18 Explosive Eighteen (21 page)

“Maybe he belonged to a different Pink Panthers,” Joyce said. “Who’s to say there’s only one?” I had no way to argue that. “It doesn’t matter,” I told her. “You have to go. You can’t live here anymore. I don’t care if someone’s trying to kil you. If you stay here any longer,
I’m
going to kil you.” Joyce stood with her bag of croissants. “I can’t take it anymore, either. I’d rather be dead than spend any more time in your bathroom. And your television sucks. I’l make a deal. I’l leave, but you have to promise to look for the chest tomorrow.”

“No way.”

“Promise, or I won’t go. If you can put up with that bathroom and this television, I can, too.” Jeez Louise. “I’l make an effort,” I said, “but I can’t promise.”

Five minutes later, Joyce and the croissants were out the door, almost out of my life. I carted Rex and his cage back into the kitchen and put him on the counter. I gave him fresh water and a chunk of Pop-Tart, and I ate the rest. I pul ed my laptop out from under the mattress, put it on my dining room table, and plugged it in. I was making progress.

TWENTY

FRANK KORDA AND HIS WIFE, Pat, lived in a white colonial house with black shutters, a mahogany front door, and a two-car garage. It was at the end of a

cul-de-sac

in

a

middle-class

residential

neighborhood in Hamilton Township. Korda’s memorial service was scheduled for nine in the morning, burial was to fol ow, and friends and relatives were invited back to the house for refreshments. I’d driven past the house at sunrise to check it out. Everything had been quiet. No lights on.

The widow wasn’t an early riser.

I wasn’t an early riser, either, but I was on a mission today. I wanted to keep Joyce out of my apartment, and I had developed a curiosity about the chest. I wanted to see the contents.

I’d cal ed Lula and told her I needed her to stand watch for me. We were to meet at the coffee shop at eight-thirty.

I

suggested

she

dress

funeral

appropriate, so we didn’t look out of place should neighbors see us sneaking around. I had no idea how I was going to get into the house. Break a back window maybe. If a security alarm went off, I was out of there in a flash, and Joyce would have to live without the chest.

I was wearing my standard black funeral suit and heels, carrying a big slouchy black leather bag that would easily contain a smal pirate chest.

I parked in front of the coffee shop, and Lula’s Firebird pul ed in behind me. Lula got out and walked over.

“I thought you might want to take my Firebird,” she said. “It might blend in better than your truck.” I looked back at her car. “I don’t know. It’s a toss-up. The Firebird’s real y red.”

“Yeah, but my sweetie don’t fit inside your truck, and he gonna look obvious sittin’ in the back in his suit.”

“Your sweetie?”

“I thought we might need muscle, so I brought him along. I got him dressed up in a suit and everything.

And I met his mama last night. She didn’t say much, but I think she liked me.”

“He can’t come,” I said to Lula. “We’re breaking into a house. It’s il egal.”

“That’s okay. He does il egal shit al the time.”

“That’s not the problem. I don’t want a witness.”

“I see what you’re saying, but I don’t know how we’l get him out of my car.”

“Leave him in your car. We’l take my truck. Tel him we’l come back for him in an hour.” Lula trotted to the Firebird, had a short conversation with Buggy, trotted back to my truck, and got in.

“It’s al set,” she said.

I pul ed into traffic and Buggy fol owed.

“Hunh, he must have misunderstood,” Lula said, looking in the side mirror.

I wove around a few streets, but Buggy stayed close on my bumper.

“I’m losing time trying to get rid of him,” I said to Lula. “Cal him on his cel phone and tel him to go away.”

“He don’t have a cel phone,” Lula said. “His mama won’t give him money for one. And he don’t make enough stealin’ purses to get one on his own.

People got a misconception about purse snatchers.

It’s a real hard way to make a living.”

“Then why doesn’t he get a job?”

“I guess you gotta do what you love,” Lula said.

“He’s a man who fol ows his heart.”

