11 Eleven On Top (11 page)

I heard the Saturn engine catch, and then there was an explosion that rocked the building. The explosion blew the fire door off its hinges, shattered the big front window, and knocked Lula and me to our knees.

“Fudge!” Lula said.

My instinct was to leave the building. I didn't know what caused the explosion, but I wanted to get out before it happened again. And I didn't know if the building was structurally sound. I grabbed Lula and got her to her feet and pulled her to the front door. We were walking carefully, crunching over glass shards.

Lucky we'd been behind the counter when the explosion occurred. The door had been blown open, and Lula and I picked our way through the debris, onto the sidewalk.

Kan Klean was in a mixed neighborhood of small businesses and small homes, and people were coming out of their houses, looking around for the source of the explosion.

“What the heck was that?” Lula said. “And why's there a tire in the middle of the sidewalk?”

I looked at Lula and Lula looked at me, and we knew why there was a tire in the middle of the sidewalk.

“Car bomb,” Lula said.

We ran around to the parking lot on the side of the building and stopped short. The Saturn was a blackened skeleton of smoking, twisted metal. Difficult to see details in the dark. Chunks of shredded fiberglass body, upholstered cushion, and odds and ends of car parts were scattered over the lot.

Lula had her flashlight out, playing it across the disaster. She momentarily held the light on a segment of steering wheel. Part of a hand still gripped the wheel. A ragged shred of black cloth was attached to the hand.

“Uh oh,” Lula said. “It don't look good for my dry cleaning.”

I felt a wave of nausea slide through my stomach. “We should secure this area until the police get here.”

Fifteen minutes later, the entire block was cordoned. Yellow police tape stretched everywhere and fire trucks and emergency vehicles were angled between police cars lights flashing. Banks of portable lights were going up to better see the scene. Macaronis from all parts of the Burg-were gathered in a knot to one side of the lot.

Morelli arrived shortly after the first blue-and-white, and he immediately whisked me away, lest I be torn limb from limb by Macaronis. He got the story, and then he stuffed me into his SUV with police escort. Forty-five minutes later, he returned and slid behind the wheel.

“Tell me again how this happened,” Morelli said.

“Lula and I were driving by and I saw the light on, so I thought I'd go in and try to get Lula's dry cleaning. Mama Macaroni was alone in the store, she pulled a gun on me, demanded the keys to the Saturn, and left through the back door. Moments later, I heard the explosion.”

“Good,” Morelli said. “Now tell me what really happened.”

“Lula and I broke in through the back door so we could steal her dry cleaning. Mama Macaroni was waiting for us, and the rest of the story is the same.”

“Definitely go with the first version,” Morelli said.

“Did they find the rest of Mama Macaroni?”

“Most of her. They're still looking through the bushes. Mama Macaroni covered a lot of ground.” Morelli turned the key in the ignition. “Do you want to go home with Her?”

“Yeah. I'm a little creeped out.”

“I was hoping you'd want to go home with me because I'm smart and sexy and fun.”

“That, too. And I like your dog.”

“That car bomb was meant for you,” Morelli said.

“I thought my life would get better if I stopped chasing after bad guys.”

“You've made some enemies.”

“It's Spiro,” I told him.

Morelli stopped for a light and looked at me. “Spiro Stiva? Constantine's kid? Do you know this for sure?”

“No. It's just a gut feeling. The notes sound like him. And he was friends with Anthony Barroni. And now Barroni's dad is missing, and people say Anthony is spending money he shouldn't have.”

“So you think something's going on with Anthony Barroni and Spiro Stiva?”

“Maybe. And maybe Spiro's whacko and decided I ruined his life and now he's going to end mine.”

Morelli thought about it for a moment and shrugged. “It's not much, but it's as good as anything I've got. How do the other two disappearances fit in?”

“I don't know, but I think there might be one more.” And I told him about Kloughn's client. “And there's something else. Kloughn's client's husband disappeared in their brand-new car. Michael Barroni also disappeared in a brand-new car.”

Morelli slid a sideways look at me.

“Okay, so I know lots of people have new cars. Still, it's something they had in common.”

“Barroni, Gorman, and Lazar were the same age within two years, and they all owned small businesses. Does Kloughn's client fit that profile?”

