Explosive Eighteen

FIFTEEN

GRANDMA WAS AT THE DOOR, waiting for me. I pulled to the curb, and she hustled over to the truck. She was wearing chunky black heels, a lavender suit with a white blouse, and she was carrying the black leather purse that I knew was big enough to hold her.45 long barrel.

She hoisted herself up and into the truck, buckled her seat belt, and looked over at me.

“Don’t you look pretty,” Grandma said. “That’s such a nice sweater set.”

No comment on my face or the various Band-Aids.

“Anything else?” I asked her.

“I like your hair down like that. I hardly ever see it down anymore.” Grandma looked at her watch. “We gotta get a move on.”

“What about my face?”

“What about it?”

“For starters, I have a black eye.”

“Yeah, it’s a pip,” Grandma said, “but I’ve seen you with worse. Remember that explosion that burned your eyebrows off?”

Good lord, this is what it’s come to, I thought. My own grandmother isn’t shocked to see me with a black eye. I might as well admit it. I’m a train wreck.

“Is there a good story that goes with the shiner?” Grandma asked.

“I slipped in a parking garage.”

“Too bad,” Grandma said. “I could use something juicy for conversational material. Do you mind if I make something up?”

“Yes, I mind!”

I drove the short distance to the funeral home, off-loaded Grandma at the entrance, and trolled for a parking place. The small funeral home lot was full, but I found parking on the street a block away. Grandma had been right about the viewing. The building was packed. At three minutes after seven, the people were already spilling out the door onto the large wraparound front porch.

I kept my head down as I inched my way through the crowd, hoping not to attract attention. I was in the lobby, about to enter Slumber Room #1, and I got a call on my cell phone.

“I knew you would go to the viewing,” Joyce said.

“Where are you?”

“I’m outside. And don’t come out looking for me. You’ll never find me. I’m dying to come in and check it all out, but it’s too risky.”

“Yeah, I’d capture you.”

“You’re the least of my worries,” Joyce said. “Did you get the key?”

“Yes. Now what?”

“Hang on to it. Did you get up to the casket yet? Did you see the grieving widow?”

“No. It took me twenty minutes to cross the lobby. It’s jammed in here.”

“I want a report on the widow,” Joyce said. “I want to know what jewelry she’s wearing. It’s a closed casket, right?”

“I don’t know for sure, but the guy was compacted and aged for a couple days. I’m guessing he’s not real attractive at this point.”

“He wasn’t real attractive before. How about the people there? Anyone stand out?”

“In what way?”

“Remember David Niven in the Pink Panther movies?”

I looked around. I didn’t see David Niven. “No David Nivens here,” I told her.

I hung up with Joyce, and I bumped into Morelli.

“What are you doing here?” I asked him. “Is this official business or did you come for the cookies?”

“Official business. The captain wanted police presence, and I’m supposed to be looking for Joyce.”

“Do you think you’ll find her?”

“Not here. She’d be crazy to show up here. Although it’s hard to assess the extent of Joyce’s craziness.”

“My exact thoughts.”

Morelli was wearing his show-no-emotion cop face. “Berger let me see the tape.”

“And?” I asked.

“And I’m glad I tangled with Ranger and not you. You’re an animal. You kicked the crap out of that poor bastard.”

“I felt threatened.”

“No doubt.” His gaze traveled from my face to my enhanced cleavage, and his expression softened. “I like this sweater.”

Now this is the Morelli I know and love. “Does this sweater fixation mean things are returning to normal?”

“No, this means I’m trying not to focus on your face. You look worse than I do, and I have a broken nose.” He very gently touched a fingertip to my nose and the corner of my mouth. “Does it hurt?”

“Not a lot, but you could kiss it and make it better.”

He brushed a whisper of a kiss across my nose and my mouth. “I’m so sorry this happened to you.”

“You like me?” I asked him.

“No, but I’m working on it.”

I guess I could live with that. “I was attacked by Razzle Dazzle. Did you recognize him on the tape?”

Morelli shook his head. “No. But Berger seemed to know him.”

“I talked to Brenda earlier today. Not much came of it. I still have no idea why everyone’s interested in the photograph.”

“Berger’s briefed me on the major players, and he called me in to see the tape, but he isn’t talking beyond that. I don’t think he knows the whole story. Someone above him wants that photograph. This isn’t trivial.”

“Why is Berger playing nice with you?”

“You’re the only one who’s seen the photograph, and I’m a connection to you.”

“But I don’t have the photograph, and I don’t know anything. I described Tom Cruise and Ashton Kutcher to the FBI sketch artists.”

Morelli did a palms up. “No one believes you.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. You have nothing to gain by lying. And you look really sexy tonight from your neck down.”

