High Five

7

STIVA'S FUNERAL HOME was in a big white house on Hamilton. There'd been a fire in the basement, and much of the house was newly rebuilt and refurnished. New green indoor-outdoor carpet on the front porch. New ivory medallion wallpaper throughout. New industrial-strength blue-green carpeting in the lobby and viewing rooms.

I parked the Blue Bomb in the lot and helped Grandma wobble inside on the black patent-leather pumps she always wore to evening viewings.

Constantine Stiva was in the middle of the lobby, directing traffic. Mrs. Balog in slumber room three. Stanley Krienski in slumber room two. And Martha Deeter, who was clearly going to be the big draw, was laid out in room one.

Not long ago I'd had a run-in with Constantine's son, Spiro. The result had been the aforementioned fire and the mysterious disappearance of Spiro. Fortunately, Con was the consummate undertaker, his demeanor always controlled, his smile sympathetic, his voice as smooth as vanilla custard. There was never any ugly mention of the unfortunate incident. After all, I was a potential customer. And with my line of work it might be sooner rather than later. Not to mention Grandma Mazur.

"And who are you visiting tonight?" he asked. "Ah yes, Ms. Deeter is resting in room one."

Resting. Unh.

"Let's get a move on," Grandma said, taking me by the hand and pulling me forward. "Looks like there's already a crowd collecting."

I scanned the faces. Some regulars like Myra Smulinski and Harriet Farver. Some other people who probably worked for RGC and most likely wanted to make sure Martha was really dead. A knot of people dressed in black, staying close to the casket—family members. I didn't see any representatives from Big Business. I was pretty sure my father was wrong about the mob doing in Uncle Fred and the garbage people. Still, it didn't hurt to keep my eyes open. I also didn't see any aliens.

"Will you look at this," Grandma said. "Closed casket. Isn't this a fine howdy-do. I get dressed up and come out to pay my respects, and I don't even get to see anything."

Martha Deeter was shot and autopsied. They'd taken her brain out to get weighed. After she was put back together she probably looked like Frankenstein. I was personally relieved to see a closed casket.

"I'm going to check out the flowers," Grandma said. "See who sent what."

I did another crowd scan and spotted Terry Gilman, Hello! Maybe my father was right. It was rumored that Terry Gilman worked for her uncle Vito Grizolli. Vito was a family man who ran a dry cleaning business that laundered a lot more than dirty clothes. What I heard from Connie, who was connected in a nonparticipating sort of way, was that Terry had started out in collections and was moving up the corporate ladder.

"Terry Gilman?" I said with more statement than question, extending my hand.

Terry was slim and blond and had dated Morelli all through high school. None of which endeared her to me. She was wearing an expensive gray silk suit and matching heels. Her manicure was to die for, and the gun she carried in a slim-line shoulder holster was discreetly hidden by the line of her jacket. Only someone who had worn a similar rig would notice Terry's.

"Stephanie Plum," Terry said, "nice to see you again. Were you friends with Martha?"

"No. I'm here with my grandma. She likes to come to scope out the caskets. How about you? Were you friends with Martha?"

"Business associates," Terry said.

That hung in the air for a moment.

"I hear you're working for your uncle Vito."

"Customer relations," Terry said.

Another silence.

I rocked back on my heels. "Funny how Martha and Larry died from gunshots one day apart."

"Tragic."

I lowered my voice and leaned a little closer. "That wasn't your job, was it? I mean, you weren't the one to, uh—"

"Whack them?" Terry said. "No. Sorry to disappoint you. It wasn't me. Anything else you want to know?"

"Well, yeah, actually my uncle Fred is missing."

"I didn't whack him either," Terry said.

"I didn't think so," I said, "but it never hurts to ask."

Terry glanced at her watch. "I've got to give my respects, and then I'm out of here. I have two more viewings tonight. One at Moser and one across town."

"Boy, sounds like Vito's business is booming."

