11 Eleven On Top (14 page)

“Anything but chicken.”

I WOKE UP thinking Morelli was licking me, but it turned out to be Bob. My face was wet with Bob slurpees, and he was gnawing on my hair. I made a sound that was halfway between laughing and crying, and Morelli opened an eye and batted Bob away.

“It's not his fault,” Morelli said. “You still smell like fried chicken.”

“Great.”

“Could be worse,” Morelli said. “You could still smell like cooked car.”

I rolled out of bed and shuffled into the bathroom. I soaped myself in the shower until there was no more hot water. I got out and sniffed at my arm.

Fried chicken. I returned to the bedroom and checked out the bed. Empty. Large grease stain on my pillowcase. I borrowed some sweats from Morelli's closet and followed the coffee smell to the kitchen.

Bob was sprawled on the floor next to his empty food bowl. Morelli was at the table, reading the paper.

I poured out a mug of coffee and sat across from Morelli. “I'm not going to cry.”

“Yeah, I've heard that before,” Morelli said. He put the paper aside and slid a bakery bag over to me. “Bob and I went to the bakery while you were in the shower. We thought you might need happy food.”

I looked inside the bag. Two Boston cream doughnuts. “That's so nice of you,” I said. And I burst into tears.

Morelli looked pained.

“My emotions are a little close to the surface,” I told him. I blew my nose in a paper napkin and took a doughnut. “Any word on the fire?”

“Yeah. First, some good news. Cluck-in-a-Bucket is closed indefinitely, so you don't have to go back to work there. Second, some mixed news. Big Blue is parked at the curb in front of my house. I'm assuming this is Rangers handiwork. Unfortunately, unless you have an extra key you're not going to be driving it until you get a locksmith out here. And now for the interesting stuff. They were able to retrieve the gift box from the chicken fryer.”

I pulled the second doughnut out of the bag. “And?”

“It was a clock. No evidence that it was a bomb.”

“Is that for sure?”

“That's what the lab guys said. I also got a report back on the car bomb. It was detonated from an outside source.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means it didn't go off when Mama Macaroni stepped on the gas or turned the key in the ignition. Someone pushed the button on Mama Macaroni when they saw her get into the car. We'll assume it was Spiro since he gave you the box. Hard to believe he'd mistake Mama Macaroni for you, so I have to think he blew her away for giggles.”

“Yikes.”

Bob lumbered over and sniffed at the empty doughnut bag. Morelli crumpled the bag and threw it across the room, and Bob bounded after it and tore it to shreds.

“I'm guessing Spiro was waiting for you and when Mama Macaroni showed up he couldn't resist blowing her to smithereens. Hell, I'm not sure I could resist.”

Morelli took a sip of my coffee. “Anyway, it looks like he isn't trying to kill you... yet.”

I drank a second cup of coffee. I called Mr. Alexander and made an appointment for eleven o'clock. I stood to leave and realized I had nothing. No key to the Buick. No key to my apartment. No credit cards. No money. No shoes. No underwear. We'd thrown all my clothes, including my shoes, into the trash last night.

“Help,” I said to Morelli.

Morelli smiled at me. “Barefoot and desperate. Just the way I like you.”

“Unless you also like me with a greasy head you'd better find a way to get me dressed and out to the mall.”

“No problemo. I have a key to your apartment. And I have the day off. I'm ready to roll anytime you are.”

“How did this happen?” Mr. Alexander asked, studying my hair. “No. On second thought, don't tell me. I'm sure it's something awful. It's always awful!”

He leaned over me and sniffed. “Have you been eating fried chicken?”

Morelli was slouched in a chair, hiding behind a copy of GQ. He was armed, he was hungry, and he was hoping for a nooner. From time to time, women walked in and checked Morelli out, starting with the hip work boots, going to the long legs in professionally faded jeans, pausing at the nicely packaged goods.

He didn't have a ring on his left hand. He didn't have a diamond stud in his ear. He didn't look civilized enough to be gay. He also didn't return the interest. If he looked beyond the magazine it was to assess the progress Mr. Alexander was making. If he locked eyes with an ogling woman his message wasn't friendly and the woman hurried on her way. I suspected the unfriendly disinterest was more a reflection of Morelli's impatience than of his single-minded love for me.

“I'm done!” Mr. Alexander said, whipping the cape off me. “This is the best I can do to cover up the bald spots. And we've gotten all the oil out.” He looked over at Morelli. “Do you want me to tame the barbarian?”

