High Five

9

"WOW, LOOK AT this," Grandma said, peering out at the parking lot. "This place is packed tonight. That's on account of Stiva has a full house. He's got somebody in every room. I was talking to Jean Moon, and she said her cousin Dorothy died yesterday morning, and they couldn't get her into Stiva's. Had to take her to Mosel."

"What's wrong with Mosel?" Briggs asked.

"He don't know nothing about makeup," Grandma said. "Uses too much rouge. I like when the deceased looks nice and natural."

"Yeah, I like that, too," Briggs said. "Nothing worse than an unnatural corpse."

The rain had slowed to a drizzle, but it still wasn't a glorious night to be out, so I dropped Grandma and Briggs off at the door and went in search of a parking place on the street. I found one a block away, and by the time I reached Stiva's front porch my hair was more frizz than curl and my cotton knit sweater had grown two inches.

Larry Lipinski was in room number one, as was befitting a suicidal killer. Family and friends were clustered in a knot around the casket. The rest of the room was filled with the same crowd I'd seen at the Deeter viewing. There were the professional mourners like Grandma Mazur and Sue Ann Schmatz. And there were the garbage people.

Grandma Mazur marched over to me with Briggs running after her. "I already gave my condolences," she said. "And I want to tell you they're a real standoffish group. It's a shame when people like that get to take rooms away from people like Dorothy Moon."

"I guess that means they wouldn't give you a picture."

"Zip," Grandma said. "They gave me zip."

"They gave it to her in a big way, too," Briggs said, smiling. "You should have been there."

"I don't think he's the one, anyway," I said.

"I'm not so sure," Grandma said. "These people look to me like they got something to hide. I think this is a shifty lot."

If I was related to someone who'd confessed to murder, I'd probably be feeling a little uncomfortable, too.

"Don't worry," Grandma said. "I thought this might happen, and I've got a plan."

"Yeah, the plan is we forget about it," I said.

Grandma slid her uppers around while she scanned the crowd. "Emma Getz told me the deceased in room number four is done up real nice. I thought I might take a look."

"Me too," Briggs said. "I don't want to miss anything."

I wasn't interested in how room four was done up, so I volunteered to wait in the lobby. Waiting got old after a couple minutes, so I wandered over to the tea table and helped myself to some cookies. Then the cookies got old, so I went to the ladies' room to check out my hair. Big mistake. Best not to look at my hair. I went back to the cookies and put one in my pocket for Rex.

I was counting the ceiling tiles, wondering what to do next, when the fire alarm went off. Since not that long ago Stiva's almost burned to the ground, no one was wasting any time vacating the premises. People poured from the viewing rooms into the lobby and ran for the door. I didn't see Grandma Mazur, so I struggled through the crowd to viewing room four. The room was empty when I got there, with the exception of Mrs. Kunkle, who was serene in her twelve-thousand-dollar mahogany and solid brass slumber chamber. I ran back to the lobby and was about to check outside for Grandma Mazur when I noticed the door to room one was closed. All the other doors were open, but the Lipinski door was closed.

Sirens whined in the distance, and I had a bad feeling about room one. Stiva was on the other side of the lobby, yelling to his assistant to check the back rooms. He turned and looked at me, and his face went white.

"It wasn't me!" I said. "I swear!"

He followed after the assistant, and the second he was out of sight I ran to room one and tried the door. The knob turned but the door wouldn't open, so I put my weight behind it and gave it a shove. The door flew open, and Briggs fell over backward.

"Shit," he said, "close the door, you big oaf."

"What are you doing?"

"I'm doing lookout for your grandma. What do you think I'm doing?"

At the other end of the room, Grandma had the lid up on Larry Lipinski. She was standing one foot on a folding chair, one foot on the edge of the casket, and she was taking pictures with a disposable camera.

"Grandma!"

"Boy," she said, "this guy don't look so good."

"Get down!"

"I gotta finish this roll out. I hate when there's pictures left over."

I ran down the aisle between the folding chairs. "You can't do this!"

"I can now that I got this chair. I was only getting the side of his face before. And that wasn't working good, on account of there's a lot of his head missing."

"Stop taking pictures this instant and get down!"

"Last picture!" Grandma said, climbing off the chair, dropping the camera into her purse. "I got some beauts."