Terry shrugged. "People die."

Uh-huh.

Her eyes focused on something beyond my shoulder, and her interest shifted. "Well, well," she said, "look who's here."

I turned to see who put the purr in Terry's voice and wasn't all that surprised. It was Morelli.

He draped a proprietary arm around my shoulders and smiled at Terry. "How's it going?"

"Can't complain," Terry said.

Morelli cut his eyes to the casket at the end of the room. "You know Martha?"

"Sure," Terry said. "We go way back."

Morelli smiled some more.

"I think I'll go find Grandma," I said.

Morelli tightened his hold on me. "Not yet. I need to talk to you." He nodded at Terry. "Will you excuse us?"

"I need to be moving on anyway," Terry said. She sent Joe a smoochy air kiss and went off in search of the Deeters.

Joe dragged me out to the lobby.

"That was very friendly back there," I said, trying hard not to narrow my eyes and grind my teeth.

"We have a lot in common," Morelli said. "We both work in vice."

"Hmm."

"You know, you're kind of cute when you're jealous."

"I'm not jealous."

"Liar."

Now my eyes were definitely narrowed, but I was secretly thinking it'd be nice if he'd kiss me. "Did you want to discuss something?"

"Yeah. I want to know what the hell went on today. Did you really beat the shit out of that poor little Briggs guy?"

"No! He fell down the stairs."

"Oh boy," Morelli said.

"He did!"

"Honey, I say that all the time, and it's never true."

"There were witnesses."

Morelli was trying to look serious, but I could see the grin twitching at the corners of his mouth. "Costanza said you tried to shoot the lock off, and when that didn't work you took an axe to the door."

"That's totally wrong . . . it was a tire iron."

"Christ," Morelli said. "Is it that time of the month?"

I pressed my lips together.

He tucked a clump of hair behind my ear and trailed a fingertip down my cheek.

"Guess I'll find out tomorrow."

"Oh?"

"A woman's always an easy mark at a wedding," Morelli said. I thought about the tire iron. It'd be really satisfying to clonk Morelli on the head with it. "Is that why you invited me?"

Morelli grinned.

Yep. He definitely deserved to get smacked with the tire iron. Then after I smacked him I'd kiss him. Run my hand down his chest to his flat hard stomach to his nice hard . . .

Grandma materialized at my elbow. "How nice to see you," she said to Morelli. "Hope this means you're going to start paying attention to my granddaughter again. Things are pretty dull since you got cut out of the scene."

"She broke my heart," Morelli said.

Grandma shook her head. "She don't know much."

Morelli looked pleased.

"Well, I'm ready to go," Grandma said. "Nothing to see here. They've got the lid nailed down. Besides, there's a Jackie Chan movie coming on at nine o'clock, and I don't want to miss it. Eeeya!" she said, making a kung fu-type move. "You could come over to watch it with us," Grandma said to Morelli. "We've got some pie left from dessert, too."

"Sounds good," Morelli said, "but I'm going to have to take a rain check. I'm working tonight. I have to relieve someone on a stakeout."

* * * * *

BUNCHY WAS NOWHERE in sight when we came out of the funeral home. So maybe the way to get rid of him was to feed him. I dropped Grandma off and continued on to my apartment. I circled the parking lot once, looking between cars, making sure Ramirez wasn't waiting for me.

Rex was running on his wheel when I came in. He stopped and twitched his whiskers at me when I flicked the light on.

"Food!" I said to Rex, showing him the brown grocery bag that always accompanied me home from a dinner at my parents. "Lamb leftovers, mashed potatoes, vegetables, a jar of pickled beets, two bananas, a quarter pound sliced ham, half a loaf of bread, and apple pie." I broke off a chunk of pie and dropped it into Rex's food dish, and Rex almost fell off his wheel in excitement.