I turned onto Korda’s street and the black mortuary limo glided past me going in the opposite direction.

It was carrying Pat Korda to the memorial service, and that meant her house might be empty. I parked and sat watching the house for a few minutes. There were no other cars parked outside, and I didn’t see signs of activity. I’d stopped at Giovichinni’s and picked up a noodle casserole to use as cover. My story, if I needed one, was that I had misunderstood the time and arrived at the wake early.

I carried the casserole to the door and rang the bel . No answer. I listened careful y for sounds inside the house. The house was silent.

Lula and Buggy were close behind me. Lancer and Slasher were parked behind the Firebird. Lula was wearing a black spandex miniskirt, a black silky spandex wrap shirt, and a fake leopard jacket that had been designed for a much smal er woman. She was in black four-inch spike-heeled shoes, and her hair was sunflower yel ow for the occasion. Buggy looked like Shamu in a Russian-made secondhand suit.

“You want my sweetie to kick the door in now?” Lula asked.

“No!”

“How about we go around back and break a window?”

“No. I don’t want to see any property damage.”

“Wel then, how we supposed to get in?” Lula asked.

“I’m going in,” Buggy said, pushing me aside. “I’m tired of waiting.”

And he opened the door. It hadn’t been locked.

I tiptoed in and looked around. “They have the buffet set out,” I said to Lula. “
DO NOT
let Buggy eat anything.”

“You hear that, Sweetums?” Lula said to Buggy.

“We aren’t going to eat any of the funeral food. When we’re done here, I’l take you out for breakfast.”

“I like breakfast,” Buggy said.

I found the kitchen and set my casserole on the counter. There were several other casseroles there, plus bags of bakery rol s, and a couple coffee cakes.

A professional coffee urn was ready to go and a ful bar was set up next to the urn. I did a fast scan of the kitchen, moved through the dining room, and into the living room.

“What are we looking for?” Lula fol owed.

“A little chest. A pirate chest.”

“You mean like that chest on the fireplace mantel?” she asked.

Holy cow, it was the chest. It was exactly as Joyce had described it.

Lula took the chest off the mantel and examined it.

“What’s so special about this chest? What’s in it?” She turned it upside down and looked at the bottom.

“It says ‘Miss Kitty R.I.P.’ ”

The top to the chest dropped open, and ashes flew out at Lula and scattered across the living-room rug.

“What the heck?” Lula said.

I clapped my hand over my mouth. I wasn’t sure if I was going to laugh, gag, or shriek. “I think Miss Kitty was cremated, and those are her ashes.” Lula stared down at herself. “Are you shitting me?

I’m al ergic to cat. I feel my throat closing up. I can’t breathe. I’m makin’ snot. Somebody do something!

Cal 911!”

She ran into the kitchen, grabbed the DustBuster off the wal by the pantry, and sucked the ash off herself.

“Freakin’ cats,” she said.

So much for Miss Kitty’s final resting place.

Lula felt her face. “Do I got hives?”

“No, you haven’t got hives,” I said. “You can’t be al ergic to cat ashes. They’re sterile. There’s no dander.”

“I feel like I have hives. I’m pretty sure I feel some popping out.”

“It’s al in your head,” I told her.

“I’m very impressionable,” Lula said. “My family’s prone to hysteria.”

I examined the chest, looking for a false bottom or secret message. I didn’t find either, so I careful y placed the chest back on the mantel.

“Do I get breakfast now?” Buggy asked.

“I want to make a fast run through the house to make sure there aren’t any more chests,” I told Lula.

“Keep your eyes open for visitors, and maybe you can DustBuster up what’s left of Miss Kitty.” I did a cursory search, found nothing, and we were al out the door in ten minutes. Lula and Buggy left in the Firebird in search of a breakfast buffet, and I drove two blocks down and waited for the mourners to return from the cemetery.

