Smokin' Seventeen (17 page)

The four-car garage is detached and to the side of the funeral home. The hearse is usually parked in the driveway, so I assumed the garage was used to store miscellaneous items that fell off the back of a truck. It was close to four o’clock when Lula and I cruised by the funeral home, and there was no sign of activity. We’d arrived between the afternoon and evening viewing.

I parked across the street, and we sat for a couple minutes scoping things out. No street traffic. No dog walkers. No kids on bikes. Lula and I got out and went to the garage and tried the side door. Not locked. I opened the door, and Lula and I stepped inside and looked around. No windows. Very dark. I flipped the light switch, closed the door, and looked around.

Mortuary supplies were stacked on one wall. Everything from cocktail napkins to embalming fluid. A black Lincoln Town Car was parked in one of the middle bays. A flower car was parked next to it. Caskets lined the entire back of the garage. One of the caskets had the lid up.

“I like the casket with the lid up,” Lula said. “That’s a first-rate casket. When I go I want to have a casket like that. I bet it’s real comfy for your eternal slumber.”

She walked over to the casket, bent over it to look inside, and Ziggy popped up.

“Eeeeeee,” Lula shrieked. “I got a cross! I got garlic! Lord help me!”

“A man can’t even take a nap no more,” Ziggy said, climbing out of the casket.

Lula pulled her gun out of her purse. “I got a silver bullet. Stand back!”

“A silver bullet’s for werewolves,” Ziggy told her. “What time is it? Is it nighttime?”

I looked at my watch. “It’s four o’clock.”

“What are you doing here anyway?” Lula asked him.

“I’m trying to sleep. It’s nice and quiet here. And it’s dark.”

“Don’t the people who own the funeral parlor mind you sleeping in their casket?”

“Actually, it’s my casket. I bought it a couple years ago. It’s very restful. I used to have it at the house, but it was freaking my sister out when she came to visit, so Georgie said I could leave it here.”

“Even for a vampire you’re weird,” Lula said.

“It’s not easy being a vampire,” Ziggy said. “I have to avoid the sunlight, and I have to find blood to drink, and I can’t even wear normal dentures. I had to have these made special. And there are expectations. Like sleeping in a coffin. And I
always have to be on guard for people who want to drive a stake through my heart.”

“That’s it,” Lula said. “A stake to the heart. I knew there was a way to kill you.”

Ziggy sucked in air.

“You already got the casket,” Lula said. “Nothing to worry about. It’s all good.”

“No way are you putting a stake in me,” Ziggy said. “I’m not ready. You come near me, and I’ll suck out all your body fluids.”

“Damn,” Lula said. “I got enough of the vampire cooties already. My teeth are growing, and I’m not happy about it. I had perfect teeth before you sucked on me.” She reached into her purse, grabbed her stun gun, and tagged Ziggy.

Ziggy crumpled into a heap on the floor.

“That was scary,” Lula said. “I like my body fluids. I wouldn’t look good without them.”

“I don’t know which of you is worse. He’s not a vampire, and he’s not going to drain any of your fluids. The best he could do is slip a diuretic into your coffee.”

“How am I worse?”

“You’re full of baloney. You haven’t got a silver bullet or a stake. You’re making threats you have no intention of carrying out.”

“Yeah, but we do that all the time.”

True. “We should cuff him and load him into the Jeep before he comes around.”

“What about the sunshine?”

“He’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure? And what about the screaming? I couldn’t take any more of that screaming. We need to cover him.”

I looked around. Nothing. No drop cloths, sheets, garbage bags.

“I know,” Lula said, grabbing his arms. “We’ll put him in his casket. Get his legs and help me heave ho.”

“Caskets are heavy. We’ll never be able to get it into the Jeep.”

“There’s a rolling casket carrying thing by the door. It’s what they use at funerals. It raises and lowers.”

“Okay, but if it doesn’t work you’re just going to have to deal with the screaming.”

“Deal,” Lula said, “but I’m not watching him shrivel up and turn into a cat turd. Soon as he starts to smoke I’m outta there.”

We dropped Ziggy into the casket, and I closed and locked the lid. I rolled the gurney over, we hefted the casket onto it, and we rolled the whole deal to the front of the garage.

“I’ll wait here,” Lula said. “You back the Jeep up to the door.”