I would have liked a piece of pie, too, but I thought about the little black dress and had a banana instead. I was still hungry after the banana, so I made myself half a ham sandwich. After the sandwich I picked at the lamb. And finally I gave in and ate the pie. Tomorrow morning I'd get up first thing and go for a run. Maybe. No! Definitely! Okay, I knew how to do this. I'd call Ranger and see if he wanted to run with me. Then he'd be over here first thing tomorrow and make me go out and get some exercise.

"Yo," Ranger said, answering the phone. His voice was husky, and I realized it was late and I'd probably awakened him.

"It's Stephanie. I'm sorry to be calling so late."

He took a slow breath. "No problem. Last time you called me late at night you were naked and chained to your shower curtain rod. I hope this isn't going to be disappointing."

That had happened when we'd first started working together and I barely knew him. He'd broken into my apartment and released me with clinical efficiency. I suspected he'd act differently now. The thought of him coming upon me naked and chained now gave me a hot flash.

"Sorry," I said. "You only get one call like that in a lifetime. This call's about exercise. Um, I could use some."

"Now?"

"No! In the morning. I want to go running, and I'm looking for a partner."

"You're not looking for a partner," Ranger said. "You're looking for an enforcer. You hate to run. You must be worried about getting into that black dress. What did you eat just now? Piece of cake? Candy bar?"

"Everything," I said. "I just ate everything."

"You need some self-control, Babe."

Boy, that was the truth. "Are you going to run with me, or what?"

"Only if you're serious about getting into shape."

"I am."

"You're a terrible liar," Ranger said. "But since I don't want to have some fat chick working for me, I'll be there at six."

"I'm not a chick," I yelled. But he'd already hung up.

Damn.

* * * * *

I SET THE alarm for five-thirty, but was awake at five and dressed by five-fifteen. I wasn't all that enthusiastic about running anymore. And I didn't especially care about being on time as a courtesy to Ranger. My fear was that I'd oversleep, and when Ranger broke into my apartment to wake me up, I'd drag him into bed with me.

And then what would I tell Joe? We sort of had an agreement. Except neither of us knew exactly what the agreement meant. In fact, now that I thought about it, maybe we didn't have an agreement at all. Actually, it was more like we were in agreement negotiations.

Besides, I wasn't going to do anything with Ranger because getting involved with Ranger would be the equivalent to sky diving without a parachute. I was temporarily oversexed, but I wasn't any more stupid than usual.

I had a ham sandwich and the rest of the pie for breakfast. I did some stretches. I tweezed my eyebrows. I changed from shorts to sweats. And at six o'clock I was in the lobby, watching Ranger pull into the lot.

"Man," he said, "you must be serious about running. I didn't expect you to actually be up at this hour. Last time we ran I had to drag you out of bed."

I was wearing sweats, and I was freezing my butt off, wondering where the hell the sun was. Ranger was wearing a T-shirt with the sleeves cut out, and he didn't look cold at all. He did a couple hamstring stretches, a couple neck rolls, and began jogging in place.

"You ready?" Ranger asked.

A mile later I pulled up and bent at the waist, trying to suck in some air. My shirt was soaked in sweat and my hair was plastered to my head. "Hold it a minute," I said. "I have to throw up. Boy, I'm really out of shape." And maybe I shouldn't have had the ham and pie.

"You aren't going to throw up," Ranger said. "Keep going."

"I can't keep going."

"Do another quarter mile."

I shoved off behind him. "Boy, I'm really out of shape," I said again. Guess running once every three months wasn't enough for maximum fitness.

"Two more minutes," Ranger said. "You can make it."

"I really think I'm going to throw up."

"You're not going to throw up," Ranger said. "One more minute."

The sweat was dripping off my chin and running into my eyes, blurring my vision. I wanted to wipe it away, but I couldn't lift my arm that high. "We there yet?"

"Yes. Mile and a quarter," Ranger said. "See, I knew you could do it."

I was unable to speak, so I nodded my head.

