Barroni, Gorman, and Lazar were the same age within two years, and they all owned small businesses. Does Kloughn's client fit that profile?”

  “I don't know.”

  Morelli turned a corner, drove two blocks, and parked in front of his house.

  “You'd think someone would have seen Spiro if he was back. The Burg's not good at keeping a secret.”

  “Maybe he's hiding.”

  My mother called on my cell phone. "People are saying you blew up Mama

  Macaroni."

  “She was in my car, and she accidentally blew herself up. I did not blow her up.”

  “How can someone accidentally blow themself up? Are you okay?”

  “I'm fine. I'm going home with Joe.”

  It was early morning, and I was sitting on the side of the bed, watching Morelli get dressed. He was wearing black jeans, cool black shoes with a thick Vibram sole, and a long-sleeved blue button-down shirt. He looked like a movie star playing an Italian cop.

  “Very sexy,” I said to Morelli.

  He strapped his watch on and looked over at me. “Say it again and the clothes come off.”

  “You'll be late.”

  Morelli's eyes darkened, and I knew he was weighing pleasure against responsibility. There was a time in Morelli's life when pleasure would have won, no contest. I'd been attracted to that Morelli, but I hadn't especially liked him. The moment passed and Morelli's eyes regained focus. The guy part was under control. Not to give him more credit than he deserved, I suspected this was made possible by the two orgasms he'd had last night and the one he'd had about a half hour ago.

  “I can't be late today. I have an early meeting, and I'm way behind on my paperwork.” He kissed the top of my head. "Will you be here when I come home

  tonight?"

  “No. I'm working the three-to-eleven shift at CluckinaBucket.”

  “You're kidding.”

  “It was one of those impulse things.”

  Morelli grinned down at me. “You must need money real bad.”

  “Bad enough.”

  I followed him down the stairs and closed the door after him. “Just you and me,” I said to Bob.

  Bob had already eaten his breakfast and gone for a walk so Bob was feeling mellow. He wandered away, into the living room where bars of sunshine were slanting through the window onto the carpet. Bob turned three times and flopped down onto the sunspot.

  I shuffled out to the kitchen, got a mug of coffee, and took it upstairs to Morelli's office. The room was small and cluttered with boxes of income tax files, a red plastic milk carton filled with old tennis balls collected during dog walks in the park, a baseball bat, a stack of phone books, gloves and wraps for a speed bag, a giant blue denim dog bed, a well-oiled baseball glove, a power screwdriver, roles of duct tape, a dead plant in a clay pot, and a plastic watering can that had obviously never been used. He had a computer and a desktop printer on a big wood desk that had been bought used.

  And he had a phone.

  I sat at the desk, and I took a pen and a yellow legal pad from the top drawer. I had the morning free, and I was going to use it to do some sleuthing.

  Someone wanted me dead, and I didn't feel comfortable sitting around doing nothing, waiting for it to happen.

  First on my list was a call to Kloughn.

  “She wouldn't let me in the house,” he said. "I had to sleep here in the office. It wasn't so bad since I have a couch, and the Laundromat is next door.

  I got up early and did some laundry. What should I do? Should I call? Should I go over there? I had this terrible nightmare last night. Valerie was floating over top of me in the wedding gown except she was a whale. I bet it was because she kept saying how she was a whale in the wedding gown. Anyway, there she was in my dream ... a big huge whale all dressed up in the white wedding gown. And then all of a sudden she dropped out of the sky, and I was squashed under her, and I couldn't breathe. Good thing I woke up, hunh?"

  “Good thing. I need to know your client's name,” I told him. “The one with the missing husband.”

  “Terry Runion. Her husband's name is Jimmy Runion.”

  “Do you know what kind of car he just bought?”

  “Ford Taurus. He got it at that big dealership on Route One. Shiller Ford.”

  “His age?”

  “I don't know his exact age, but his wife looks like she's late fifties.”

  “What about his job? Did he quit his job when he disappeared?” “He didn't have a job. He used to work for some computer company, but he took early retirement. About Valerie...”

  “I'll talk to Valerie for you,” I said. And I hung up.

  Valerie answered on the second ring. “Yuh,” she said.

  “I just talked to Albert. He said he slept in his office.”

  “He said I was fat.”

  “He said you were chubby.”

  “Do you think I'm chubby?” Val asked.

  “No,” I told her. “I think you're fat.”