“I thought you didn’t like me.”

“Cupcake, that sweater transcends like or not like.”

I punched him in the chest. “I’m going to find Grandma.”

Grandma had scored a folding chair in the third row and had saved the one next to her for me.

“This here’s a real disappointing viewing,” Grandma said. “I expected better, what with Frank Korda being packed off to the junkyard. I don’t think there’s even a reporter for the paper. And so far I haven’t seen any killers pass by. Only Connie’s Uncle Gino, and he’s pretty much retired. He’s just here for the refreshments. I was hoping to see Joyce Barnhardt. Now, that would be something.” Grandma stared at the casket for a long moment. “Do you think they got him dressed up in there?” she asked. “What kind of tie do you suppose he’s wearing? I bet it’s hard to dress someone after they’ve been compacted. He probably looks like a waffle.” She sighed with longing. “I sure would like to take a look.”

I didn’t want to look. Not even a little. Like Morelli, I’d come here on the odd chance Barnhardt would show. Now that I’d made contact with her, I was anxious to leave.

“How long do you want to stay?” I asked Grandma. “Are you ready to go?”

“Maybe another ten minutes,” Grandma said. “I’m waiting to see if the widow Korda’s gonna cry.”

I thought chances of that were zero to nothing. The widow Korda was tight-lipped and dry-eyed, looking like she’d rather be home watching Cheers reruns. It was hard to see jewelry details from the third row, but it looked to me like she was wearing small gold hoop earrings and a simple gold necklace.

“I’m going to wander around,” I told Grandma. “I’ll meet you by the refreshments.”

I reached the table with cookies and coffee set out just as my mom called me.

“What happened to you? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. Eighteen people have called me so far asking if you were in a car crash. I’ve been calling you for a half hour and you haven’t been answering.”

“I couldn’t hear the phone ringing when I was in the viewing room. Too much noise.”

“Myra Kruger said you had a black eye. And Cindy Beryl said you had a broken knee. How can you drive with a broken knee?”

“I don’t have a broken knee. I have a scrape on my knee, and a bruise under my eye. I slipped in a parking garage and banged my face into a parked car. It’s not serious.”

“Did you get shot?”

“No!”

I disconnected and stared at the tray of cookies. Nothing soft enough for me to eat with a split lip. I looked around the room and wondered who else had ratted me out to my mother. My phone rang again. Joyce.

“Well?” Joyce asked. “What was she wearing?”

“Small gold hoops and a gold necklace. It didn’t look especially expensive, but what do I know.”

“Were there diamonds in the hoops or the necklace?”

“No.”

“Interesting,” Joyce said. And she hung up.

It was close to nine o’clock when Grandma found her way to the cookie table. She ate three cookies, wrapped four more in a napkin, put them in her purse, and she was ready to head for home.

“It got better after you left,” she said. “Melvin Shupe came through the line and cut the cheese right when he got up to the casket. He said he was sorry, but the widow made a big fuss over it. And then the funeral director came with air freshener, and when he sprayed it around, Louisa Belman got a asthma attack and they had to cart her out the back door to get some air. Earl Krizinski was sitting behind me, and he said he saw Louisa’s underpants when they picked her up, and he said he got a stiffy.”

“Louisa Belman is ninety-three years old.”

“Well, I guess to Earl underpants are underpants.”

We walked the block to the truck without incident. We got in and Grandma got a text.

“It’s from Annie,” Grandma said. “She wants to know if you found your true love.”

“Tell her I’m not looking, but if he happens along, she’ll be one of the first to know.”

“That’s a lot to write,” Grandma said. “I’ll just say not yet.” She tapped out the message and sat back in the seat. “It was so much easier when I was young. You got a boyfriend, and you married him. You had some kids, you got older, one of you died, and that was it.”

“Jeez. No true love?”

“There’s always been true love, but in my day, you either talked yourself into thinking you had it, or you talked yourself into thinking you didn’t need it.”

I took Grandma home, but I didn’t go in. It had been a long day, and I was looking forward to my quiet apartment. I did the usual bad guy car search in my lot, parked the truck, and crossed to the apartment building’s back door with one hand wrapped around the Glock. I took the elevator to my floor and walked down the hall thinking I should probably learn how to shoot. I knew the basics. Lula, Morelli, and Ranger all carried semiautomatics. So I had a lot of exposure, but my actual use was limited.

I let myself into my apartment, still holding the Glock. I stepped into the small foyer and realized the television was on. I was thinking Ranger or Morelli, but it turned out to be Joyce Barnhardt.

“Hey, girlfriend,” Joyce said.

“What the heck are you doing here? And I’m not your girlfriend. I’ve never been your friend. I will never want to be your friend.”