Ranger was jogging in place. "Want to keep moving," he said. "You ready to go?"

I bent over and threw up.

"That's not gonna save you," Ranger said.

I gave him a stiff middle finger.

"Shit," Ranger said, looking down at the mess I'd made on the ground. "What's that pink stuff?"

"Ham sandwich."

"Maybe you want to just shoot yourself in the head."

"I like ham."

He jogged a few feet in front of me. "Come on. We'll do another mile."

"I just threw up!"

"Yeah, so?"

"So I'm not running anymore."

"No pain, no gain, Babe."

"I don't like pain," I said. "I'm going home. And I'm walking." He pushed off. "I'll catch you on the way back."

Look on the bright side, I thought. At least I didn't have to worry about breakfast going straight to my thighs. And throwing up is so attractive that chances were real good I wouldn't have to worry about Ranger having a libido attack over me anytime in the near future.

I was walking one block from Hamilton, in a neighborhood of small single-family houses. Traffic was picking up on Hamilton, but one block over, where I walked, activity was centered in kitchens. Lights were on, coffee was brewing, cereal bowls were being set out. It was Saturday, but Trenton wasn't sleeping in. Kids had to be chauffeured to football and soccer. Laundry had to go to the cleaner. Cars needed washing. And the farmer's market was calling . . . fresh vegetables, eggs, baked goods, and sausages.

The sun was weak in a murky sky, and the air felt cold against my sweat-soaked clothes. I was three blocks from my apartment building, planning my day. Canvass the area around the strip mall, showing Uncle Fred's photo. Get home in time to pour myself into the little black dress. All the while keeping an eye out for Bunchy.

I heard a runner coming up behind me. Ranger, I thought, steeling myself not to get coerced into racing him home.

"Hello, Stephanie," the runner said.

My walking faltered. The runner was Ramirez. He was dressed in sweats and running shoes, but he wasn't sweating. And he wasn't breathing heavy. He was smiling, dancing around me on the balls of his feet, alternately shadowboxing and jogging in place.

"What do you want?" I asked.

"The champ wants to be your friend. The champ can show you things. He can take you places you've never been."

I was torn between wanting Ranger to show up and save me, and not wanting Ranger to see Ramirez at all. I suspected Ranger's solution to my stalking problem might be death. There was a good possibility that Ranger killed people on a regular basis. Only bad guys, of course, so who was I to criticize? Still, I didn't want him killing someone on my behalf. Not even if it was Ramirez. Although, if Ramirez died in his sleep or was accidentally run over by a truck, it wouldn't bother me too much.

"I'm not going anywhere with you, ever," I said. "And if you continue to harass me I'll take steps to make sure it stops."

"It's your destiny to go with the champ," Ramirez said. "You can't escape it. Your friend Lula went with me. Ask her how she liked it, Stephanie. Ask Lula what it's like to be with the champ."

I got a mental picture of Lula left naked and bloodied on my fire escape. Good thing I'd already thrown up because if there was anything in my stomach I'd be ralphing now.

I strode off, walking away from him. You don't debate with a madman. He pitty-patted after me for half a block, and then he laughed softly and called good-bye, and he was gone, jogging off toward Hamilton.

Ranger didn't reach me until I was at my parking lot. His skin was slick with sweat, and his breathing was labored. He'd been running hard, and he looked like he'd enjoyed it.

"Are you okay?" he asked. "Your face is white. I thought you'd have recovered by now."

"Think you're right about ham," I said.

"You want to try this again tomorrow?"

"I don't think I'm cut out to be this healthy."

"You still looking for work?"

I mentally cracked my knuckles. I needed money, but Ranger's jobs weren't turning out so good. "What is it this time?"

Ranger unlocked his car, reached inside, and retrieved a large yellow envelope. "I have a high-bond FTA floating around Trenton. I have someone watching his girlfriend's house and someone watching his apartment. The guy's mother lives in the Burg. I don't think it's worthwhile to put someone on the mother's house twenty-four hours, but you know a lot of people in the Burg, and I thought you might be able to find an informant." He handed the envelope over. "The guy's name is Alphonse Ruzick."