“Hey, Joe,” I yelled to him. “Do you need a haircut?”

Morelli always needed a haircut. Ten minutes after he got a haircut he still needed a haircut.

“I just got a haircut,” Morelli said, getting to his feet.

“It would look wonderful if we took a smidgeon more off the sides,” Mr. Alexander said to Morelli. “And we could put the tiniest bit of gel in the top.”

Morelli stood hands on hips, his jacket flared, his gun obvious on his hip.

“But then maybe not,” Mr. Alexander said. “Maybe it's perfect just as it is.”

Morelli's cell phone rang. He answered the phone and passed it over to me. “Your mother.”

“I've been calling and calling you,” my mother said. “Why don't you answer your cell phone?”

“My phone was in my bag and my bag was in CluckinaBucket when it burned down.”

“Omigod, it's true! People have been calling night and day, and I thought they were joking. Since when do you work at Cluck-in-a-Bucket?”

“Actually, I don't work there anymore.”

“Where are you? You're with Joseph. Are you in jail?”

“No. I'm at the mall.”

“Four days to your sisters wedding and you're burning down the Burg. You have to stop exploding things and burning things. I need help. Someone has to check on the cake. Someone has to pick up the decorations for the cars. And the flowers for the church.”

“Albert is in charge of the flowers.”

“Have you seen Albert lately? Albert is drinking. Albert is locked away in his office having conversations with Walter Cronkite.”

“I'll talk to him.”

“No! No talking. It's better he's drunk. If he gets sober he might back out. And leave him in the office. The less time spent with Valerie the more likely he is to marry her.”

I could see Morelli losing patience. He wasn't much of a mall person. He was more a bedroom and bar and playingfootball-in-the-park person.

My grandmother was yelling in the background. “I gotta go to a viewing tonight. Stiva's laying out Mama Mac. I need a ride.”

“Are you insane?” my mother said to my grandmother. “The place will be filled with Macaronis. They'll tear you to pieces.”

Morelli parked the SUV in front of my parents' house and looked over at me. “Don't get any ideas about your powers of persuasion. I'm only doing this for the meatloaf.”

“And later you're going to play detective with me.”

“Maybe.”

“You promised.”

“The promise doesn't count. We were in bed. I would have promised anything.”

“Spiro's going to make an appearance, one way or another. I know it. He's going to have to see his handiwork. He's going to want to be part of the process.”

“He won't see any of his handiwork tonight. The lid will be nailed down. I know Stiva's good, but trust me, all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put Mama Macaroni together again.”

Morelli and I got out of the SUV and watched a car creep down the street toward us. It was a blue Honda Civic. It was Kloughn's car. Kloughn hit the curb and eased one tire over before coming to a complete stop. He looked through the windshield at us and waved with just the tips of his fingers.

“Snockered,” I said to Morelli.

“I should arrest him,” Morelli said.

“You can't arrest him. He's Valerie's cuddle umpkins.”

Morelli closed the distance, opened the door for Kloughn, and Kloughn fell out of the car. Morelli dragged Kloughn to his feet and propped him against the Civic.

“You shouldn't be driving,” Morelli said to Kloughn.

“I know,” Kloughn said. “I tried walking, but I was too drunk. It's okay. I was driving very slooooowly and 'sponsibly.”

Kloughn started to sink to the ground, and Morelli grabbed him by the back of his coat. “What do you want me to do with him?” Morelli asked.

Here's the thing. I like Albert Kloughn. I wouldn't marry him. And I wouldn't hire him to defend me if I was accused of murder. I might not even trust him to babysit Rex. Kloughn sort of falls into the Bob Dog category. Kloughn inspires maternal pet instincts in me.

“Bring him inside,” I told Morelli. “We'll put him to bed and let him sleep it off.”

Morelli carted Kloughn into the house and up the stairs with Grandma trotting behind.

“Put him in the third bedroom,” Grandma said to Morelli. “And then let's get to the table. Dinner's almost ready, and I don't want to get a late start on the meatloaf. I gotta get to the viewing.”

“Over my dead body,” my mother yelled from the bottom of the stairs.

My father was already at the table. He had his fork in his hand, and he was watching the kitchen door, as if the food would come marching out to him without my mothers help.

