“I found a recipe, and I bought a couple cake pans.”
“What brought this on?”
“It just came over me,” I said.
“You aren’t pregnant, are you?”
“No!”
“Well, just holler if you need help. And people are asking about that bruise you’ve got. It’s a pip. What am I supposed to tell people?”
“Tell them I got it in a bar fight.”
“Can I say you got hit by a drag queen?”
“Sure.”
“It would make a more interesting story,” Grandma said.
Monica was standing behind me and I heard her give a snort of laughter. “I’d take a day off from work to see you get punched out by anyone.”
“I thought you didn’t have a job,” I said to Monica.
“Yeah, but if I did.”
I looked around the room for possible suspects. In the movies the criminal always returns to the scene of the crime, always shows up at the funeral. Most of the people who showed up for this wake
were same old same old. Professional wake attendees. The couple people I recognized from Kiltman had only been present at graveside. Obviously the politically correct gesture didn’t extend to the wake. Obviously they didn’t know about the vodka rig.
“I’m soggy,” Monica said. “I want to go home. Grab one of those trays of vodka rig and meet me outside.”
“Copy,” Ranger said into my earbud.
I found a tray that was mostly untouched, covered it with aluminum foil, turned to leave, and bumped into Morelli.
“You could get into big trouble taking that vodka rig,” Morelli said. “That’s official wake property.”
“I’ll chance it.”
He gently traced his fingertip across my bruise. “I hate to see this.”
“You realize you’re risking that punch in the face.”
“Yeah. Go ahead take your best shot. I deserve it.”
“You’re only saying that because I have my hands filled with casserole.”
“True. Are you planning on having this for dinner?”
“Monica asked me to grab it for her.”
“Anything strike you as odd today?” Morelli asked.
“Other than the fact that the widow is showing no remorse?”
“You’d think she could at least pretend, right?”
“I think she’s in a transitional place,” I said. “Moving on with her life.”