"Close the lid! Close the lid!"

Crash!

"Didn't realize it was so heavy," Grandma said.

I moved the chair back against the wall. I scrutinized the casket to make sure everything looked okay. And then I took Grandma by the hand. "Let's get out of here."

The door was wrenched open before we got to it, and Stiva gave me a startled look. "What are you doing in here? I thought you were leaving the building."

"I couldn't find Grandma," I said. "And um—"

"She came in here to rescue me," Grandma said, hanging on to me, making her way to the door. "I was paying my respects when the alarm went off, and everybody stampeded out of here. And somebody knocked me over, and I couldn't get up. The midget was in here with me, but it would have taken two of them to do the job. If it wasn't for my granddaughter coming to get me I'd have burned to a cinder."

"Little person!" Randy Briggs said. "How many times do I have to tell you, I'm not a midget."

"Well, you sure do look like a midget," Grandma said. She sniffed the air. "Do I smell smoke?"

"No," Stiva said. "It looks like a false alarm. Are you all right?"

"I think so," Grandma said. "And it's a lucky thing, too, because I got fragile bones on account of I'm so old." Grandma glanced over at me. "Imagine that, a false alarm."

Imagine that. Unh. Mental head slap.

There were two fire trucks in the street when we left. Mourners were outside, shivering in the drizzle, kept in place by curiosity and the fact that their coats were inside. A police car was angled at the curb.

"You didn't set that alarm off, did you?" I asked Grandma Mazur.

"Who, me?"

* * * * *

MY MOTHER WAS waiting at the door when we got back to the house. "I heard the sirens," she said. "Are you all right?"

"Sure we're all right," Grandma said. "Can't you see we're all right?"

"Mrs. Ciak got a call from her daughter, who told her there was a fire at Stiva's."

"No fire," Grandma said. "It was one of them false alarms."

My mother's mouth had turned grim.

Grandma shook the rain off her coat and hung it in the closet. "Ordinarily I guess I might feel bad that the fire department had to go out for nothing, but I noticed Bucky Moyer was driving. And you know how Bucky loves to drive that big truck."

Actually this was true about Bucky. In fact, he'd been suspected on more than one occasion for setting off a false alarm himself just so he could take the truck out.

"I have to go," I said. "I have a lot to do tomorrow."

"Wait," my mother said, "let me give you some chicken."

* * * * *

GRANDMA CALLED AT eight. "I got a beauty parlor appointment this morning," she said. "I thought maybe you could give me a ride, and on the way we could drop the you-know-what off."

"The film?"

"Yeah."

"When is your appointment?"

"Nine."

* * * * *

WE STOPPED AT the photo store first. "Do that one-hour thing," Grandma said, handing me the film.

"That costs a fortune."

"I got a coupon," Grandma said. "They give them to us seniors on account of we haven't got a lot of time to waste. We have to wait too long to get our pictures back, and we could be dead."

After I deposited Grandma at the hair salon I drove to the office. Lula was on the Naugahyde couch, drinking coffee, reading her horoscope. Connie was at her desk, eating a bagel. And Vinnie was nowhere in sight.

Lula put the paper down as soon as she spied me walking through the door. "I want to know all about it. Everything. I want details."

"Not much to tell," I said. "I chickened out and didn't wear the dress."

"What? Say that again?"

"It's sort of complicated."

"So you're telling me you didn't get any this weekend."

"Yeah."

"Girl, that's a sad-ass state of affairs."

Tell me about it.

"You got any FTAs?" I asked Connie.

"Nothing came in on Saturday. And it's too early for today."

"Where's Vinnie?"

"At the lockup, writing bail on a shoplifter."

I left the office and stood outside, staring at the Buick. "I hate you," I said.

I heard someone laughing softly behind me and turned to find Ranger.

"You always talk to your car like that? Think you need a life, Babe."

"I've got a life. What I need is a new car."

He stared at me for a couple beats, and I was afraid to speculate on what he was thinking. His brown eyes were assessing, and his expression was mildly amused. "What would you be willing to do for a new car?"

"What did you have in mind?"

Again, the soft laugh. "Would it still have to be morally correct?"

"What kind of car are we talking about?"

"Powerful. Sexy."

I had a feeling those words might be included in the job description, too.