  “Oh God,” Valerie wailed. “Oh God! How did this happen? How did I get fat?”

  “You ate everything. And you ate it with gravy.”

  “I did it for the baby.”

  “Well, something went wrong because only seven pounds went to the baby, and you got the rest.”

  “I don't know how to get rid of it. I've never been fat before.”

  “You should talk to Lula. She's good at losing weight.”

  “If she's so good at losing weight, why is she so big?”

  “She's also good at gaining weight. She gains it. She loses it. She gains it. She loses it.”

  “The wedding is on Saturday. If I really worked at it, do you think I could lose sixty pounds between now and Saturday?”

  “I guess you could have it sucked out, but I hear that's real painful and you get a lot of bruising.”

  “I hate my life,” Val said.

  “Really?”

  “No. I just hate being fat.”

  “That doesn't mean you should hate Albert. He didn't make you fat.”

  “I know. I've been awful to him, and he's such an adorable oogie woogams.”

  “I think it's great that you're in love, Val. And I'm happy for you... I really am. But the baby talk cuddle umpkins oogie woogams thing is making me a little barfy warfy. What about the Virgin Mary, Val? Remember when everyone said you were just like the Virgin Mary? You were cool and serene like the Virgin Mary, like a big pink plaster statue of the Virgin. Would the Virgi
n refer to God as her cuddle umpkins? I don't think so.”

  The next call was to my cousin Linda at the DMV. “I need some information,”

  I said to Linda. “Benny Gorman, Michael Barroni, Louis Lazar. I want to know if they got a new car in the last three months and what kind?”

  “I heard you quit working for Vinnie. So what's up with the names?”

  “Part-time job. Routine credit check for CBNJ.” I had no idea what CBNJ stood for, but it sounded good, right?

  I could hear Linda type the names into her computer. “Here's Barroni,” she said. “He bought a Honda Accord two weeks ago. Nothing on Gorman. And nothing's coming up on Lazar.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  “Boy, the wedding's almost here. I guess everyone's real excited.”

  “Yeah. Valerie's a wreck.”

  “That's the way it is with weddings,” Linda said.

  I disconnected and took a moment to enjoy my coffee. I liked sitting in Morelli's office. It wasn't especially pretty, but it felt nice because it was filled with all the bits and pieces of Morelli's life. I didn't have an office in my apartment. And maybe that was a good thing because I was afraid if I had an office it might be empty. I didn't have a hobby. I didn't play sports. I had a family, but I never got around to framing pictures. I wasn't learning a foreign language, or learning to play the cello, or learning to be a gourmet cook.

  Well hell, I thought. I could just pick one of those things. There's no reason why I can't be interesting and have an office filled with stuff. I can collect tennis balls in the park. And I can get a plant and let it die.

  And I can play the damn cello. In fact, I could probably be a terrific cello player.

  I took my coffee mug downstairs and put it in the dishwasher. I grabbed my bag and my jacket. I yelled goodbye to Bob as I was going out the door. And I set off on foot for my parents' house. I was going to borrow Uncle Sandors Buick. Again. I had no other option. I needed a car. Good thing it was a long walk to my parents' house and I was getting all this exercise because I was going to need a doughnut after taking possession of the Buick.

  Grandma was at the door when I strolled down the street. “It's Stephanie!”

  Grandma yelled to my mother.

  Grandma loved when I blew up cars. Blowing up Mama Macaroni would be icing on the cake for Grandma. My mother didn't share Grandma's enthusiasm for death and disaster. My mother longed for normalcy. Dollars to doughnuts, my mother was in the kitchen ironing. Some people popped pills when things turned sour. Some hit the bottle. My mother's drug of choice was ironing. My mother ironed away life's frustrations.

  Grandma opened the door for me, and I stepped into the house and dropped my bag on the hall table.

  “Is she ironing?” I asked Grandma Mazur.

  “Yep,” Grandma said. “She's been ironing since first thing this morning. Probably would have started last night but she couldn't get off the phone. I swear, half the Burg called about you last night. Finally we disconnected the phone.”

  I went to the kitchen and poured myself a cup of coffee. I sat down at the little kitchen table and looked over at my mother's ironing basket. It was empty.

  “How many times have you ironed that shirt you've got on the board?” I asked

  my mother.

  “Seven times,” my mother said.

  “Usually you calm down by the time the basket's empty.”

  “Somebody blew up Mama Macaroni,” my mother said. “That doesn't bother me. She had it coming. What bothers me is that it was supposed to be you. It was your car.”