I knew the Ruzicks. They lived on the other side of the Burg, two doors down from Carmine's Bakery, across from the Catholic school. Sandy Polan lived on that block. I'd gone to school with Sandy. She was married to Robert Scarfo now, so I guess she was Sandy Scarfo, but I still thought of her as being Sandy Polan. She had three kids, and the last one looked a lot more like the next-door neighbor than like Robert Scarfo. I peeked inside the envelope. Photo of Alphonse Ruzick, apprehension authorization, bond agreement, and personal information sheet.

"Okay," I said. "I'll see if I can find someone to rat on Alphonse."

I pushed through the glass door to the lobby and did a fast sweep to make sure Ramirez wasn't lying in wait for me. I took the stairs and felt safe when I stepped onto my floor. There was the smell of bacon cooking behind Mrs. Karwatt's door. And the television was blaring in Mr. Wolesky's apartment. A normal morning. Business as usual. Aside from the fact that I'd barfed and been scared half to death by a psychopathic maniac.

I opened my door and found Bunchy on the couch, reading the paper.

"You've got to stop breaking into my apartment," I said. "It's rude."

"I feel conspicuous sitting out in the hall. I figure it doesn't look good for you to have men loitering. What'll people think?"

"Then loiter in your car, in the lot."

"I was cold."

Someone knocked on my door. I went to the door and peeked out. It was my neighbor from across the hall, Mr. Wolesky.

"Did you take my paper again?" he asked.

I got the paper from Bunchy and returned it to Mr. Wolesky.

"Out," I told Bunchy. "Good-bye."

"What are you doing today? Just so I know."

"I'm going to the office, and then I'm putting some posters up at the Grand Union."

"The office, huh? Maybe I'll pass on the office. But you can tell Lula there's gonna be payback for making me lose you the other day."

"You should be happy she didn't use her stun gun."

He stood at the couch with his hands in his pockets. "You want to tell me about the color copies on your table?"

Damn. I hadn't put the prints away. "They're nothing special."

"Body parts in a garbage bag?"

"Do you find them interesting?"

"I don't know who it is, if that's what you're getting at." He moved to the table. "Twenty-four pictures. The whole roll. Two with the bag tied up. That's got me thinking. And they're recent, too."

"How do you know that?"

"There are newspapers stuck in the bag along with the body. I looked at them with your magnifying glass, and you see this one here with the color? I'm pretty sure this is a supplement from Kmart advertising the Mega Monster. I know because my kid made me go get him one the second he saw the ad."

"You have a kid?"

"Why is that such a big shock? He lives with my ex-wife."

"When was the first time the ad ran?"

"I called and checked. It was a week ago Thursday."

The day before Fred disappeared.

"Where'd you get these pictures?" Bunchy asked.

"Fred's desk."

Bunchy shook his head. "Fred was involved in some very bad shit."

I locked and bolted the door after Bunchy left. I showered and dressed in Levi's and a black turtleneck. I tucked the turtleneck in and added a belt. I stuffed Uncle Fred's picture into my shoulder bag and took off to do my pseudo-private investigator thing.

My first stop was at the office to collect my pittance on Briggs.

Lula looked up from the filing when I walked in. "Girl, we've been waiting for you. We heard how you beat the crap out of that Briggs guy. Not that he didn't deserve it, but I think if you was gonna beat the crap out of someone, you could let me in on it. You know how bad I wanted to beat the crap out of that little wiener."

"Yeah," Connie said to me, "you've got some nerve hogging all the brutality."

"I didn't do anything," I said. "He fell down the stairs."

Vinnie opened his office door and stuck his head out. "Jesus Christ," he said. "How many times have I told you not to hit people in the face? You hit them in the body where it doesn't show. Kick them in the nuts. Sucker-punch them in the kidney."

