Two for the Dough (Stephanie Plum 2)

Mrs. Gunzer took a step back (probably afraid I was going to shoot her), and I used the space to retreat. I snagged Grandma Mazur by the elbow, gathered her belongings together, and steered her toward the door, almost knocking Spiro over in my haste.

“It was an accident,” Grandma said to Spiro. “I caught my heel on the carpet. Could have happened to anybody.”

“Of course,” Spiro said. “I'm sure Mrs. Gunzer realizes this.”

“I don't realize nothing,” Mrs. Gunzer bellowed. “She's a threat to normal people.”

Spiro guided us into the foyer. “Hope this incident won't keep you from returning to Stiva's,” he said. “We always like to see pretty women come to visit.” He leaned closer, his lips hovering at my ear in a conspiratorial whisper. “I'd like to speak to you in private about some business I need conducted.”

“What sort of business?”

“I need something found, and I hear you're very good at finding. I asked around after you inquired about Kenny.”

“Actually I'm pretty busy right now. And, I'm not a private investigator. I'm not licensed.”

“A thousand dollars,” Spiro said. “Flat finder's fee.”

Time stood still for several heartbeats while I went on a mental spending binge. “Of course if we kept it quiet, I don't see any harm in helping a friend.” I lowered my voice. “What are we looking for?”

“Caskets,” Spiro whispered. “Twenty-four caskets.”

Morelli was waiting for me when I got home. He was slouched against the wall, hands stuffed into pockets, ankles crossed. He looked up expectantly when I stepped out of the elevator and smiled at the brown grocery bag I carried.

“Let me guess,” he said. “Leftovers.”

“Gee, now I know why you made detective.”

“I can do better.” He sniffed the air. “Chicken.”

“Keep it up and you might make the K-9 Corps.”

He held the bag while I opened the door. “Have a tough day?”

“My day passed tough at five o'clock. If I don't get these clothes off soon I'm going to mildew.”

He sidestepped into the kitchen and pulled a foil-wrapped packet of chicken out of the bag, along with a container of stuffing, a container of gravy, and a container of mashed potatoes. He put the gravy and potatoes in the microwave and set it for three minutes. “How'd the list go? Anything interesting turn up?”

I gave him a plate and silverware and took a beer from the refrigerator. “Big zero. No one's seen him.”

“You have any clever ideas about where we go from here?”

“No.” Yes! The mail! I'd forgotten about the mail in my pocketbook. I hauled it out and spread it on the kitchen counter—phone bill, MasterCard bill, a bunch of junk mail, and a postcard reminder that Kenny was due for a dental checkup.

Morelli glanced over while he ladled gravy on the dressing, potatoes, and cold chicken. “Is that your mail?”

“Don't look.”

“Shit,” Morelli said. “Isn't anything sacred to you?”

“Mom's apple pie. So what should I do here? Should I steam the envelopes or something?”

Morelli dropped the envelopes on the floor and smushed them with his shoe. I picked them up and examined them. They were torn and dirty.

“Received in damaged condition,” Morelli said. “Do the phone bill first.”

I paged through the statement and was surprised to find four overseas calls.

“What do you make of this?” I asked Morelli. “You know any of these codes?”