A light rain had started to fall. He pulled my jacket hood up and tucked my hair in. His finger traced a line at my temple, our eyes met, and for a terrifying moment I thought he might kiss me. The moment passed, and Ranger pulled back.

"Let me know when you decide," he said.

"Decide?"

He smiled. "About the car."

"Okeydokey."

Unh! I climbed into the Buick and roared off into the mist. I stopped for a light and thunked my head on the steering wheel while I waited for the green. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, I thought while I thunked. Why had I said "okeydokey"? What a dopey thing to say! I did one last thunk and the light turned.

Grandma was getting coated with hairspray when I got to the salon. Her hair was steel gray, and she kept it cut short and curled in rolls that marched in side-by-side rows on her pink skull. "I'm almost done," she said. "Did you get the pictures?"

"Not yet."

She paid for her wash and set, stuffed herself into her coat, and carefully tied the plastic rain bonnet on her head. "That was some viewing last night," she said, being cautious how she walked on the wet pavement. "What a lot of excitement. You weren't even there when Margaret Burger pitched a fit over the guy in room three. You remember how Margaret's husband, Sol, died from a heart attack last year? Well, Margaret said it was all over a problem Sol was having with the cable company. Margaret said they drove Sol to high blood pressure. And she said the guy who did it was the dead guy in room three, John Curly. Margaret said she came to spit on his dead body."

"Margaret Burger came to Stiva's to spit on someone?" Margaret Burger was a sweet white-haired lady.

"That's what she told me, but I didn't actually see her spit. I guess I came in too late. Or maybe after she saw this John Curly person she decided not to do it. He looked even worse than Lipinski."

"How did he die?"

"Hit and run. And from the looks of him he must have got hit by a truck. Boy, I'm telling you these companies are something. Margaret said Sol was arguing over his bill, just like Fred, and this smart-mouth in the office, John Curly, didn't want to hear anything."

I parked in front of One-Hour Photo and got Grandma's pictures.

"These aren't so bad," she said, shuffling through the pack.

I looked over at them. Eeew.

"You think it's real obvious he's dead?" Grandma asked.

"He's in a casket."

"Well, I still think they're pretty good. I think we should see if that Grand Union lady recognizes him."

"Grandma, we can't ring some woman's doorbell and show her pictures of a dead man."

Grandma pawed through her big black patent-leather handbag. "The only other thing I got is the memorial brochure from Stiva. The picture's kind of fuzzy, though."

I took the paper from Grandma and looked at it. It was a photo of Lipinski and his wife. And below it was the Twenty-third Psalm. Lipinski was standing with his arm around a slim woman with short brown hair. It was a snapshot, taken outdoors on a summer day, and they were smiling at each other.

"Kind of funny they used that picture," Grandma said. "I overheard people talking, saying as how Lipinski's wife left him last week. Just up and went. And she didn't show up for the viewing, either. Nobody could find her to tell her about it. Was like she just disappeared off the face of the earth. Just like Fred. Except from what I heard, Laura Lipinski left on purpose. Packed her bags and said she wanted a divorce. Isn't that a shame?"

Now I know there are billions of women out there who are slim with short brown hair. But my mind made the leap anyway to the severed head with the short brown hair. Larry Lipinski was the second RGC employee to die a violent death in the space of a week. And while it seemed like a remote connection, Fred had been in contact with Lipinski. Lipinski's wife was gone. And Lipinski's wife could, in a very vague way, fit the body in the bag.

"Okay," I said, "let's show the pictures to Irene Tully." What the hell. If she freaked out I'd write it off as an average day. I dug her address out of my bag. Apartment 117, BrooksideGardens. BrooksideGardens was an apartment complex about a quarter mile from the strip mall.

"Irene Tully," Grandma said. "The name sounds familiar, but I can't place her."

"She said she knew Fred from the seniors' club."

"I guess that's where I heard of her. There's lots of people in that seniors' club, and I don't go to the meetings all the time. I can only take so much of old people. If I want to see loose skin I can look in the mirror."

I turned into BrooksideGardens and started searching for numbers. There were six buildings arranged around a large parking area. The buildings were two-story brick, done up in colonial modern, which meant the trim was white and the windows were framed by shutters. Each apartment had its own outside entrance.

"Here it is," Grandma said, unbuckling her seat belt. "The one with the Halloween decoration on the door."

