Two for the Dough (Stephanie Plum 2)

“Talked to Morelli last night,” I said to Ranger. “They didn't get a lot out of the brothers in the BMW. Mostly all they got was that the driver of the van used Lionel Boone, Stinky Sanders, and Jamal Alou as references.”

“Bunch of bad people,” Ranger said. “Alou is a craftsman. Can customize anything that goes bang.”

“Maybe we should talk to them.”

“Don't think you'd want to hear what they'd have to say to you, babe. Be better if I look the boys up by myself.”

“Okay by me. I have other things to do anyway.”

“Ain't got none of those assholes on file,” Lula called. “Guess we too highclass.”

I got my check from Connie and moseyed out to Big Blue. Sal Fiorello had come out of the deli and was peering into Blue's side window. “Will you look at the condition of this honey,” he said to no one in particular.

I rolled my eyes and stuck the key in the door lock. “Morning Mr. Fiorello.”

“That's some car you got here,” he said.

“Yep,” I replied. “Not everyone can drive a car like this.”

“My uncle Manni h

ad a fifty-three Buick. They found him dead in it. Found him at the landfill.”

“Gee, I'm really sorry.”

“Ruined the upholstery,” Sal said. “Was a damn shame.”

I drove to Stiva's and parked across the street from the mortuary. A florist's truck pulled into the service driveway and disappeared around the side of the building. There was no other activity. The building seemed eerily still. I wondered about Constantine Stiva in traction in St. Francis. I'd never known Constantine to take a vacation, and now here he was flat on his back with his business turned over to his ratty stepson. It had to be killing him. I wondered if he knew about the caskets. My guess was no. My guess was that Spiro had screwed up and was trying to keep it from Con.

I needed to give Spiro a no-progress report and decline his dinner invitation, but I was having a hard time motivating myself to cross the street. I could manage a mortuary at seven at night when it was filled with the K of C. I wasn't crazy about tippy-toeing around at eleven in the morning, just me and Spiro and the dead people.

I sat there a while longer, and I got to thinking how Spiro, Kenny, and Moogey had been best friends all through school. Kenny, the wise guy. Spiro, the not-too-bright kid with bad teeth and an undertaker for a stepfather. And Moogey, who as far as I could tell was a good guy. It's funny how people form alliances around the common denominator of simply needing a friend.

Now Moogey was dead. Kenny was missing in action. And Spiro was out twenty-four cheap caskets. Life can get pretty strange. One minute you're in high school, shooting baskets and stealing little kids' lunch money, and then next thing you know you're using mortician's putty to fill in the holes in your best friend's head.

A weird thought steamed from my brain like the Phoenix rising. What if this was all tied together? What if Kenny stole the guns and hid them in Spiro's caskets? Then what? I didn't know then what.

Feathery clouds had stolen into the sky, and the wind had picked up since I left my apartment this morning. Leaves rattled across the street and whipped against the windshield. I thought if I sat there long enough I'd probably see Piglet soar by.

By twelve it was clear that my feet weren't going to bypass my chicken heart. No problem. I'd go with plan number two. I'd go home to my parents, mooch lunch, and drag Grandma Mazur back with me.

It was almost two o'clock when I pulled into Stiva's small side lot with Grandma perched beside me on the big bench seat, straining to see over the dashboard.

“Ordinarily I don't go to afternoon viewings,” Grandma said, gathering her purse and gloves together. “Sometimes in the summer when I feel like taking a walk I might stop in, but usually I like the crowd that comes in the evening. Of course things are all different when you're bounty hunters . . . like us.”

I helped Grandma out of the car. “I'm not here as a bounty hunter. I'm here to talk to Spiro. I'm helping him with a small problem.”

“I bet. What's he lost? I bet he lost a body.”

“He didn't lose a body.”

“Too bad. I wouldn't mind looking for a body.”

We made our way up the stairs and through the door. We stopped for a moment to study the viewing schedule.

“Who're we supposed to be here to see?” Grandma wanted to know. “We gonna see Feinstein or Mackey?”

“Do you have a preference?”