Smokin Seventeen

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.

“Bob and I are going to split,” Morelli said. “There’s a poker game at Mooch’s house tonight.”

• • •

Saturday morning Morelli called to say he was spending the day helping his brother Anthony move from one side of the Burg to the other, into a larger house. Anthony and his wife were a baby factory.

Before the office burned down Connie usually worked a half-day on Saturday, but Saturdays were now hit or miss. And since the bus was being renovated I suspected Connie would be at Point Pleasant playing SKILLO today.

When Vinnie has bad guys out there in the wind I work seven days a week. The only bad guy in the wind right now was Ziggy, and I was thinking the money I’d make from bringing him in wasn’t worth any more attempts at running down a screaming vampire.

It was almost nine o’clock and I was slumping around in a ratty T-shirt that used to be Morelli’s, navy sweats, and fuzzy pink slippers. I’d cleaned Rex’s cage and given him fresh food and water. I was on my second cup of coffee. I’d eaten the leftover lamb chop. I was debating between scrubbing the toilet or going back to bed. And my phone rang.

“I just got a call from Emma Brewer,” my mother said. “She’s so excited about you and Dave.”

“Emma?”

“His mother. She said you’ve been seeing each other.”

“I let him use my kitchen.”

“Two days in a row! Did he make you lamb chops? Emma said his specialty is lamb chops.”

“Yeah, he makes great lamb chops. Morelli was here, and he loved them.”

“You let Joseph Morelli interfere with your date?”

“It wasn’t a date.”

“Stephanie, you have a chance with this nice young man. You should get your hair done. Get a manicure. I think he’s interested. It’s going nowhere with Morelli. You’ll never get him to marry you. I thought it would be nice if I invited the Brewers to dinner,” my mother said. “You and Dave, and Emma and Herb, and …”

“No! Do not do that. Dave and I are just friends. In fact we’re barely friends.”

“That’s not what I hear from Emma. I think he’s taken with you.”

“Gosh, I’d really like to talk more, but I was in the middle of scrubbing my toilet. I’ve got to go. Things to do.”

And I hung up. And then as penance for all the lusting I’d been doing, and for hanging up on my mother, and for not liking Dave more, I scrubbed the entire bathroom.

An hour later I was showered and dressed in my usual jeans, sneakers, and T-shirt, and I was standing just outside my apartment building’s back door. I did a quick scan for Regina Bugle’s Lexus, and when I didn’t see it I crossed to my borrowed Jeep.

I got within a couple feet of the Jeep and realized someone was behind the wheel. My first reaction was confusion. My second was that this was not good. The man behind the wheel was in his early sixties. He was wearing a collared knit shirt, his eyes were open and fixed, his head was twisted at an odd angle, and there were rope burns on his neck. The note pinned to his shirt read FOR STEPHANIE.