“Did you go out looking for him? Could he be at a friend's house?”
“I'm telling you, it's not like him to miss wrestling,” Mooner said. “Like nobody misses wrestling, dude. He was all excited about it. I think something bad's happened.”
“Like what?”
“I don'
t know. I just have this bad feeling.”
We both sucked in a breath when the phone rang, as if our suspecting disaster would make it happen.
“He's here,” Grandma said at the other end of the line.
“Who? Who's where?”
“Eddie DeChooch! Mabel picked me up after you left so we could pay our respects to Anthony Varga. He's laid out at Stiva's and Stiva did a real good job. I don't know how Stiva does it. Anthony Varga hasn't looked this good for twenty-five years. He should have come to Stiva when he was alive. Anyway, we're still here, and Eddie DeChooch just walked into the funeral parlor.”
“I'll be right there.”
No matter if you're suffering depression or wanted for murder, you still pay your respects in the Burg.
I grabbed my shoulder bag off the kitchen counter and shoved Mooner out the door. “I have to run. I'll make some phone calls and I'll get back to you. In the meantime, you should go home and maybe Dougie will show up.”
“Which home should I go to, dude? Should I go to Dougie's home or my home?”
“Your home. And check on Dougie's home once in a while.”
Having Mooner worry about Dougie made me uneasy, but it didn't feel critical. Then again, Dougie'd missed wrestling. And Mooner was right . . . nobody misses wrestling. At least nobody in Jersey.
I ran down the hall and down the stairs. I bolted through the lobby, out the door, and into my car. Stiva's was a couple miles down Hamilton Avenue. I did a mental equipment inventory. Pepper spray and cuffs in my purse. The stun gun was probably in there, too, but it might not be charged. My .38 was home in the cookie jar. And I had a nail file in case things got physical.
Stiva's Funeral Parlor is housed in a white frame structure that was once a private residence. Garages for the various funeral-type vehicles and viewing rooms for the various dead have been added to accommodate business. There's a small parking lot. Black shutters frame the windows, and the wide front porch is covered in green indoor-outdoor carpet.
I parked in the lot and power-walked to the front entrance. Men stood in a knot on the porch, smoking and swapping stories. They were working-class men, dressed in unmemorable suits, their waists and hairlines showing the years. I moved past them to the foyer. Anthony Varga was in Slumber Room number one. And Caroline Borchek was in Slumber Room number two. Grandma Mazur was hiding behind a fake ficus tree in the lobby.
“He's in with Anthony,” Grandma said. “He's talking to the widow. Probably sizing her up, looking for a new woman to shoot and stash in his shed.”
There were about twenty people in the Varga viewing room. Most of them were seated. A few stood at the casket. Eddie DeChooch was among those at the casket. I could go in and quietly maneuver myself to his side and clap on the cuffs. Probably the easiest way to get the job done. Unfortunately, it would also create a scene and upset people who were grieving. More to the point, Mrs. Varga would call my mother and relay the whole gruesome incident. My other choices were that I could approach him at the casket and ask him to come outside with me. Or I could wait until he left and nab him in the parking lot or on the front porch.
“What do we do now?” Grandma wanted to know. “Are we just gonna go in and grab him, or what?”
I heard someone suck in some air behind me. It was Loretta Ricci's sister, Madeline. She'd just come in and spotted DeChooch.
“Murderer!” she shouted at him. “You murdered my sister.”
DeChooch went white-faced and stumbled backward, losing his footing, knocking into Mrs. Varga. Both DeChooch and Mrs. Varga grabbed the casket for support, the casket tipped precariously on its skirted trolley, and there was a collective gasp as Anthony Varga lurched to one side, bashing his head against the satin padding.
Madeline shoved her hand into her purse, someone yelled that Madeline was going for a gun, and everyone scrambled. Some went flat to the floor, and some surged up the aisle to the lobby.
Stiva's assistant, Harold Barrone, lunged at Madeline, catching her at the knees, throwing Madeline into Grandma and me, taking us all down in a heap.
“Don't shoot,” Harold yelled to Madeline. “Control yourself!”
“I was just getting a tissue, you moron,” Madeline said. “Get off me.”
“Yeah, and get off me,” Grandma said. “I'm old. My bones could snap like a twig.”
I pulled myself to my feet and looked around. No Eddie DeChooch. I ran out to the porch where the men were standing. “Have any of you seen Eddie DeChooch?”