So probably we’d found Moe’s house, and chances weren’t good that Sunny was holed up there.
“Let’s check out Rita Raguzzi,” I said to Lula.
I backtracked on Olden and headed for Hamilton Township. Rita Raguzzi lived in a residential neighborhood of single-family houses that had been developed in the seventies. Yards were large and lawns were green. Homes were comfortable but not luxurious. Raguzzi’s house was a split-level with an attached garage. Convenient for sneaking a man in and out when he was someone else’s husband. There was a black Mercedes in the driveway. It was the economy model, if there is such a thing.
“Looks to me like someone’s home,” Lula said. “Maybe Uncle Sunny’s here, walking around in his underwear.”
I thought that was doubtful but not impossible.
“You want me to sneak around and snoop while you ring the doorbell?” Lula asked.
“Sure.”
I rang the doorbell, and Lula crept around the side of the house, walking tiptoed so her four-inch spike-heel Manolo knockoffs wouldn’t sink into the grass.
A woman opened the door and looked out at me. “What?”
She was in her late forties to early fifties. Her complexion was Mediterranean and her hair was platinum, cut short with one side tucked behind her ear and the other side dramatically sweeping across her forehead and partially obscuring her eye. She was wearing red patent-leather stiletto heels and a little red dress that showed a lot of cleavage and a lot of leg, and had a lot of spandex in it.
“Rita Raguzzi?” I asked.
“Yeah, and unless you want to buy or sell a house I haven’t got time. I’m late for a showing.”
I gave her my card. “I’m looking for Sunny.”
“Stephanie Plum. I thought I recognized you. Aren’t you engaged to Joe Morelli?”
“Not exactly. Are you engaged to Sunny?”
“Not exactly.”
“So we have something in common.”
She did a fast scan of my jeans and sneakers and crappy car at the curb. “The only thing we have in common is an interest in Salvatore Sunucchi. And our interests aren’t compatible. You want to lock him up, and I want to lock him down.”
“Lock him down?”
“Marriage, stupid.” Raguzzi narrowed her eyes at me. “I’ve got a ten-year investment in this goat, and nothing is going to stand between me and his offshore bank accounts and Trenton real estate. I’m a fraction of an inch away from a ring on my finger.”
“Won’t he want a pre-nup?”
“You get a pre-nup in case of divorce. I’m not planning on a divorce. I’m planning on being a widow.”
“You mean because he’s older than you?”
“I mean because he has a bad heart. I figure all I have to do is load him up with Viagra and invite a friend over for a threesome.”
“I didn’t know he had a bad heart.”
“Yeah, he could go at any minute, so back off, because hanging out while Sunny sits in jail and maybe croaks isn’t going to work for me.”
“He’s not going to sit in jail and croak. I’ll take him in, he’ll get bonded out again, and you can get married while he waits for his court date to come around.”
“He was lucky to get bonded out the first time. The judge who set the bond is on vacation and, due to a large windfall of cash, might never come back, and Sunny might not have so much luck at getting another sympathetic judge.”
“Hard to believe,” I said.
She shrugged. “It’s a crapshoot.”