Two for the Dough (Stephanie Plum 2)

I sipped my hot chocolate. “I got one of those, too. Morelli says he's looking for Kenny Mancuso as a favor to Kenny's mother. I think there's more to it.”

“Uh-oh,” Ranger said. “You been reading those Nancy Drew books again?”

“So what do you think? You hear anything weird about Kenny Mancuso? You think he did Moogey Bues?”

“I think it don't matter to you. All you've got to do is find Kenny and bring him in.”

“Unfortunately, I'm all out of bread crumbs to follow.”

The waitress brought my pancakes and Ranger's grapefruit.

“Boy, that looks yummy,” I said about Ranger's grapefruit as I poured syrup. “Maybe next time I'll get one of those.”

“Better be careful,” Ranger said. “Nothing uglier than a fat old white woman.”

“You're not being much help here.”

“What do you know about Moogey Bues?”

“I know he's dead.”

He ate a section of grapefruit. “You might check Moogey out.”

“And while I'm checking out Moogey, you could put your ear to the ground.”

“Kenny Mancuso and Moogey don't necessarily move in my neighborhood.”

“Wouldn't hurt, though.”

“True,” Ranger said. “Wouldn't hurt.”

I finished my hot chocolate and pancakes and wished I'd worn a sweater so I could open the top snap to my jeans. I burped discreetly and paid the bill.

I went back to the scene of the crime and identified myself to Cubby Delio, the station owner.

“Can't understand it,” Delio said. “I've owned this station for twenty-two years and never had any trouble.”

“How long had Moogey worked for you?”

“Six years. Started working here when he was in high school. I'm going to miss him. He was a likable person, and he was real reliable. He always opened up in the morning for me. I never had to worry about a thing.”

“He ever say anything about Kenny Mancuso? Do you know why they were arguing?”

He shook his head, no.

“How about his personal life?”

“I don't know much about his personal life. He wasn't married. So far as I know he was between girlfriends. Lived alone.” He sifted through some papers on his desk, coming up with a dog-eared, blacksmudged list of employees. “Here's the address,” he said. “Mercerville. Over by the high school. Just moved there. Rented himself a house.”

I copied the information, thanked him for his time, and got back to my Jeep. I took Hamilton to Klockner, passed Stienert High School, and hung a left into a subdivision of single-family homes. Yards were well tended and fenced for small children and dogs. Houses were mostly white sided with conservative trim colors. There were few cars parked in driveways. This was a neighborhood of double-income families. Everyone was out working, earning enough money to maintain the lawn service, pay off Ms. Maid, and warehouse their offspring at daycare centers.

I ticked off numbers until I came to Moogey's house. It was indistinguishable from the others, with no sign that a tragedy had just occurred.

I parked, crossed the lawn to the front door, and knocked. No one answered. I hadn't expected anyone would. I peeked into a narrow window bordering the door but saw very little: a foyer with a wood floor, carpeted stairs leading up, a hall extending from the foyer to the kitchen. Everything seemed to be in order.

I walked down the sidewalk to the driveway and peeked into the garage. There was a car in there, and I assumed it was Moogey's. It was a red BMW. I thought it looked a little pricey for a guy who worked in a gas station, but what did I know. I took down the plate number and returned to my Jeep.

I was sitting there, thinking “now what?” when my cellular phone rang.