A car pulled up outside. Car doors opened and slammed shut, and then there was chaos. Valerie, Angie, The Baby, and the horse were in the house, and the house suddenly got very small.

Grandma bustled down the stairs and took the diaper bag off Valerie's shoulder. “Everybody sit,” Grandma said. “The meatloaf's done. We got meatloaf and gravy and mashed potatoes. And we got pineapple upside-down cake for dessert. And we put lots of whipped cream on the cake.” Grandma eyed Mary Alice. “And only horses who sit at the table and eat their vegetables and meatloaf are gonna get any of the whipped cream and cake.”

“Where's my oogie woogie bear?” Valerie wanted to know. “I saw his car on the curb.”

“He's upstairs drunk as a skunk,” Grandma said. “I just hope his liver don't explode before we get you married off. You should make sure he's got life insurance.”

My mother brought the meatloaf and green beans to the table. Grandma brought the red cabbage and a bowl of mashed potatoes. I pushed my chair back and went to the kitchen to fetch the gravy and get milk for the girls.

Dinner at my parents' house is survival of the fastest. We all sit down at the table. We all put napkins on our laps. And that's where the civility ends and the action heats up. Food is passed, shoveled onto plates, and consumed at warp speed. To date, no one has been stabbed with a fork for taking the last dinner roll, but that's only because we all understand the rules. Get there first and fast. So we were all a little stunned when Valerie put five green beans on her big empty plate and angrily stabbed them with her fork. Thunk, thunk, thunk.

“What's with you?” Grandma said to Valerie.

“I'm on a diet. All I get to eat are these beans. Five boring hideous beans.” The grip on her fork was white-knuckled, her lips were pressed tightly together, and her eyes glittered feverishly as she took in Joe's plate directly across from her. Joe had a mountain of creamy mashed potatoes and four thick slabs of meatloaf, all drenched in gravy.

“Maybe this isn't a good time to be on a diet, what with all the stress over the wedding and all,” Grandma said.

“It's because of the wedding that I have to diet,” Valerie said, teeth clenched.

Mary Alice forked up a piece of meatloaf. “Mommy's a blimp.”

Valerie made a growling sound that had me worrying her head was going to start doing full rotations on her neck.

“Maybe I should check on Albert,” Morelli said to me.

I narrowed my eyes and looked at him sideways. “You're going to sneak out, aren't you?”

“No way. Honest to God.” He blew out a sigh. “Okay, yeah, I was going to sneak out.”

“I had a good idea today,” Grandma said, ignoring the possibility that Valerie might be possessed. “I thought it would be special if we could have Stephanie play the cello at Valerie's wedding. She could play it at the church while the people are coming in. Myra Sklar had a guitar player at her wedding, and it worked out real good.”

My mother's face brightened. “That's a wonderful idea!” Morelli turned to me. “You play the cello?” “You bet she does,” Grandma said. “She's good, too.”

“No, really, I'm not that good. And I don't think it would work if I played at the church. I'm in the wedding party. I have to be with Valerie.”

Valerie was momentarily distracted from her green-bean stabbing. “It would just be while the people are walking in,” Valerie said. “And then you can put the cello aside and take your place in line.”

Morelli was smiling. He knew I didn't play the cello. “I think you should do it,” Morelli said. “You wouldn't want all those years of cello lessons to go to waste, would you?” I shot him a warning look. “You are so toast.”

“This is going to be a humdinger of a wedding,” Grandma said, returning her attention to her meatloaf and potatoes. “And it's going to be smooth sailing because we got a wedding planner.”

Morelli and I exchanged glances. The Kloughn wedding was going to be a disaster of epic proportions.

We heard some scuffling and mumbling from the second floor. There was a moment of silence. And then Kloughn rolled down the stairs and landed at the bottom with a good solid thud. We all pushed back from the table and went to assess the damage.

Kloughn was spread-eagled on his back. His face was white and his eyes were wide. “I had the nightmare again,” he said to me. "The one I told you about.

It was awful. I couldn't breathe. I was suffocating. Every time I go to sleep I get the nightmare."

“What nightmare is he talking about?” Valerie wanted to know.

I didn't want to tell Valerie about the whale. It wasn't the sort of recurring dream a bride could get all gushy about. Especially since Val had almost gone into cardiac arrest when Mary Alice had called her a blimp. “It's a nightmare about an elevator,” I said. “He's in this elevator, and all the air gets sucked out, and he can't breathe.”