"He fell down the stairs!" I said again.

"Yeah, but you pushed him, right?"

"No!"

"See, that's good," Vinnie said. "Lying is good. Stick with that story. I like it." He stepped back into his office and slammed the door shut.

I gave Connie the body receipt, and Connie wrote me a check.

"I'm off to find a witness," I said.

Lula had her purse in her hand. "I'll go with you. Just in case that Bunchy guy decides to follow you some more. I'll take care of his ass."

I smiled. This should be interesting.

* * * * *

WE STARTED AT the copy store on Route 33. I enlarged Fred's photo and reproduced it onto a hand-printed request for information about Fred's disappearance.

After the copy store, I cruised into the Grand Union lot and was disappointed not to see Bunchy waiting for us. I parked close to the store, and Lula and I took the posters inside.

"Hold on here," Lula said. "They got Coke on sale. This is a real good price for Coke. And they got some good-lookin' lunchmeat in the deli section. What time is it? Is it lunchtime? You mind if I do some food shopping?"

"Hey," I said to Lula, "don't let me slow you down." I tacked a poster onto the bulletin board in the front of the store. Then I took the original photo and started quizzing shoppers while Lula foraged in the bakery aisle.

"Have you seen this man?" I asked.

The reply would be no. Or sometimes, "Yeah, that's Fred Shutz. What a putz."

No one could remember seeing him on the day of the disappearance. And no one had seen him since. And no one especially cared that he was missing.

"How's it going?" Lula asked, wheeling a shopping cart past me, en route to the car.

"Slow. No takers."

"I'm gonna drop these bags off. And then I'm going to look in that little video store at the end."

"Knock yourself out," I said. I showed Fred's photo to a few more people and at noon I broke for lunch. I searched my pockets and the bottom of my bag and came up with enough money to buy a small bag of nutritious, already washed and ready-to-eat baby carrots. For the same amount of money I could also buy a giant Snickers bar. Boy, what a tough decision.

Lula returned from the video store just as I was licking the last of the chocolate off my fingers. "Look at this," Lula said. "They had Boogie Nights on sale. I don't care much about the movie. I just like to look at the ending once in a while."

"I'm going door-to-door with Fred's photo," I told her. "Want to help?"

"Sure, you just give me one of them posters, and I'll door-to-door the hell out of you."

We divided the neighborhood in half and decided to work until two o'clock. I was done early, scoring a big zero. One woman said she saw Fred go off with Harrison Ford, but I thought that was unlikely. And another woman said she'd seen a vision of Fred floating across her television screen. I didn't put a lot of stock in that, either.

Since I had some time to kill I went back to the Grand Union to buy pantyhose for the wedding. I stepped into the glass vestibule and noticed an elderly woman was staring at the Fred poster I'd tacked up on the community bulletin board. That's good, I thought. People read these things.

I bought the pantyhose, and as I was leaving I saw the woman was still standing in front of the poster. "Have you seen him?" I asked.

"Are you Stephanie Plum?"

"Yes."

"I thought I recognized you. I remember your picture from when you blew up that funeral home."

"Do you know Fred?"

"Sure, I know Fred. He's in my seniors club. Fred and Mabel. I didn't realize he was missing."

"When did you see him last?"

"I was trying to remember that. I was sitting on the bench outside Grand Union here, waiting for my nephew to come pick me up, on account of I don't drive anymore. And I saw Fred come out of the cleaners."

"That must have been Friday."

"That's what I think, too. I think it was Friday."

"What did Fred do when he came out of the cleaners?"

"He went to his car with the clothes. And it looked like he laid them out real careful on the backseat, although it was hard to tell from here."

"What happened next?"

"A car pulled up alongside Fred and a man got out, and him and Fred talked for a while. And then Fred got in the car with the man and they drove away. I'm pretty sure that's the last time I saw Fred. Except I can't be certain of the day. My nephew would know."

