09 To the Nines (6 page)

Kloughn bent to retrieve the plate and farted. “That wasn't me,” he said.

“Maybe it was me,” Grandma said. “Sometimes they sneak out. Did I fart?” she asked everyone.

My eyes inadvertently went to the kitchen door.

“Don't even think about it,” my mother said. “We're all in this together. Anyone sneaks out the back way, they answer to me.”

When the table was cleared and the dishes were done, I made my move to leave.

“I need to talk to you,” my mother said, following me out of the house to stand curbside, where we had privacy.

The bottom of the sun had sunk into the Krienski's asbestos shingle roof, a sure sign that the day was ending. Kids ran in packs, burning off the last of their energy. Parents and grandparents sat on small front porches. The air was dead still, heavy with the promise of a hot tomorrow. Inside my parents' house, my father and grandmother sat glued to the television. The muffled rise and fall of a sitcom laugh track escaped the house and joined the mix of street noise.

“I'm worried about your sister,” my mother said. “What's to become of her? A baby due in two weeks and no husband. She should marry Albert. You have to talk to her.”

“No way! One minute she's all smiley face and crying because she loves me so much and then next thing I know she's grumpy. I want the old Valerie back. The one with no personality. And besides, I'm not exactly an expert at marriage. Look at me ... I can't even figure out my own life.”

“I'm not asking a lot. I just want you to talk to her. Get her to understand that she's having a baby.”

“Mom, she knows she's having a baby. She's as big as a Volkswagen. She's already done it twice before.”

“Yes, but both times she did it in California. It's not the same. And she had a husband then. And a house.”

Okay, now we're getting somewhere. “This is about the house, right?”

“I feel like the old lady who lived in a shoe. Remember the rhyme? She had so many children she didn't know what to do? One more person in this house and we're going to have to sleep in shifts. Your father's talking about renting a Porta Potti for the backyard. And it's not just the house. This is the Burg. Women don't go off and have babies without husbands here. Every time I go to the grocery, I meet someone who wants to know when Valerie is getting married.”

I thought this was a good deal. It used to be that people wanted to know when I was getting married.

“She's in the kitchen eating the rest of the cake,” my mother said. “She's probably got it topped with gravy. You could go in and talk to her. Tell her Albert Kloughn is a good man.”

“Valerie doesn't want to hear this from me.”

“What's it going to take?” my mother wanted to know. “German chocolate torte?”

The German chocolate torte took hours to make. My mother hated to make the German chocolate torte.

“German chocolate torte and a leg of lamb. That's my best offer,” she said.

“Boy, you're really serious.”

My mother grabbed me by the front of my shirt. “I'm desperate! I'm on the window ledge on the fortieth floor and I'm looking down.”

I did an eye roll and a sigh and I trudged back into the house, into the kitchen. Sure enough, Valerie was at the small kitchen table, snarfing down cake.

“Mom wants me to talk to you,” I said.

“Not now. I'm busy. I'm eating for two, you know.”

Two elephants. “Mom thinks you should marry Kloughn.”

Valerie forked off a huge piece and shoved it into her mouth. “Kloughn's boring. Would you marry Kloughn?”

“No, but then I won't even marry Morelli.”

“I want to marry Ranger. Ranger is hot.”

I couldn't deny it. Ranger was hot. “I don't think Ranger's the marrying type,” I said. “And there would be a lot of things to consider. For instance, I think once in a while he might kill people.”

“Yeah, but not random, right?”

“Probably not random.”

Valerie was scraping at the leftover smudges of whipped cream. “So that would be okay. Nobody's perfect.”

“Okay, then,” I said. “Good talk. I'll pass this on to Mom.”

“It isn't as if I'm anti-marriage,” Valerie said, eyeing the grease and drippings left in the roasting pan.

I backed out of the kitchen and ran into my mom.

“Well?” she asked.

“Valerie's thinking about it. And the good news is ... she's not anti-marriage.”

Streetlights were on when I cruised into my parking lot. A dog barked in a nearby neighborhood of single-family homes, and I thought of Boo. Mrs. Apusenja told Ranger and me that she'd tacked lost dog signs up at local businesses and at street corners. The signs had a photo of the dog and offered a small reward, but there'd been no takers.