We walked up the short sidewalk and rang the bell.

Irene looked out at us. "Yes?"

"We need to ask you about the disappearance of Fred Shutz," Grandma said. "And we got a picture to show you."

"Oh," Irene said. "Is it a picture of Fred?"

"Nope," Grandma said. "It's a picture of the kidnapper."

"Well, actually, we aren't really sure Fred was kidnapped," I said. "What Grandma meant was—"

"Take a look at this," Grandma said, handing Irene one of the photos. "Of course, the suit might be different."

Irene studied the photo. "Why is he in a casket?"

"He's sort of dead now," Grandma said.

Irene shook her head. "This isn't the man."

"Maybe you're just thinking that because his eyes are closed, and he don't look so shifty," Grandma said. "And his nose looks a little smushed. I think he might have fallen on his face after he blew his brains out."

Irene studied the picture. "No. It's definitely not him."

"Bummer," Grandma said. "I was sure he was the one."

"Sorry," Irene said.

"Well, they're still pretty good pictures," Grandma said, when we got back to the car. "They would have been better if I could have got his eyes to open."

I took Grandma home and bummed lunch off my mom. All the while I was looking for Bunchy. Last I saw him was Saturday, and I was beginning to worry. Figure that one out. Me worrying about Bunchy. Stephanie Plum, mother hen.

I left my parents and took Chambers to Hamilton. Bunchy picked me up on Hamilton. I saw him in my rearview mirror, pulled to the curb, and got out to talk to him.

"Where've you been?" I asked. "Take Sunday off?"

"I had some work to catch up on. Bookies gotta work sometimes too, you know."

"Yeah, only you're not a bookie."

"We gonna start that again?"

"How'd you find me just now?"

"I was riding around, and I got lucky. How about you? You get lucky?"

"That's none of your damn business!"

His eyes crinkled with laughter. "I was talking about Fred."

"Oh. One step forward, two steps backward," I said. "I get things that seem like leads and then they go nowhere."

"Like what?"

"I found a woman who saw Fred get into a car with another man the day he disappeared. Problem is, she can't describe the man or the car. And then something weird happened at the funeral home, and it feels to me like it might tie in, but I can't find any logical reason why."

"What was the weird thing?"

"There was a woman at one of the viewings who seemed to have a similar problem to the one Fred was having with the garbage company. Only this woman had problems with her cable company."

Bunchy looked interested. "What kind of problems?"

"I don't know exactly. Grandma told me about it. She just said they were similar to Fred's."

"I think we should talk to this woman."

"We? There's no we."

"I thought we were working together. You brought me lamb and everything."

"I felt sorry for you. You were pathetic, sitting out there in your car."

He wagged his finger at me. "I don't think so. I think you're getting to like me."

Like a stray dog. Maybe not that much. But he was right about talking to Margaret Burger. What was the harm? I had no idea where Margaret Burger lived, so I went back to my parents' house and asked Grandma.

"I can show you," she said.

"Not necessary. Just tell me."

"And miss all the action? No way!"

Why not? I had Bunchy tagging along. Maybe I should ask Mrs. Ciak and Mary Lou and my sister, Valerie. I took a deep breath. Sarcasm always made me feel better. "Get in the car," I said to Grandma.

I took Chambers to Liberty and turned onto Rusling.

"It's one of these houses," Grandma said. "I'll know it when I see it. I went to a get-together there once." She looked over her shoulder. "I think someone's following us. I bet it's one of them garbage people."

"It's Bunchy," I said. "I'm sort of working with him."

"No kidding? I didn't realize this had turned into such a big investigation. We've got a whole team here."

I stopped at the house Grandma had described, and we all got out and collected together on the sidewalk. It had stopped raining, and the temperature had risen to pleasant.

"My granddaughter tells me you're working together," Grandma said to Bunchy, looking him over. "Are you a bounty hunter, too?"

"No, ma'am," he said. "I'm a bookie."

"A bookie!" Grandma said. "Isn't that something. I always wanted to meet a bookie."

I knocked on Margaret Burger's door, and before I could introduce myself Grandma stepped forward.

"Hope we aren't disturbing you," Grandma said. "But we're conducting an important investigation. Stephanie and me and Mr. Bunchy."