I ran to the Jeep and collapsed the backseat so there was more room for the casket. I backed the SUV up to the door, Lula powered the door up, and we loaded the casket in.

“It don’t fit,” Lula said.

The rear end of the casket was hanging a couple feet over
the bumper, but I didn’t care. I’d come this far. I was taking Ziggy in. I’d leave the cargo door open and drive slow.

I took Liberty to Broad and drove toward the center of the city. The car behind me was keeping his distance.

“Maybe you should have hung a red flag on Ziggy’s doom box,” Lula said.

“Maybe I should have blindfolded him, so he couldn’t tell it was day or night and chucked him into the backseat.”

I cruised through Hamilton and stopped for a light, focusing on the traffic ahead. I heard some scraping sounds and then a shriek. I turned and saw Ziggy jump out of the Jeep and run down a side street, waving his arms and screaming.

“What the hell?” Lula said. “I saw you lock the lid.”

“It must have had a release on the inside.”

I took a right and drove toward the screams. We had our windows down, listening, and the screams stopped.

“Uh oh,” Lula said. “Cat turd.”

“He probably went inside a building.”

“Sure,” Lula said. “That’s probably it. Do you want to get out and search for him?”

“No. Do you?”

“No.” She swiveled and looked behind her. “What are we gonna do with his casket?”

“I guess I’ll return it to the funeral home.”

“You notice how people are staring at us? It’s like they never seen a casket hanging out of a Jeep before.”

I retraced my route down Broad to Liberty. I drove past
the funeral home and backed into the driveway leading to the garage. The casket carrier was missing and the garage doors were closed.

“Now what?” Lula asked.

“Now we remove the casket from Ranger’s Jeep with as much dignity as we can manage, and then we get the heck out of here.”

“What if someone sees us and wants to know what we’re doing?”

“We’ll say Ziggy wanted to go for a ride, but decided to walk home.”

“That’s good,” Lula said. “That sounds like it’s true.”

“It’s
sort
of true.”

“Fuckin’ A.”

We hauled the casket out of the Jeep, set it down in front of a garage door, scurried back into the SUV, and took off.

TWENTY-NINE

I WAS TRYING
to get Lula back to the bonds office, but I was inching along Hamilton, caught in the traffic jam created by the bad boys bus. I dropped her a block early, and I cut into the Burg, circled around, and came back to Hamilton on the other side of the gridlock. This had the additional benefit of saving me another pass by the seven-foot, double D cup Stephanie.

Ten minutes later I stepped out of the elevator in my apartment building and spotted Dave sitting in front of my door. There were two grocery bags on the floor next to him, and he was holding flowers.

He stood when he saw me. “I brought you flowers.”

I looked down at the bags. “And groceries?”

“Yeah. I thought I’d take a chance on you coming home
hungry. I got off work, and I drove past the supermarket and felt inspired.”

I took the flowers and unlocked my door. “What’s on the menu?”

“Salad, scalloped potatoes, and lamb chops. You’re going to be in charge of the scalloped potatoes.”

“I’m not wearing the apron.”

“Too bad.” He unpacked the bags and set everything out on the counter. “You’re not living up to the fantasy.”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“Twirlers had reputations,” Dave said.

“What kind of reputations?”

“Good with a baton.”

Oh God, I could just feel the rhino hanging over me.

“Here’s the deal,” I told him. “I have two men in my life who carry guns. You don’t want to make them angry. You can cook but you can’t flirt. No double entendres. No more staring at my chest. No twirler fantasies.”

“I’m not giving up the twirler fantasies,” Dave said, “but I’ll substitute Alberta Zaremba for you.” He searched around and came up with the cutting board. “I’m going to fix the lamb chops. You can peel the potatoes and cut them into slices about an eighth of an inch thick.”

When I was almost done cutting, and he looked over my shoulder to check my progress.

“Perfect,” he said. “It’s too bad we didn’t know each other better when we were in high school.”

He was way too close. I could feel his breath on my neck, and the brush of his chest against my back when he leaned in.

“You’re too close,” I said. “Remember the men with the guns?”

He took a step back, and I cut the last slice. “Now what? Do I put them in the casserole dish?”

“Yes, but you need to butter it first.”