Holy shit. "Did you know the man Fred was talking to?"

"No. He wasn't familiar to me. But I got the feeling Fred knew him. They seemed friendly."

"What did he look like?"

"Goodness. I don't know. He was just a man. Ordinary."

"Caucasian?"

"Yes. And about the same height as Fred. And he was dressed in a suit."

"What color hair? Was his hair long or short?"

"It wasn't like I was paying attention to remember something," she said. "I was just passing time until Carl got here. I suppose his hair was short and maybe brown. I can't actually remember, but if it was unusual, it would have stuck in my mind."

"Would you know him if you saw him again? Would you recognize him from a picture?"

"I don't think I could say for sure. He was a ways away, you know, and I didn't see his face much."

"How about the car he was driving? Do you remember the color?"

She was silent for a moment, her eyes unfocused while she searched for a mental image of the car. "I just wasn't paying attention," she said. "I'm sorry. I can't recall the car. Except that it wasn't a truck or anything. It was a car."

"Did it look like they were arguing?"

"No. They were just talking. And then the man walked around the car and got behind the wheel. And Fred got in the passenger side. And they drove away."

I gave her my card in exchange for her name, address, and phone number. She said she didn't mind if I called to ask more questions. And she said she'd keep her eyes open and call me if she saw Fred.

I was so psyched I almost didn't see Lula standing two inches from me. "Wow!" I said, bumping into her.

"Earth to Stephanie," Lula said.

"How'd you do?" I asked her.

"Lousy. There's a bunch of dummies living here. Nobody knows nothing."

"I didn't have any luck back there, either," I said. "But I found someone in the store who saw Fred get into a car with another man."

"You shitting me?"

"Swear to God. The woman's name is Irene Tully."

"So who's the man? And where's ol' Fred?" Lula asked.

I didn't know the answers to those questions. Some of the wind went out of my sails when I realized not a whole lot had changed. I had a new puzzle piece, but I still didn't know if Fred was in Fort Lauderdale or the Camden landfill.

We'd been walking back to Lula's Firebird, and I'd been lost in thought. I looked at the Firebird and thought there was something strange about it. It hit me at the same time Lula started shrieking.

"My baby," Lula yelled. "My baby, my baby."

The Firebird was up on blocks. Someone had stolen all four wheels.

"This is just like Fred," she said. "What is this, the Bermuda Triangle?"

We got closer and looked in the car window. Lula's groceries were stuffed onto the front seat, and two of the wheels were in the back. Lula popped the trunk and found her other two wheels.

"What the hell?" she said.

An old brown Dodge rolled to a stop beside us. Bunchy.

Okay, who do we know who can open doors without keys? Who has a score to settle with Lula? And who has returned to the scene of the crime?

"Not bad," I said to Bunchy. "Sort of a sadistic sense of humor . . . but not bad."

He smiled at my comment and eyed the car. "You ladies got a problem?"

"Someone took the wheels off my Firebird," Lula said, looking like she'd figured it out, too. "Don't suppose you know who could've done something like this."

"Vandals?"

"Vandals, my ass."

"I have to be getting along now," Bunchy said, smiling ear to ear. "Toodles."

Lula hauled a small cannon out of her shoulder bag and pointed it at Bunchy. "You slime-faced bag of monkey shit."

The smile was gone in a flash, and Bunchy laid rubber out of the lot.

"Good thing I got auto club," Lula said.

An hour later, I was back in my Buick. I was running short on time, but I wanted to talk to Mabel.

I almost zipped right past her house, because the '87 Pontiac station wagon wasn't parked at the curb. In its place was a new silver-gray Nissan Sentra.

"Where's the station wagon?" I asked Mabel when she answered the door.

"Traded it in," she said. "I never did like driving that big old boat." She looked at her new car and smiled. "What do you think? Isn't it zippy-looking?"