  “I'm being careful. And it's not certain that it was a bomb. It could have been an accident. You know how it is with my cars. They catch on fire, and they explode.”

  My mother made a strangled sound in her throat, and her eyes sort of glazed over. “That's true,” she said. “Hideously true.”

  “Marilyn Rugach said Stiva's got most of Mama Macaroni at the funeral parlor,” Grandma said. “Marilyn works there part-time doing bookkeeping. I talked to Marilyn this morning, and she said they brought the deceased to the home in a zippered bag. She said there was still some parts missing, but she wouldn't say if they found the mole. Do you think there's any chance that they'll have an open casket at the viewing? Stiva's pretty good at patching people up, and I sure would like to see what he'd do with that mole.”

  My mother made the sign of the cross, a hysterical giggle gurgled out of her, and she clapped a hand over her mouth.

  “You should give up on the ironing and have a snort,” Grandma said to my mother.

  “I don't need a snort,” my mother said. “I need some sanity in my life.”

  “You got a lot of sanity,” Grandma said. “You got a real stable lifestyle. You got this house and you got a husband . . . sort of. And you got daughters and granddaughters. And you got the Church.”

  “I have a daughter who blows things up. Cars, trucks, funeral parlors, people.”

  “That only happens once in a while,” I said. “I do lots of other things besides that.”

  My mother and grandmother looked at me. I had their full attention. They wanted to know what other things I did besides blowing up cars and trucks and funeral parlors and people.

  I searched my mind and came up with nothing. I did a mental replay of yesterday. What did I do? I blew up a car and an old lady. Not personally but I was somewhere in the mix. What else? I made love to Morelli. A lot. My mother wouldn't want to hear about that. I got fired. I shot a guy in the foot. She wouldn't want to hear that either.

  “I can play the cello,” I said. I don't know where it came from. It just flew out of my mouth.

  My mother and grandmother stood frozen in openmouthed shock.

  “Don't that beat all,” Grandma finally said. “Who would have thought you could play the cello?”

  “I had no idea,” my mother said. “You never mentioned it before. Why didn't you tell us?”

  “I was... shy. It's one of those personal hobbies. Personal cello playing.”

  “I bet you're real good,” Grandma said.

  My mother and grandmother looked at me expectantly. They wanted me to be good.

  “Yep,” I said. “I'm pretty good.”

  Stephanie, Stephanie, Stephanie, I said to myself. What are you doing? You are such a goofus. You don't even know what a cello looks like. Sure I do, I answered. It's a big violin, right?

  “How long have you been taking lessons?” Grandma wanted to know.

  “A while.” I looked at my watch. “Gee, I'd like to stay, but I have things to do. I was hoping I could borrow Uncle Sandor's Buick.”

  Grandma took a set of keys out of a kitchen drawer. “Big Blue will be happy to see you,” she said. “He doesn't get driven around too much.”

  Big Blue corners like a refrigerator on wheels. It has power brakes but no power steering. It guzzles gas. It's impossible to park. And it's powder blue. It has a shiny white top, powder blue body, silver-rimmed portholes, fat whitewall tires, and big gleaming chrome bumpers.

  “I guess you need a big car like Blue so you can carry that cello around with you,” Grandma said.

  “It's a perfect fit for the backseat,” I told her.

  I took the keys and waved myself out of the house. I walked to the garage, opened the door, and there it was . . . Big Blue. I could feel the vibes coming off the car. The air hummed around me. Men loved Big Blue. It was a muscle car. It rode on a sweaty mix of high-octane gas and testosterone. Step on the gas and hear me roar, the car whispered. Not the growl of a Porsche. Not the vroooom of a Ferrari. This car was a bull walrus. This car had cajones that hung to its hubcaps.

  Personally, I prefer cajones that sit a little higher, but hey, that's just me. I climbed aboard, rammed the key in, and cranked Blue over. The car came to life and vibrated under me. I took a deep breath, told myself I'd own a Lexus someday, and slowly backed out of the garage.

  Grandma trotted over to the car with a brown
grocery bag. “Your mother wants you to drop this off at Valerie's house. Valerie forgot to take it last night.”

  Valerie was renting a small house at the edge of the Burg, about a half mile away. Until yesterday, she was sharing the house with Albert Kloughn. And since she was back to calling him her oogie woogams, I suppose he was about to return.