11 Eleven On Top (23 page)

“This trip doesn't take Anthony Barroni out of the picture,” Ranger said, “but it definitely back-burners him.”

We pulled into the Rangeman garage at five-thirty. Ranger parked and walked me to the Buick. “You have a half hour to get to Morelli. Where are you taking him?”

“We're having dinner with my parents. They have wedding cake for two hundred.”

“Isn't this nice,” my mother said, glass in hand, amber liquid swirling to the rim, stopping just short of sloshing onto the white tablecloth. “It's so quiet. I hardly have a headache.”

Two leaves had been taken out of the dining room table, and the small dining room seemed strangely spacious. The table had been set for five. My mother and father sat at either end, and Morelli and I sat side by side and across from Grandma, who was lost behind the massive three-tier wedding cake that had been placed in the middle of the table.

“I was looking forward to a party,” Grandma said. “If it was me, I would have had the reception anyway. I bet nobody would even have noticed Valerie wasn't there. You could have just told everybody she was in the ladies' room.”

Morelli and my father had their plates heaped with meatballs, but I went straight for the cake. My mother was going with a liquid diet, and I wasn't sure what Grandma was eating since I couldn't see her.

“Valerie called when they got off the plane in Orlando, and she said Albert was breathing better, and the panic attacks were not nearly as severe,” my mother said.

My father smiled to himself and mumbled something that sounded like “friggin' genius.”

“How'd Sally take the news?” I asked my mother. “He must have been upset.”

“He was upset at first, but then he asked if he could have the wedding gown. He thought he could have it altered so he could wear it onstage. He thought it would give him a new look.”

“You gotta credit him,” Grandma said. “Sally's always thinking. He's a smart one.”

I had the cake knife in hand. “Anyone want cake?”

“Yeah,” Morelli said, shoving his plate forward. “Hit me.”

“I heard your garage got blown up,” Grandma said to Morelli. "Emma Rhinehart said it went up like a bottle rocket. She heard that from her son, Chester.

Chester delivers pizza for that new place on Keene Street, and he was making a delivery a couple houses down from you. He said he was taking a shortcut through the alley, and all of a sudden the garage went up like a bottle rocket. Right in front of him. He said it was real scary because he almost hit this guy who was standing in the alley just past your house. He said the guy looked like his face had melted or something.

Like some horror movie."

Morelli and I exchanged glances, and we were both thinking Spiro.

An hour later, I helped Morelli hobble down the porch stairs and cross the lawn. I'd parked the Buick in the driveway, and I'd bribed one of the neighborhood kids into baby-sitting the car. I loaded Morelli into the car, gave the kid five dollars, and ran back to the house for my share of the leftovers.

My mother had bagged some meatballs for me, and now she was standing in front of the cake. She had a cardboard box on the chair and a knife in her hand.

“How much do you want?” she asked.

Grandma was standing beside my mother. “Maybe you should let me cut the cake,” Grandma said. “You're tipsy.”

“I'm not tipsy,” my mother said, very carefully forming her words.

It was true. My mother wasn't tipsy. My mother was shitfaced.

“I tell you, we're lucky if we don't find ourselves talking to Dr. Phil one of these days,” Grandma said.

“I like Dr. Phil,” my mother said. “He's cute. I wouldn't mind spending some time with him, if you know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean,” Grandma said. “And it gives me the creeps.”

“So how much of the cake do you want?” my mother asked me again. “You want the whole thing?”

“You don't want the whole thing,” Grandma said to me. “You'll give yourself the diabetes. You and your mother got no control.”

“Excuse me?” my mother said. “No control? Did you say I had no control? I am the queen of control. Look at this family. I have a daughter in Disney World with oogly woogly smoochikins. I have a granddaughter who thinks she's a horse. I have a mother who thinks she's a teenager.” My mother turned to me. “And you! I don't know where to begin.”

“I'm not so bad,” I said. “I'm taking charge of my life. I'm making changes.”

“You're a walking disaster,” my mother said. “And you just ate seven pieces of cake.”

“I didn't!”

“You did. You're a cakeaholic.”

“I don't mind thinking I'm a teenager,” Grandma said. “Better than thinking I'm an old lady. Maybe I should get a boob job, and then I could wear them sex-kitten clothes.”