He took a stick of butter from the fridge and put it on the counter. He added butter, milk, and already-shredded Swiss cheese.

“Butter the dish, layer the potatoes, dot with small chunks of butter, sprinkle with the shredded cheese, and add another layer,” he said.

“Okeydokey.”

I sprinkled the last of the cheese on the potatoes and stood back to admire my work, thinking it looked pretty darn good.

“What’s next?” I asked him.

He took a beat to answer. “Milk.”

Thank goodness. For a single irrational moment I was afraid he was going to tear my clothes off. And I might have a hard time defending myself. He had height and weight on me, and he wasn’t in great shape, but he wasn’t in terrible shape either.

He added milk to the potatoes and slid the dish into the oven. “I have the salad and lamb chops ready to go. The only thing left is the wine.”

“What do we do with the wine?”

“We drink it until the potatoes are done.”

I accepted a glass of wine, and the lock tumbled on the front door. There were only two people besides me who could unlock my door. Morelli had a key. And Ranger had skills normal law-abiding citizens didn’t usually possess. I knew it was Morelli because I could hear Bob panting on the other side of the door.

The door opened, and Bob rushed in, stopped short of Dave, and did his happy dance. Bob loved everyone. Especially people with food in their hand.

“Hope I’m not interrupting something,” Morelli said, pulling a dog biscuit out of his pocket, tossing it into the living room to distract Bob.

“Nope,” I told him. “Dave stopped by to make dinner. And I’m sure we have enough for you and Bob. I made scalloped potatoes almost all by myself.” I went to the oven and opened the door. “Look!”

Morelli looked into the oven and grinned. “I love scalloped potatoes.” He wrapped an arm around me and kissed me on the temple. A big smackeroo kiss Dave couldn’t ignore. “Nice of you to help Steph with the cooking,” he said to Dave.

This was the equivalent to Bob lifting his leg on his favorite bush, marking his territory. Morelli had me firmly plastered to his side. He took my wine for a test drive, found it lacking, and got a beer from the fridge.

“How’s it going?” Morelli said to Dave. “I hear you’re working for your uncle.”

“It fills in the empty spaces,” Dave said. “What’s new in your life?”

“Murder,” Morelli said. “Someone is giving Trenton bad statistics. If this keeps up we’ll be the new murder capital.” He took a pull on his beer. “There was a home invasion and double murder in the projects last night.”

“Robbery? Domestic violence?” I asked.

“Don’t know. I’m not the primary.”

Dave took his lamb chops out of the refrigerator and put them on the counter. “How were they killed?”

“Shot.”

“Messy,” Dave said.

THIRTY

MORELLI WAS KICKED BACK
on the couch, shoes off, working the channel changer. Bob was squished onto the couch on one side of Morelli, and I was on the other. The dirty dishes were in the dishwasher. The few leftovers were in the refrigerator. Dave had declined an invitation to watch a rerun of
Bowling for Dollars
and had gone his way.

“This is the life,” Morelli said. “A fantastic home-cooked meal, and now relaxing in front of the television. And later, some romance.”

Oh boy. More romance. And the bladder infection was back. “What do you think of Dave?”

“He makes a mean lamb chop.”

“Besides that.”

“He has superior social skills. Probably was on the fast
track professionally before he got caught up in someone’s get-rich-quick scheme.”

Bob got up, turned around twice, and squeezed himself back into the space between Morelli and the end of the couch.

The doorbell rang, and I went to answer, half afraid it was Dave returning. I peeked out the security peephole and saw that it was Regina Bugle. Obviously she’d gotten bonded out a second time.

“What?” I called through the door.

“I want to talk.”

“Can you phone it in?”

“No.”

I didn’t see a gun in her hand, so I opened the door. Regina bent down, picked up a pie, and smushed it into my face.

“Bitch,” she said. “The next thing to hit your face will be my bumper.” And she flounced off, down the hall, into the elevator.

Morelli strolled up behind me. “Yum, dessert.” He swiped some pie off me. “Lemon meringue!”

“I need to take a shower.”

“How’s the bladder infection?”

“It’s back,” I told him. Along with a huge load of guilt. The vordo was taking its toll. And Lula’s plan wasn’t working. I was more conflicted than ever.

Bob trotted in and ate the pie off the floor.