Lancer and Slasher parked behind me. They didn’t seem to be much of a threat for now, but I suspected that could change if their boss pressed the go button. And while I didn’t feel immediately threatened, they were a constant reminder that I had a huge, horrible, scary problem.

It was almost noon when the cars filed by. I was sure one of the cars contained Grandma. I couldn’t see her missing Frank Korda being laid to rest. I waited for the last car to arrive, and I gave it another ten minutes before I joined the crowd. I’d done a decent job of hiding my bruise under makeup, not to mention that after ten minutes, everyone would have knocked back a drink or two and not be noticing much beyond the shrimp salad.

I slipped into the house and located Grandma.

She was sitting on the couch with Esther Philpot.

They were drinking what appeared to be port wine, and they had a plate of cookies. I said hel o and snitched a cookie.

“I didn’t see you at the service,” Grandma said.

“I couldn’t make it,” I told her. “I had a previous commitment.”

“She’s a working girl,” Grandma said to Esther.

“And she’s got a gun. It’s not as big as mine, but it’s pretty good.”

“What do you carry?” Esther asked Grandma.

“Forty-five long barrel,” Grandma said. “What about you?”

“I have a little Beretta Bobcat. My grandson gave it to me for Christmas last year.”

They looked at me.

“What do you have, dear?” Esther asked me.

“Glock.”

“Get the heck out,” Grandma said. “When did you get a Glock? Can I see it?”

“I wouldn’t mind having a Glock,” Esther said.

“Maybe I’l get one next year.”

They leaned in and peeked into my purse at my gun.

“It’s a beauty,” Grandma said.

“I should mingle.” I looked around.

Grandma sat back. “There’s little bitty cupcakes in the dining room, and the liquor’s in the kitchen. I imagine that’s where you’l find the widow. She was already three sheets to the wind at the service. Not that I blame her. A funeral is stressful, poor thing.”

“Poor thing, my behind,” Esther said. “She’s not upset. She’s celebrating. She was only staying with him for the house. Everybody knows that. Frank did some stepping out, if you know what I mean. There was Mitchel Menton’s wife, Cheryl. And Bitsy Durham. Her husband is on the city council. I’m sure there were others.”

“I guess Frank was having one of those midlife crises,” Grandma said.

“And I imagine there are advantages to having an affair with a jeweler,” Esther said.

I wandered into the kitchen, where Pat Korda was scarfing ham rol -ups and drinking something colorless.

“Vodka?” I asked her.

“Fuckin’ A,” she said.

I poured some into a tumbler. “Me, too.”

“Here’s to you,” Pat said. “Whoever the hel you are. Looks like someone beat the crap out of you.”

“Yeah, it’s been one of those weeks.” Pat rol ed her eyes and listed a little to the left.

“Tel me about it.”

“Sorry about your husband.”

“Thanks. You want some ham? It goes good with vodka, but then, hel , everything goes good with vodka.”

“I noticed the little chest on your mantel. The one that looks like a pirate chest.”

“That’s Miss Kitty,” Pat said. “She was our cat.

Frank used to keep her in the store, but I brought her back here when he croaked.”

“It’s an interesting chest. Is it one of a kind?”

“Frank got it at the pet crematorium.” So if the Pink Panthers didn’t kil Frank Korda, and Joyce didn’t kil him … who kil ed him? Maybe his wife?

“Do you ever wear pink?” I asked her.

“No. I hate pink.” She took another slurp of vodka.

“Frank was the pink guy. He had this whole pink thing. He used to tel his bimbos he was a Pink Panther. Hah! Can you imagine?”

“You knew about it?”

“Honey, wives know al kinds of shit. Frank had this whole routine. He got it from a Schwarzenegger movie.
True Lies
. Schwarzenegger was a spy, but his wife didn’t know. She thought he was, like, boring. She was al hot for this other guy who was
pretending
to be a spy. So the wife’s thinking of screwing the pretend spy, right? Anyway, Frank saw this movie and wigged out. He must have watched it a hundred times. Do you have a cigarette?”