I could see lights shining downstairs, to the rear. Probably coming from the kitchen. I knocked on the door and waited, wondering what sort of reception I'd get, praying Morelli was alone. If he had a woman with him I'd be so embarrassed I'd have to move to Florida.
I heard footsteps to the other side of the door, and the door was opened. Morelli wore thick wool socks and jeans, a black T-shirt and a flannel shirt that was unbuttoned and rolled to his elbows. His eyebrows lifted in surprise. He took in my wet hair and mud-splattered Levi's. His gaze shifted to the red Firebird, which Lula had parked under a streetlight. He shook his head.
“Tell me you don't have legs sticking out of that car.”
“Uh, well, actually . . .”
“Christ, Stephanie, this makes four! Four dead bodies. Eight if you count the ones in the cellar.”
“It's not my fault!” I stuffed my fists onto my hips. “You think I want to keep finding dead bodies? This is no picnic for me either, you know.”
“Who is it?”
“We think it's Elliot Harp. He's got a big hole in the middle of his face, so it's hard to tell for sure.”
I told him the story about spotting Mo and following him down Route 1, and how we came to have Elliot Harp rammed into Lula's trunk.
“And?” Morelli said.
“And I brought him here. I thought you might want to have first crack at him.” And I thought you might write up the report in a favorable manner that didn't cite me for body snatching. And I thought if I dragged you into this I wouldn't be the brunt of bad cop jokes having to do with tailgate delivery of corpses.
I took a fast peek inside Morelli's house, seeing a wood floor in the small foyer and an old-fashioned wood banister on stairs leading up to the second floor.
Morelli made a one-minute sign to Lula, pulled me inside and shut the door. “You should have left the body on the side of the road. You should have flagged someone down. You should have found a phone and called the police.”
“Hello,” I said. “Are you listening? I just went through all of that. No one would stop, and I decided it was dangerous to stay at roadside.”
Morelli cracked the door and looked out at the Firebird. He closed the door and shook his head again. He looked down at his feet and tried to hide the smile.
“It isn't funny!” I said.
“Whose idea was the flag?”
“Lula's. She didn't want to get a ticket.”
The smile widened. “You gotta love her.”
“So what should I do with this guy?”
“I'll call the ME's office and have someone meet us at the station. You've driven Harp this far . . . a few more miles won't make much difference.”
“I didn't do anything illegal, did I?”
Morelli headed off to the back of the house. “You don't want to know the answer to that.”
I followed him down the hall to the kitchen, catching a glimpse of the living room, dining room. The rooms were small, but the ceilings were high with elaborate crown molding. Boxes still sat in all the rooms, waiting to be unpacked. A rug was rolled to one side in the dining room.
Morelli retrieved cross trainers from under the kitchen table and sat down to lace them.
“Nice kitchen,” I said. “Reminds me a lot of my parents' house.” What about shelf paper, I was thinking. I couldn't imagine Morelli picking out shelf paper.
Morelli looked around like he was seeing the kitchen for the first time. “It needs some work.”
“Why did you decide to buy a house?”
“I didn't buy it. I inherited it. My aunt Rose left it to me. She and my uncle Sallie bought this house when they were first married. Sallie died ten years ago, and Aunt Rose stayed on. She died in October. She was eighty-three. They didn't have any kids, and I was a favorite nephew, so I got the house. My sister, Mary, got the furniture.” Morelli stood at the table and snagged a jacket that had been draped over a kitchen chair.
“You could sell it.”