Tomorrow I'd track down Howie. It was my Spidey Sense again. I had a feeling Howie was important. Singh had been trying to call him. It had to mean something, right?

I let myself into my apartment and said howdy to Rex. I checked my phone messages. Three in all.

The first was from Joe. “Hey, cupcake.” That was it. That was the whole message.

The second was from Ranger. “Yo.” Ranger made Joe look like a chatterbox.

The third was a hang-up.

I ambled into the living room, slouched onto the couch, and grabbed for the remote. A splash of color caught my eye from across the room. The color was coming from a vase of red roses and white carnations, sitting on an end table. The flowers hadn't been there this morning. A white envelope was propped against the vase.

My first thought was that someone had broken into my apartment. Ranger and Morelli did this on a regular basis, but they'd never left me flowers, and I was pretty certain they hadn't left them this time, either. I did a quick backtrack to the kitchen with my heart beating way too hard and too fast in my chest. I took my gun out of the brown bear cookie jar and started creeping through my apartment. There were only two rooms left unseen. Bedroom and bath. I looked into the bathroom. No creepy deranged killers lurking behind the shower curtain. None on the toilet. The bedroom was also monster free.

I shoved the gun under the waistband of my jeans and returned to the flowers. There was a message printed on the outside of the white envelope. Tag. You're it. I had no idea what this meant. I opened the envelope and removed three photos. It took a moment for the images to register. I clapped a hand to my mouth when I figured it out. They were pictures of a gunshot victim. A woman. Shot between the eyes. The photos were close-ups that were too tight in to reveal the woman's identity. One photo showed part of an eyebrow and an open sightless eye. The other two recorded the destruction to the back of her head, the exit point.

I dropped the photos, ran to the phone, and dialed Joe.

“Someone broke into my apartment,” I said. “And they left me flowers and some ph-ph-photos. Should I call the police?”

“Honey, I am the police.”

“So I'm covered. Okay, just checking.”

“Do you want me to come over?”

“Yes. Drive fast.”

Morelli stood hands on hips, starring at the flowers on the table and the photos still spread out on the floor. “It's like you have a sign on your door welcoming nuts and stalkers to walk in. Everyone breaks into your apartment. I've never seen anything like it. You have three top-of-the-line locks on your door and it doesn't deter anyone.” He glanced over at me. “Your door was locked, right?”

“Yes. It was locked.” Yeesh. “Do you think this is serious?”

Morelli looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language. “Someone broke into your apartment and left you gunshot pictures. Don't you think it's serious?”

“I'm completely freaked out, but I was really hoping you'd tell me I was overreacting. I was going for the outside chance that you'd think this was someone's idea of a joke.”

“I hate this,” Morelli said. “Why can't I have a girlfriend who has normal problems . . . like breaking a fingernail or missing a period or falling in love with a lesbian?”

“Now what?” I asked.

“Now I call this in and get a couple guys out here to collect evidence and maybe look for prints. Do you have any idea what this is about?”

“No idea at all. Not a clue. Nothing.”

The phone rang and I went to the kitchen to answer it.

“I definitely think it might work between Ranger and me,” Valerie said. “You're pals with him. You could fix me up.”

“Valerie, you're nine months pregnant. This isn't a good time for a fix-up.”

“You think I should wait until after I deliver?”

“I think you should wait until never.”

Valerie did a big sigh and disconnected.

Ranger on a fix-up date. Can you see this?

“You're smiling,” Morelli said.

“Valerie wants to get fixed up with Ranger.”

Now Morelli was smiling. “I like it. Wear body armor when you tell Ranger.” Morelli opened the refrigerator, took out a piece of leftover pizza, and ate it cold. “I think it would be smart to get you out of this apartment. I don't know what this is about, but I'm not comfortable ignoring it.”

“And I would go where?”

“You'd go home with me, cupcake. And there'd be benefits.”

“Such as?”

“I'd warm up your pizza.”

Morelli lived in a two-story row house he inherited from his Aunt Rose It was about a half mile from my parents' house with an almost identical floor plan. Rooms were stacked one behind the other . . . living room, dining room, kitchen. There were three bedrooms and a bath upstairs. Morelli had added a half bath downstairs. He was slowly claiming the house as his own. The wood floors were all newly sanded and varnished, but Aunt Roses filmy old-fashioned curtains remained. I liked the mix and in an odd way would be sorry to see the house turn over entirely to Joe. There was something comforting about the curtains enduring beyond Aunt Rose. A tombstone is okay, but curtains are so much more personal.

