“So about the chicken?” my mother wanted to know.
“Rain check,” I said. “I need a ride to Vinnie's. Can someone give me a ride?”
“Where's your car?” Grandma asked. “Was your car stolen again?”
“It's parked at Vinnie's. It's sort of a long story.”
My mother took her coat out of the hall closet. “I guess I can give you a ride. I need to go to the store anyway.”
The phone rang, and Grandma Mazur answered.
“Yep,” she said. “Yep. Yep. Yep.” Her face wrinkled into a frown. “I hear you,” she answered.
“Well, if that isn't something,” she said when she got off. “That was Myra Biablocki. She said she was talking to Emma Rodgers and Emma told her she heard Stephanie was on a manhunt to bring down Uncle Mo. Myra said she thought it was a sad day when a person hasn't anything better to do than to make trouble for a good man like Moses Bedemier.”
“Your cousin Maureen just got a job at the button factory” my mother said to me. “They're probably still hiring.”
“I don't want to work at the button factory. I like my job just fine.”
The phone rang again, and we all looked at each other.
“Maybe it's a wrong number,” Grandma Mazur offered.
My mother brushed past Grandma and snatched at the phone. “Yes?” Her mouth pinched into a thin line. “Moses Bedemier is not above the law,” she said. “I suggest you get the facts right before spreading gossip. And for that matter, if I were you, I'd clean my front windows before I took the time to talk on the phone.”
“Must be Eleanor, down the street,” Grandma said. “I noticed her windows, too.”
Life was simple in the burg. Sins were absolved by the Catholic Church, dirty windows were an abomination to the neighborhood, gossip greased the wheel of life and you'd better be damned careful what you said face-to-face to a woman about her daughter. No matter if it was true.
My mother got off the phone, wrapped a scarf around her head and took her pocketbook and keys off the hall table. “Are you coming with us?” she asked Grandma Mazur.
“I got some TV shows I've gotta watch,” Grandma said. “And besides, someone's got to take care of the phone calls.”
My mother shuddered. “Give me strength.”
Five minutes later she dropped me off in front of Vinnie's. “Think about the button factory” she said. “I hear they pay good. And you'd get benefits. Health insurance.”
“I'll think about it,” I said. But neither of us was paying much attention to what I said. We were both staring at the man leaning against my car.
“Isn't that Joe Morelli?” my mother asked. “I didn't know things were still friendly between you.”
“It isn't, and it never was,” I said, which was sort of a fib. Morelli and I had a history that ranged from almost friendly, to frighteningly friendly, to borderline murderous. He'd taken my virginity when I was sixteen, and at eighteen I'd tried to run him down with my father's Buick. Those two incidents pretty much reflected the tone of our ongoing relationship.
“Looks like he's waiting for you.”
I blew out some air. “Lucky me.”
Morelli was a cop now. Plainclothes. A misnomer for Morelli, because he's lean-hipped and hard-muscled, and there's nothing plain about the way he fits a pair of Levi's. He's two years older than me, five inches taller, has a paperthin scar slicing through his right eyebrow and an eagle tattooed onto his chest. The eagle is left over from a hitch in the navy. The scar is more recent.
I got out of the car and pasted a big phony smile on my mouth. “Gosh, what a terrific surprise.”
Morelli grinned. “Nice lie.”
“I can't imagine what you mean by that.”
“You've been avoiding me.”
The avoiding had been mutual. Morelli had given me the big rush back in November and then all of a sudden . . . nothing.