“Good God,” my mother said. And she drained her glass.

“I'm not a cakeaholic,” I said. “I only eat cake on special occasions.” Like Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday...

“You're one of them comfort eaters,” Grandma said. “I saw a show about it on television. When your mother gets stressed, she irons and tipples. When you get stressed, you eat cake. You're a cake abuser. You need to join one of them help groups, like Cake Eaters Anonymous.”

My mother sliced into the cake and carved off a chunk for herself. “Cake Eaters Anonymous,” she said. “That's a good one.” She took a big bite of the cake and got a smudge of icing on her nose.

“You got icing on your nose,” Grandma said.

“Do not,” my mother said.

“Do, too,” Grandma Mazur said. “You're three sheets to the wind.”

“Take that back,” my mother said, swiping her finger through the frosting on the top tier and flicking a glob at Grandma Mazur. The glob hit Grandma in the forehead and slid halfway down her nose. “Now you've got icing on your nose, too,” my mother said.

Grandma sucked in some air.

My mother flicked another glob at Grandma.

“That's it,” Grandma said, narrowing her eyes. “Eat dirt and die!” And Grandma scooped up a wad of cake and icing and smushed it into my mothers face.

“I can't see!” my mother shrieked. “I'm blind.” She was wobbling around, flailing her arms. She lost her balance and fell against the table and into the cake.

“I tell you it's pathetic,” Grandma said. “I don't know how I raised a daughter that don't even know how to have a food fight. And look at this, she fell into a three-tiered wedding cake. This is gonna put a real crimp in the leftovers.” She reached out to help my mother, and my mother latched on to Grandma and wrestled her onto the table.

“You're going down, old woman,” my mother said to Grandma.

Grandma yelped and struggled to scramble away, but she couldn't get a grip. She was as slick as a greased pig, in lard icing up to her elbows.

“Maybe you should stop before someone falls and gets hurt,” I told them.

“Maybe you should mind your own beeswax,” Grandma said, mashing cake into my mother's hair.

“Hey, wait a minute,” my mother said. “Stephanie didn't get her cake.”

They both paused and looked over at me.

“How much cake did you want?” my mother asked. “This much?” And she threw a wad of cake at me.

I jumped to dodge the cake, but I wasn't quick enough, and it caught me in the middle of the chest. Grandma nailed me in the side of my head, and before I could move she got me a second time.

My father came in from the living room. “What the devil?” he said.

Splat, splat, splat. They got my father.

“Jesus Marie,” he said. “What are you, friggin' nuts? That's good wedding cake. You know how much I paid for that cake?”

My mother threw one last piece of cake. It missed my father and hit the wall.

I had cake and icing in my hair, on my hands and arms, on my shirt, my face, my jeans. I looked over at the cake plate. It was empty. The aroma of sugar and butter and vanilla was enticing. I swiped at the cake sliding down the wall and stuck my finger in my mouth. If I'd been alone I probably would have licked the wall. My mother was right. I was a cakeaholic.

“Boy,” my grandmother said to my mother. “You're fun when you've got a snootful.”

My mother looked around the room. “Do you think that's how this happened?”

“Do you think you'd do this if you were sober?” Grandma asked. “I don't think so. You got a real stick up your ass when you're sober.”

“That's it,” my mother said. “I'm done tippling.”

I caught myself licking cake off my arm. “And maybe I should cut back on the cake,” I said. “I do feel a little addicted.”

“We'll have a pact,” my mother said. “No more tippling for me and no more cake for you.”

We looked at Grandma.

“I'm not giving up nothing,” Grandma said.

I took my bag of meatballs and went out to the car. I slid behind the wheel, turned the key in the ignition, and Morelli leaned over the seat at me.

“What the hell happened to you?” he asked.

“Food fight.”

“Wedding cake?”

“Yep.”

Morelli licked icing off my neck, and I accidentally jumped the driveway and backed out over my parents' front lawn.

“Okay, let me get this correct,” Morelli said. “You're giving up sweets.”

We were sitting at Morelli's kitchen table, having a late breakfast.

“If it's got sugar on it, I'm not eating it,” I told Morelli.

