“Yeah, except this was more nothing than usual.” I rummaged through my shoulder bag, found my cell phone and dialed Kuntz. No answer. “This is too weird. Why would he leave the bar like that?”
“Were you with him the whole time? Maybe someone gave him another clue, and he went off on his own.”
We were still parked at the curb, and I was thinking I should go back to the bar and ask some questions. “Wait here,” I told Morelli.
“Again?”
“This will only take a few minutes.”
I went to the bartender who'd been tending bar near us when Joyce went down.
“Do you remember the dark-?haired guy I was with?” I asked. “The one dressed in black.”
“Yeah. Eddie Kuntz.”
“You know him?”
“No. Some woman came in around seven, right after I came on. She gave me a picture of Kuntz and ten dollars to pass him a note.”
“Do you know what the note said?”
“Nope. It was in a sealed envelope. Must have been good, though. He left as soon as he read it.”
Well, duh.
I returned to Morelli, slouched down in the seat and closed my eyes. “Stick a fork in me, I'm done.”
Morelli turned the key in the ignition. “You sound bummed.”
“Bummed at myself. I was stupid tonight. I let myself get distracted.” Even more embarrassing, I hadn't immediately thought to question the bartender. And that wasn't all that had me bummed. Morelli had me bummed. He didn't understand about cookie jars. He gave his mother the wrong answer at the table. And I hated to admit it, but that eye thing had me worried. My God, what if Bella was right and I was pregnant?
I looked over at Morelli. His features were softened by shadow, but even in the dark I could see the paper-?thin scar that sliced through his right eyebrow. A few years ago, Morelli had walked into a knife. And he'd probably walk into another. Maybe a bullet. Not a comforting thought. Nor was his love life comforting. In the past, Morelli'd had a short attention span when it came to romance. From time to time, he'd shown flashes of protective tenderness for me, but I wasn't always a priority. I was a friend, like Terry Gilman and the pissed-?off woman, whoever the hell she was.
So I was thinking maybe Morelli wasn't prime husband material. Not even counting the fac
t that he didn't want to get married. Okay, now for the big one. Was I in love with Morelli? Hell, yes. I'd been in love with him since I was six years old.
I smacked myself in the forehead with the heel of my hand. “Unh.”
Morelli gave me a sideways glance.
“Just thinking,” I said.
“Must have been some thought. You almost knocked yourself out.”
The thing is, while I was in love with Morelli for all these years, I'd always known it was best if nothing came of it. Loving Morelli was like loving cheesecake. Hours of misery on the Stairmaster, working off ugly fat, in return for a moment of blissful consumption.
All right, maybe it wasn't as bad as all that. Morelli had matured. How much he'd matured I couldn't nail down. Truth is, I didn't know a lot about Morelli. What I knew was that I had a hard time trusting him. Past experience led me to believe blind faith in Morelli might not be a smart thing.
In fact, now that I thought about it, maybe love wasn't the right word. Maybe enamored was better. I was definitely enamored.
We rode in silence for most of the way home. Morelli had the golden oldies station on, and I was sitting on my hands so I wouldn't rip the knob off the radio.
“You look worried,” Morelli said.
“I was thinking about the note the bartender gave to Eddie Kuntz. He said Kuntz read it and took off.”
“And?”