Bunchy elbowed me. "Mr. Bunchy," he said.

"Not at all," Margaret Burger said. "I guess this is about poor Fred."

"We can't find him no-how," Grandma said. "And my granddaughter thought your problem with that cable company sounded real similar. Except, of course, they gave Sol a heart attack instead of making him disappear."

"They were awful people," Margaret said. "We paid our bills on time. We never missed a payment. And then when we had trouble with the cable box, they said they never heard of us. Can you imagine?"

"Just like Fred," Grandma said. "Isn't that right, Stephanie?"

"Uh, yeah, it sounds—"

"So then what?" Bunchy said. "Did Sol complain?"

"He went down there in person and raised a big fuss. And that's when he had his heart attack."

"What a shame," Grandma said. "Sol was only in his seventies, too."

"Do you have any canceled checks from the cable company?" Bunchy asked Margaret. "Something from before you had the problem?"

"I could look in my file," Margaret said. "I keep all my checks for a couple years. But I don't think I have any of the cable checks. After Sol died, that awful cable person, John Curly, came and tried to look like he was being helpful about solving the mix-up. I didn't buy that for a minute. He was just trying to cover his tracks because he messed up the computer records. He even said as much, but it was too late for Sol. He'd already been given the heart attack."

Bunchy looked resigned to what he was hearing. "John Curly took the canceled checks," Bunchy said, more statement than question.

"He said he needed them for his records."

"And he never brought them back?"

"Never. And next thing I know I get a statement from them welcoming me like I was a brand-new customer. I'm telling you, that cable company is a mess."

"Anything else you want to know?" I asked Bunchy.

"No. That's about it."

"How about you, Grandma?"

"I can't think of anything more."

"Well then," I said to Margaret, "I guess there isn't anything else. Thanks for talking to us."

"I hope Fred turns up," Margaret said. "Mabel must be beside herself."

"She's holding up pretty good," Grandma said. "I guess Fred wasn't one of those husbands you really mind losing."

Margaret nodded, like she understood completely what Grandma was saying.

I dropped Grandma off and continued on home to my apartment. Bunchy followed me the whole way and parked behind me.

"Now what?" Bunchy said. "What are you going to do now?"

"I don't know. You have any ideas?"

"I'm thinking there's something going on with the garbage company."

I considered telling him about Laura Lipinski but decided against it.

"Why did you want to see Margaret's canceled checks?" I asked.

"No special reason. Just thought they'd be interesting."

"Uh-huh."

Bunchy rocked back on his heels with his hands in his pockets. "How about the checks from the garbage company? You ever get any of them?"

"Why? You think they'd be interesting, too?"

"Might be. You never know about stuff." His eyes focused on something behind me, and his face changed expression. Wariness, maybe.

I felt a body move so close it was skimming my own, and a warm hand protectively settled at the base of my neck. Without turning I knew it was Ranger.

"This is Bunchy," I said to Ranger, by way of introduction. "Bunchy the bookie."

Ranger didn't move. Bunchy didn't move. And I wasn't moving, held in a kind of suspended animation by Ranger's force field.

Finally Bunchy took a couple steps backward. It was the sort of maneuver a man might make when confronted with a grizzly. "I'll be in touch," Bunchy said, pivoting on his heel, walking to his car.

We watched Bunchy drive out of the lot.

"He's not a bookie," Ranger said, his hand still holding me captive.

I stepped away and turned to face him, putting space between us.

"What was with the intimidation routine you just did?"

Ranger smiled. "You think I intimidated him?"

"Not a whole lot."

"I don't think so, either. He's got a few face-offs behind him."

"Am I right in assuming you didn't like him?"

"Just being cautious. He was carrying and he was lying. And he's a cop."

I already knew all those things. "He's been following me for days. So far he's been harmless."

"What's he after?"

"I don't know. Something to do with Fred. Right now he knows more than I do. So I figure it's worthwhile to play along with him. He's probably a Fed. I think he has a tracking device on my car. Jersey cops can't usually afford to do stuff like that. And I think he must be working with a partner to be able to pick me up, but I haven't spotted the partner yet."

"Does he know you've made him?"

"Yeah, but he doesn't want to talk about it."

"I can help with the tracking problem," Ranger said, handing me a set of keys.

"What's this?"