“I don't know.”

Morelli turned a corner, drove two blocks, and parked in front of his house. “You'd think someone would have seen Spiro if he was back. The Burg's not good at keeping a secret.”

“Maybe he's hiding.”

My mother called on my cell phone. “People are saying you blew up Mama Macaroni.”

“She was in my car, and she accidentally blew herself up. I did not blow her up.”

“How can someone accidentally blow themself up? Are you okay?”

“I'm fine. I'm going home with Joe.”

It was early morning, and I was sitting on the side of the bed, watching Morelli get dressed. He was wearing black jeans, cool black shoes with a thick Vibram sole, and a long-sleeved blue button-down shirt. He looked like a movie star playing an Italian cop.

“Very sexy,” I said to Morelli.

He strapped his watch on and looked over at me. “Say it again and the clothes come off.”

“You'll be late.”

Morelli's eyes darkened, and I knew he was weighing pleasure against responsibility. There was a time in Morelli's life when pleasure would have won, no contest. I'd been attracted to that Morelli, but I hadn't especially liked him. The moment passed and Morelli's eyes regained focus. The guy part was under control. Not to give him more credit than he deserved, I suspected this was made possible by the two orgasms he'd had last night and the one he'd had about a half hour ago.

“I can't be late today. I have an early meeting, and I'm way behind on my paperwork.” He kissed the top of my head. “Will you be here when I come home tonight?”

“No. I'm working the three-to-eleven shift at CluckinaBucket.”

“You're kidding.”

“It was one of those impulse things.”

Morelli grinned down at me. “You must need money real bad.”

“Bad enough.”

I followed him down the stairs and closed the door after him. “Just you and me,” I said to Bob.

Bob had already eaten his breakfast and gone for a walk so Bob was feeling mellow. He wandered away, into the living room where bars of sunshine were slanting through the window onto the carpet. Bob turned three times and flopped down onto the sunspot.

I shuffled out to the kitchen, got a mug of coffee, and took it upstairs to Morelli's office. The room was small and cluttered with boxes of income tax files, a red plastic milk carton filled with old tennis balls collected during dog walks in the park, a baseball bat, a stack of phone books, gloves and wraps for a speed bag, a giant blue denim dog bed, a well-oiled baseball glove, a power screwdriver, roles of duct tape, a dead plant in a clay pot, and a plastic watering can that had obviously never been used. He had a computer and a desktop printer on a big wood desk that had been bought used. And he had a phone.

I sat at the desk, and I took a pen and a yellow legal pad from the top drawer. I had the morning free, and I was going to use it to do some sleuthing.

Someone wanted me dead, and I didn't feel comfortable sitting around doing nothing, waiting for it to happen.

First on my list was a call to Kloughn.

“She wouldn't let me in the house,” he said. "I had to sleep here in the office. It wasn't so bad since I have a couch, and the Laundromat is next door.

I got up early and did some laundry. What should I do? Should I call? Should I go over there? I had this terrible nightmare last night. Valerie was floating over top of me in the wedding gown except she was a whale. I bet it was because she kept saying how she was a whale in the wedding gown. Anyway, there she was in my dream... a big huge whale all dressed up in the white wedding gown. And then all of a sudden she dropped out of the sky, and I was squashed under her, and I couldn't breathe. Good thing I woke up, hunh?"

“Good thing. I need to know your client's name,” I told him. “The one with the missing husband.”

“Terry Runion. Her husband's name is Jimmy Runion.”

“Do you know what kind of car he just bought?”

“Ford Taurus. He got it at that big dealership on Route One. Shiller Ford.” His ager

“I don't know his exact age, but his wife looks like she's late fifties.”

“What about his job? Did he quit his job when he disappeared?”

“He didn't have a job. He used to work for some computer company, but he took early retirement. About Valerie...”

“I'll talk to Valerie for you,” I said. And I hung up.

Valerie answered on the second ring. “Yuh,” she said.

“I just talked to Albert. He said he slept in his office.”

“He said I was fat.”

“He said you were chubby.”

“Do you think I'm chubby?” Val asked.

“No,” I told her. “I think you're fat.”