"Yeah," I said. "Zippy. I ran into someone today who said she might have seen Fred."

"Oh, dear," Mabel said. "Don't tell me you've found him."

I blinked twice because she hadn't sounded like that would be happy news. "No."

She put her hand to her heart. "Thank goodness. I don't mean to sound uncaring, but you know, I just bought the car, and Fred wouldn't understand about the car."

Okay, now we know where Fred stacks up against a Nissan Sentra. "Anyway, this woman said she might have seen Fred on the day he disappeared. She said she thought she saw Fred talking to a man in a suit. Do you have any idea who the man might be?"

"No. Do you?"

Question number two. "It's very important that I know everything Fred did the day before he disappeared."

"It was just like all the other days," Mabel said. "He didn't do anything in the morning. Puttered around the house. Then we ate lunch, and he went out to the store."

"Grand Union?"

"Yes. And he was only gone about an hour. We didn't need much. And then he worked in the yard, cleaning up the last of the leaves. That was all he did."

"Did he go out at night?"

"No . . . wait, yes, he went out with the leaves. If you have too many bags of leaves, you have to pay extra to the garbage company. So whenever Fred had more than his allotted number of bags, he'd wait until it was dark, and then he'd drive one or two bags to Giovichinni's. He said it was the least Giovichinni could do for him being that he always overcharged on his meat."

"When did Fred leave the house Friday morning?"

"Early. Around eight, I guess. When he came home he was complaining because he had to wait for RGC to open."

"And when did he come back to the house?"

"I don't remember exactly. Maybe around eleven. He was home for lunch."

"That's a long time just to go to RGC to complain about a bill."

Mabel looked thoughtful. "I didn't really pay much attention, but I guess you're right."

He didn't go to Winnie's because he was there in the afternoon.

While I was in the neighborhood I cruised over to the Ruzicks'. The bakery was on the corner, and the rest of the houses on the street were duplexes. The Ruzick house was yellow brick with a yellow-brick stoop in front and a front yard that was three feet deep. Mrs. Ruzick kept her windows clean and her porch swept. There were no cars in front of the house. The backyard was long and narrow, leading to an alley that was one lane wide. The duplexes were divided by double driveways, at the end of which sat single-car garages.

I toyed with the idea of talking to Mrs. Ruzick, but gave it up. She had a reputation for being outspoken and had always been fiercely protective of her two worthless sons. I went to Sandy Polan instead.

"Wow, Stephanie!" Sandy said when she opened the door. "I haven't seen you in a long time. What's up?"

"I need a snitch."

"Let me guess. You're looking for Alphonse Ruzick."

"Have you seen him?"

"No, but he'll be around. He always comes to eat Saturday dinner with Mama. He is such a loser."

"Would you mind doing lookout for me? I'd do it myself, but I have to go to a wedding this afternoon."

"Oh my God. You're going to Julie Morelli's wedding! It's true about you and Joe."

"What about me and Joe?"

"I heard you were living with him."

"I had a fire in my apartment, and I rented a room from him for a short time."

Sandy's face scrunched up in disappointment. "You mean you weren't sleeping with him?"

"Well, yeah, I guess I was sleeping with him."

"Oh my God. I knew it! I just knew it! What's he like? Is he excellent? Is he . . . you know, big? He doesn't have a little twinkie, does he? Oh, God, don't tell me if he has a little twinkie."

I looked at my watch. "Gee, look at the time. I have to be going—"

"Oh, you've got to tell me or I'll die!" Sandy said. "I had such a crush on him in high school. Everyone did. If you tell me, I swear I won't tell another soul."

"Okay, it's not a little twinkie."

Sandy looked at me expectantly.

"That's it," I said.

"Did he tie you up? He always looked like the kind of guy who liked to tie women up."

"No! He didn't tie me up!" I gave her my card. "Listen, if you see Alphonse, give me a call. Try my cell phone number first, and if that doesn't work, try my pager."