Two for the Dough (Stephanie Plum 2)

“There are some funeral homes I need to visit.”

“What funeral homes?” Grandma y

elled from the foyer.

“I'm starting with Sokolowsky's.”

“Who's at Sokolowsky's?”

“Helen Martin.”

“Don't know her, but maybe I should pay my respects all the same if you're such good friends,” Grandma said.

“After Sokolowky's I'm going to Mosel's and then to The House of Eternal Slumber.”

“The House of Eternal Slumber? Never been to that one,” Grandma said. “Is it new? Is it in the burg?”

“It's over on Stark Street.”

My mother crossed herself. “Give me strength,” she said.

“Stark Street isn't that bad,” I told her.

“It's full of drug dealers and murderers. You don't belong on Stark Street. Frank, are you going to let her go to Stark Street at night?”

My father looked up from his plate at the mention of his name. “What?”

“Stephanie's going to Stark Street.”

My father had been engrossed in his cake and was clearly lost. “Does she need a ride?”

My mother rolled her eyes. “You see what I live with.”

Grandma was on her feet. “Won't take me a minute. Just let me get my pocketbook, and I'll be ready to go.”

Grandma applied fresh lipstick in front of the hall mirror, buttoned herself into her “good wool” coat, and hooked her black patent leather purse over her arm. Her “good wool” coat was a brilliant royal blue with a mink collar. Over the years the coat had seemed to grow in volume in direct proportion to the rate at which Grandma was shrinking, so that the coat was now almost ankle length. I took her elbow and steered her to my Jeep half expecting her knees to buckle under the weight of the wool. I had visions of her lying helpless on the sidewalk in a pool of royal blue, looking like the Wicked Witch of the West with nothing showing but shoes.

We went to Sokolowsky's first as planned. Helen Meyer looked fetching in a pale blue lace dress, her hair tinted to match. Grandma studied Helen's makeup with the critical eye of a professional.

“Should have used the green-toned concealer under the eyes,” she said. “You got to use a lot of concealer when you got lighting like this. Now Stiva's got recessed lighting in his new rooms and that makes all the difference.”

I left Grandma to her own devices and went in search of Melvin Sokolowsky, locating him in his office just off the front entrance. The door to the office was open, and Sokolowsky was seated behind a handsome mahogany desk, tapping who knows what into a laptop. I rapped lightly to get his attention.

He was a nice-looking man in his mid-forties, dressed in the standard conservative dark suit, white dress shirt, and sober striped tie.

He raised eyebrows at the sight of me standing in his doorway. “Yes?”

“I want to speak to you about funeral arrangements,” I said. “My grandmother is getting on in years, and I thought it wouldn't hurt to get some ballpark figures on caskets.”

He hauled a large leather-bound catalog up from the bowels of the desk and flipped it open. “We have several plans and a good selection of caskets.”

He turned to the casket called the Montgomery.

“This is nice,” I said, “but it looks a little pricey.”

He thumbed back a couple pages to the pine section. “This is our economy line. As you can see, they're still quite attractive, with a nice mahogany stain and brass handles.”

I checked out the economy line but didn't see anything nearly as cheap-looking as Stiva's missing caskets. “Is this as cheap as you get?” I asked. “You have anything without the stain?”