Two for the Dough (Stephanie Plum 2)

I moved away from Spiro to the edge of the gathering, where Morelli stood watching. “Everyone tells me I'm a pain in the ass.”

“Then it must be true,” Morelli said, throwing an arm around my shoulders. “Have any luck getting rid of the finger?”

“Spiro's going to give it back to George after the ceremony, after the cars have cleared out.”

“Are you going to stay?”

“Yes. It'll give me a chance to ta

lk to Spiro.”

“I'm going to leave with the rest of the warm bodies. I'll be in the area if you need me.”

I tilted my face to the sun and let my mind float through the short prayer. When the temperature dropped below fifty Stiva didn't waste time at graveside. No widow in the burg ever wore sensible shoes to a funeral, and it was the funeral director's responsibility to keep old feet warm. The entire service took less than ten minutes, not even enough time to turn Mrs. Mayer's nose red. I watched the old folks beating their retreat over the blighted grass and hard ground. In a half-hour they'd all be at the Mayer house, eating pencil points and drinking highballs. And by one o'clock Mrs. Mayer would be alone, wondering what she was going to do rattling around in the family house all by herself for the rest of her life.

Car doors slammed closed and engines revved. The cars drove away.

Spiro stood hands on hips, a study of the long-suffering undertaker. “Well?” he said to me.

I pulled the bag out of my pocketbook and handed it over.

Two cemetery employees stood on either side of the casket. Spiro gave the baggie to one of them with instructions to open the casket and lay the bag inside.

Neither man blinked an eye. I guess when you make a living dropping lead-lined boxes into the ground you aren't necessarily the inquisitive type.

“So,” Spiro said, turning to me. “How'd you get the finger?”

I gave him the rundown on Kenny in the shoe department and how I found the finger when I got home.

“You see,” Spiro said, “this is the difference between Kenny and me. Kenny always has to grandstand. Likes to set things up and then see how they play. Everything's a game to Kenny. When we were kids, I'd step on a bug and squash it dead, and Kenny'd stick it with a pin to see how long it'd take the bug to die. Guess Kenny likes to see things squirm, and I like to get the job done. If it was me I'd have gotten you in a dark, empty parking lot, and I'd have shoved the finger up your butt.”

I felt my head go light.

“Just talking theoretically, of course,” Spiro said. “I wouldn't ever do that to you on account of you're such a fox. Not unless you wanted me to.”

“I have to go now.”

“Maybe we could see each other later. Like for dinner or something. Just because you're a pain in the ass, and I'm a slime sucker, doesn't mean we can't get together.”

“I'd rather stick a needle in my eye.”

“You'll come around,” Spiro said. “I got what you want.”

I was afraid to ask. “Apparently you've got what Kenny wants, too.”

“Kenny's a jerk.”

“He used to be your friend.”

“Things happen.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Like nothing.”

“I got the impression Kenny thought we were partners in some sort of plot against him.”

“Kenny's nuts. Next time you see him you should shoot him. You can do that, can't you? You got a gun?”