We stood on the small front porch and Morelli cautioned me as he unlocked his door. “Brace yourself,” he said. “Bob hasn't seen you in a couple days. I don't want you knocked on your ass in front of the neighbors.”

Bob was a big scruffy red-haired dog that Morelli and I shared. Technically I suppose it was Morelli's dog. Bob had originally come to live with me, but in the end had chosen Morelli. One of those guy things, I guess.

Morelli opened the door and Bob bounded out, catching me at chest level. What Bob lacked in manners he made up for in enthusiasm. I hugged him to me and gave him some big loud kisses. Bob endured this for a beat and then turned tail and hurled himself back inside, galloping from one end of the house to the other with ears flapping and tongue flopping.

A half hour later I was all settled in with my car parked at the curb behind Morelli s truck, my clothes in the guest room closet, and Rex's hamster cage sitting on Morelli's kitchen counter.

“I bet you're tired,” Morelli said, flipping the lights off in the kitchen. “I bet you can't wait to get into bed.”

I gave him a sideways look.

He slung an arm around my shoulders and steered me in the direction of the stairs. “I bet you're so tired you don't even want to bother getting into pajamas. In fact, you might need some help getting out of all these clothes.”

“And you're volunteering for the job?”

He kissed me at the nape of my neck. “Am I a good guy, or what?”

I woke up in a tangle of sheets and nothing else. Sunlight was streaming through Morelli's bedroom window and I could hear the shower running in the bathroom. Bob was at the foot of the bed, watching me with big brown Bob eyes, probably trying to decide if I was food. Depending on Bob's mood, food could be most anything ... a chair, dirt, shoes, a cardboard box, a box of prunes, a table leg, a leg of lamb. Some foods sat better with Bob than others. You didn't want to be too close after he ate a box of prunes.

I pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and trudged downstairs, hair uncombed, following the smell of coffee brewing. A note on the counter told me Bob had been fed and walked. Morelli was better at this cohabitation stuff than I was. Morelli was invigorated by sex. An orgasm for Morelli was like taking a vitamin pill. The more orgasms he had, the sharper he got. I'm the opposite. For me, an orgasm is like a shot of Valium. A night with Morelli and the next morning I'm a big contented cow.

I was coffee mug in hand, debating the merits of toast versus cereal, when Morelli's doorbell rang. I scuffed to the door with Bob close on my heels and I opened the door to Morelli's mother and grandmother.

The Morelli men are all charming and handsome. And with the exception of Joe, they're all worthless drunks and womanizers. They die in barroom fights, kill themselves in car crashes, and explode their livers. The Morelli women hold the family together, ruling with an iron hand, spotting a fib a mile away. Joe's mother was a revered and respected pillar of the community. Joe's Grandma Bella sent a chill down the spine and into the heart of all who crossed her path.

“Ah-hah!” Grandma Bella said. “I knew it. I knew they were living together in sin. I had a vision. It came to me last night.”

Two doors down Mrs. Friolli stuck her head out her front door so she didn't miss anything. I was guessing Grandma Bella's vision came to her last night after Mrs. Friolli called her.

“How nice to see you,” I said to the women. “What a nice surprise.” I turned and shrieked up the stairs. “Joe! Get down here!”

It was always a shock to stand next to Mrs. Morelli and realize she was only five foot, four inches in her chunky two-inch-heeled shoes. She was a dominant and fearful force in a room. Her snapping black eyes could spot a speck of dust at twenty paces. She was a fierce guardian of her family and sat at the head of the table of the large Morelli tribe. She'd been widowed a lot of years and had never shown any interest in trying marriage a second time. Once around with a Morelli man was more than enough for most women.

Grandma Bella was half a head shorter than Joe's mom, but no less fearsome. She kept her white hair pulled into a bun, tied at the nape of her narrow chicken neck. She wore somber black dresses and sensible shoes. And some people believed she had the ability to cast a spell. Grown men scurried for cover when she turned her pale old woman's eye on them or pointed her boney finger in their direction.