Two for the Dough (Stephanie Plum 2)

Sokolowsky looked pained. “Who did you say this was for?”

“My grandmother.”

“She cut you out of the will?”

Just what the world needs . . . one more sarcastic undertaker. “Do you have any plain boxes or what?”

“Nobody buys plain boxes in the burg. Listen, how about if we put you on a payment plan? Or maybe we could skimp on the makeup . . . you know, only set your grandmother's hair in the front.”

I was on my feet and halfway to the door. “I'll think about it.”

He was on his feet equally as fast, shoving brochures into my hand. “I'm sure we can work something out. I could get you a real good buy on a plot . . .”

I ran into Grandma Mazur in the foyer.

“What was he saying about a plot?” she asked. “We already got a plot. It's a good one too. Real close to the water spigot. The whole family's buried there. Of course, when they put your aunt Marion in the ground they had to lower Uncle Fred and put her in on top on account of there wasn't much space left. I'll probably end up on top of your grandfather. Isn't that always the way? Can't even get no privacy when you're dead.”

From the corner of my eye I could see Sokolowsky lurking in his doorway, sizing up Grandma Mazur.

Grandma Mazur noticed too.

“Look at that Sokolowsky,” she said. “Can't keep his eyes off me. Must be this new dress I'm wearing.”

We went to Mosel's next. Then we visited Dorfman's and Majestic Mortuary. By the time we were on the road to The House of Eternal Slumber I was punchy with death. The smell of cut flowers clung to my clothes, and my voice had locked into hushed funereal tones.

Grandma Mazur had enjoyed herself through Mosel but had started to fade toward the end of Dorfman's, and had sat out Majestic Mort, waiting for me in the Jeep while I ran inside and priced burial arrangements.

The House of Eternal Slumber was the only home left on my list. I cut through city center, past the state buildings and turnoffs to Pennsylvania. It was after nine, and the downtown streets were left to the night people—hookers, dealers, buyers, and the kiddie crews.

I turned right onto Stark, instantly plunging us into a despairing neighborhood of dingy brick-fronted row houses and small businesses. Doors to Stark Street bars stood open, spilling rectangles of smoking light onto dark cement sidewalks. Men loitered in front of the bars, passing time, transacting business, looking cool. The colder weather had driven most of the residents inside, leaving the stoops to the even less fortunate.

Grandma Mazur was on the edge of her seat, nose pressed to the window. “So this is Stark Street,” she said. “I hear this part of town is filled with hookers and drug dealers. I sure would like to see some of them. I saw a couple hookers on TV once, and they turned out to be men. This one hooker was wearing spandex tights, and he said he had to tape his penis up tight between his legs so it wouldn't show. Can you imagine that?”

I double-parked just short of the mortuary and studied The House of Eternal Slumber. It was one of the few buildings on the street not covered with graffiti. Its white masonry looked freshly scrubbed and an overhead fixture threw a wide arc of light. A small knot of suited men stood talking and smoking in the light. The door opened and two women, dressed in Sunday clothes, exited the building, joined two of the men, and walked to a car. The car left, and the remaining men went into the funeral home, leaving the street deserted.

I zipped into the vacated parking space and did a quick review of my cover story. I was here to see Fred “Ducky” Wilson. Dead at the age of sixty-eight. If anyone asked, I would claim he was my grandfather's friend.

Grandma Mazur and I quietly entered the funeral parlor and scoped the place out. It was small. Three viewing rooms and a chapel. Only one viewing room was being used. The lighting was subdued and the furnishings were inexpensive but tasteful.

Grandma sucked on her dentures and surveyed the crush of people spilling out of Ducky's room. “This isn't gonna float,” she said. “We're the wrong color. We're gonna look like hogs in the henhouse.”

I'd been thinking the same thing. I'd hoped for a mix of races. This end of Stark Street was pretty much a melting pot, with hard luck being the common denominator more than skin color.

“What's the deal here, anyway?” Grandma asked. “What's with all these funeral homes? I bet you're looking for someone. I bet we're on one of them manhunts.”

“Sort of. I can't tell you the details.”

“Don't worry about me. My mouth is zipped and locked.”

I had a fleeting view of Ducky's casket and even from this distance I knew his family had spared no expense. I knew I should look into it further, but I was tired of

doing the bogus pricing out a funeral routine. “I've seen enough,” I told Grandma. “I think it's time to go home.”

“Fine by me. I could use to get these shoes off. This manhunting stuff takes it out of a body.”

We swung through the front door and stood squinting under the overhead light.

“That's funny,” Grandma said. “I could have swore we parked the car here.”