“Oh God,” Valerie wailed. “Oh God! How did this happen? How did I get fat?”

“You ate everything. And you ate it with gravy.”

“I did it for the baby.”

“Well, something went wrong because only seven pounds went to the baby, and you got the rest.”

“I don't know how to get rid of it. I've never been fat before.”

“You should talk to Lula. She's good at losing weight.”

“If she's so good at losing weight, why is she so big?”

“She's also good at gaining weight. She gains it. She loses it. She gains it. She loses it.”

“The wedding is on Saturday. If I really worked at it, do you think I could lose sixty pounds between now and Saturday?”

“I guess you could have it sucked out, but I hear that's real painful and you get a lot of bruising.”

“I hate my life,” Val said.

“Really?”

“No. I just hate being fat.”

“That doesn't mean you should hate Albert. He didn't make you fat.”

“I know. I've been awful to him, and he's such an adorable oogie woogams.”

“I think it's great that you're in love, Val. And I'm happy for you... I really am. But the baby talk cuddle umpkins oogie woogams thing is making me a little barfy warfy. What about the Virgin Mary, Val? Remember when everyone said you were just like the Virgin Mary? You were cool and serene like the Virgin Mary, like a big pink plaster statue of the Virgin. Would the Virgin refer to God as her cuddle umpkins? I don't think so.”

The next call was to my cousin Linda at the DMV. “I need some information,” I said to Linda. “Benny Gorman, Michael Barroni, Louis Lazar. I want to know if they got a new car in the last three months and what kind?”

“I heard you quit working for Vinnie. So what's up with the names?”

“Part-time job. Routine credit check for CBNJ.” I had no idea what CBNJ stood for, but it sounded good, right?

I could hear Linda type the names into her computer. “Here's Barroni,” she said. “He bought a Honda Accord two weeks ago. Nothing on Gorman. And nothing's coming up on Lazar.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Boy, the wedding's almost here. I guess everyone's real excited.”

“Yeah. Valerie's a wreck.”

“That's the way it is with weddings,” Linda said.

I disconnected and took a moment to enjoy my coffee. I liked sitting in Morelli's office. It wasn't especially pretty, but it felt nice because it was filled with all the bits and pieces of Morelli's life. I didn't have an office in my apartment. And maybe that was a good thing because I was afraid if I had an office it might be empty. I didn't have a hobby. I didn't play sports. I had a family, but I never got around to framing pictures. I wasn't learning a foreign language, or learning to play the cello, or learning to be a gourmet cook.

Well hell, I thought. I could just pick one of those things. There's no reason why I can't be interesting and have an office filled with stuff. I can collect tennis balls in the park. And I can get a plant and let it die. And I can play the damn cello. In fact, I could probably be a terrific cello player.

I took my coffee mug downstairs and put it in the dishwasher. I grabbed my bag and my jacket. I yelled goodbye to Bob as I was going out the door. And I set off on foot for my parents' house. I was going to borrow Uncle Sandors Buick. Again. I had no other option. I needed a car. Good thing it was a long walk to my parents' house and I was getting all this exercise because I was going to need a doughnut after taking possession of the Buick.

Grandma was at the door when I strolled down the street. “It's Stephanie!” Grandma yelled to my mother.

Grandma loved when I blew up cars. Blowing up Mama Macaroni would be icing on the cake for Grandma. My mother didn't share Grandma's enthusiasm for death and disaster. My mother longed for normalcy. Dollars to doughnuts, my mother was in the kitchen ironing. Some people popped pills when things turned sour.

Some hit the bottle. My mother's drug of choice was ironing. My mother ironed away life's frustrations.

Grandma opened the door for me, and I stepped into the house and dropped my bag on the hall table.

“Is she ironing?” I asked Grandma Mazur.

“Yep,” Grandma said. "She's been ironing since first thing this morning. Probably would have started last night but she couldn't get off the phone.

I swear, half the Burg called about you last night. Finally we disconnected the phone."

I went to the kitchen and poured myself a cup of coffee. I sat down at the little kitchen table and looked over at my mother's ironing basket. It was empty.

“How many times have you ironed that shirt you've got on the board?” I asked my mother.

“Seven times,” my mother said.

“Usually you calm down by the time the basket's empty.”