“Gee, that hurts.”

“How did you get in?”

“I climbed up the fire escape and jimmied your window.”

I raised the Glock. “I guess I should be thanking you. This makes everything easy for me.”

“Don’t be silly. I’m not going anywhere, especially not to jail.”

“I have an arrest agreement, and I have a gun aimed at you.”

“Honestly,” Joyce said, “put the gun down. You’re not going to shoot me. For one thing, I’d bleed all over your carpet. Not that it’s all that great. And I’m unarmed. Just think of the paperwork, not to mention you’d probably get charged with assault with a deadly weapon. That carries a decent amount of time in an orange jumpsuit.”

“I hate you.”

“Blah, blah, blah,” Joyce said. “Get over it. Besides, I’m an entirely new person.”

“You don’t lie?”

“Well, of course I lie. Everyone lies.”

“You don’t steal husbands?”

“Okay, once in a while I steal a husband. I don’t see what the big deal is. They all turn out to be losers anyway.”

“So how are you new?”

“For one thing, I have blond streaks in my hair. What do you think?”

Joyce dyed her hair flame red, so the blond streaks were icing on the cake. Some of the hair was real, and some of it was fake, and when you put it all together there was a lot of it. She wore it teased up, exploding out into big curls and waves, like Farrah Fawcett’s hair on steroids.

I looked more closely at the color. “I like it. It’s flattering to your skin tone.” Good grief, I thought, now I was complimenting her hair. This was absolutely wrong.

“It wouldn’t be a bad idea for you to do some sprucing up,” Joyce said. “You don’t ever look wonderful, but you look worse than usual. You get into a fight with Morelli?”

“I slipped and fell in a parking garage.”

“Yeah, right. That’s how you got the busted-up face. What, do I look stupid today?”

“Why are you here?”

“I was going to come get my key, and then I realized this was the perfect place to hide out. No one would ever think to look for me here.”

“Hide out? Here?” I vigorously shook my head. “No. No, no, no. No way.”

“Deal with it,” Joyce said. “I’m not leaving.”

Keep your eye on the prize, I told myself. Go with a capture plan. Let her stay here, and when she falls asleep, sneak up on her, zap her with the monster stun gun, and cuff her. Then drag her ass back to jail and collect the money.

“Did you kill Frank Korda?” I asked her.

“No, but if he wasn’t already dead, I’d consider it. The asshole lied to me.”

“Despicable.”

“No shit.” Joyce was on the couch surfing television channels. “I can’t believe you’ve just got the basic package. You don’t get anything on this crappy television. It’s going to be a real hardship for me to live here.”

Eye on the prize, I repeated to myself. Don’t go goofy and shoot her just for the fun of it. She’s right about the bloodstain on the rug. Blood is a bitch to get out.

“I usually watch the Cooking Channel,” I said.

“Jesus, that’s friggin’ domestic. Can you cook?”

“No. I like watching other people cook.”

“Kinky.”

I took the key out of my purse and gave it to Joyce. “What’s the key all about?”

“It’s the key to the treasure chest.”

Oh boy, the treasure chest. Best not to ask, I decided. I probably didn’t want to know.

“I looked all through your apartment,” Joyce said. “I couldn’t find any wine. For that matter, I couldn’t find much of anything. It looks to me like you’re one step away from making hamster stew. I don’t know how you tolerate this spartan existence.”

After I zap her and cuff her, I might shave her head, I thought. That would be fun. I could shave her eyebrows off, too.

“Gosh, I’m sure enjoying all this girl talk,” I said, “but I’m beat. I’m going to turn in.”

“I suppose I have to sleep on the couch,” Joyce said.

“Yeah, the Queen of England is using my guest suite.”

I brought Rex and my laptop into the bedroom with me. I wasn’t leaving them out there with the spawn of Satan. I threw a pillow and an extra quilt out to Joyce, and locked my bedroom door. I laid my cuffs, stun gun, and Glock out on my bureau. Mise en place. I learned that from the Cooking Channel. Everything in its place for efficiency of use.

I changed from my dressy funeral home skirt and sweater to T-shirt and sweatpants. I turned my lights down and brought my laptop to bed with me. It was still early, and like most rodents, Joyce was nocturnal. So my plan was to do some research on my computer and check on Joyce after midnight.

At midnight, I dragged myself out of bed, carefully opened my door, and peeked out. Joyce was watching a movie.

“What’s up?” she said.

“Not much. Everything okay out here?”

“As good as it could be, considering I’m in deprivation central.”

I closed and locked my door again. Damn. I couldn’t keep my eyes open. Especially the one that was black-and-blue and swollen. I set my alarm on low for four o’clock, turned my light out, and crawled under the covers.