“What about that cereal you've got in front of you?”

“Frosted Flakes. My favorite.”

“Coated with sugar.”

Shit. “Maybe I got carried away last night. Maybe I was overreacting to Valerie gaining all that weight, and then Kloughn dreaming about her smothering him. And my mother said I ate seven pieces of wedding cake, but I don't actually remember eating anything. I think she must have been exaggerating.”

Morelli's phone rang. He answered and passed it to me. “Your grandmother.”

“Boy, that was some mess we made last night,” Grandma said. "We're gonna have to put up new paper in the dining room. It was worth it, though. Your mother got up this morning and cleaned the bottles out of the cupboard. 'Course, I still got one in my closet, but that's okay on account of I can handle my liquor.

I'm not one of them anxiety-ridden drunks. I just drink because I like it. Anyway, your mother's not drinking so long as you're off the sugar. You're off the sugar, right?"

“Right. Absolutely. No sugar for me.”

I gave the phone back to Morelli, and I went to look in the cupboard. “Do we have cereal that's not coated with sugar?”

“We have bagels and English muffins.”

I popped a bagel into the toaster and drank coffee while I waited. “Ranger thinks some of the bombings feel off.”

“I agree,” Morelli said. “Laski's double-checking the crime-lab reports to make sure we don't have an opportunist at work. And I left a message for him to talk to Chester Rhinehart. So far Chester's the only other person besides you to see Spiro.”

“So, what's up for today? How's your leg?”

“The leg is a lot better. No pain. My foot isn't swollen.”

There was a lot of loud knocking on the front door. I grabbed my bagel and went to investigate.

It was Lula, dressed in a poison green tank and spandex jeans with rhinestones running down the side seam. “I heard about the wedding,” Lula said. “I bet your mama had a cow. Imagine having to call all those people and tell them they're on their own for burgers tonight. But there's some good news in all this, right? You didn't have to go parading around like a freakin' eggplant.”

“It all worked out for the best,” I said.

“Damn skippy. Glad you feel that way. Wouldn't want you to be in a bad mood since I need a little help.”

“Oh boy.”

“It's just a little help. Moral support. But you can jump in on the physical stuff if you want. Not that I expect anyone's gonna shoot at us or anything.”

“No. Whatever it is... I'm not doing it.”

“You don't mean that. I can see you don't mean that. Where's Officer Hottie? He in the kitchen?” Lula swept past me and went in search of Morelli. “Hey,” she said to him. “How's it shakin'? You don't mind if I borrow Stephanie today, do you?”

“He does,” I said. “We were going to do something...”

“Actually, it's Guy Day,” Morelli said to me. “I promised the guys we could hang out today.”

“You hung out with the guys yesterday. And the day before.”

Unknown

“Those were cop guys. These are just guy guys. My brother Tony and my cousin Mooch. They're coming over to watch the game.”

“Lucky for you I came along,” Lula said to me. “You would have had to hide upstairs in your room so you didn't ruin Guy Day.”

“You can stay and watch the game with us,” Morelli said to me. “It's not like it's a stag party. It's just Tony and Mooch.”

“Yeah,” Lula said. “They probably be happy to have someone do the pizza run and open their beer bottles for them.”

“Think I'll pass on Guy Day,” I said to Morelli. “But thanks for inviting me.” I grabbed my jacket and followed Lula out to the Firebird. “Who are we looking for?”

“I'm gonna take another shot at Willie Martin. I'm gonna keep my clothes on this time. I'm gonna nail his ass.”

“He didn't leave town?”

“He's such an arrogant so-and-so. He thinks he's safe. He thinks no one can touch him. He's still in his cheap-ass apartment over the garage. My friend Lauralene made a business call on him last night. Do you believe it?”

In a former life, Lula was a 'ho, and she still has a lot of friends in the industry. “Is Lauralene still there?”

“No. Willie's too cheap to pay for a night. Willie's strictly pay by the job.”

We crossed town, turned onto Stark, and Lula parked in front of the garage. We both looked up at Willie's apartment windows on the third floor.

“You got a gun?” Lula asked.

“No.”

“Stun gun?”

“No.”

“Cuffs?”

“Negative.”

“I swear, I don't know why I brought you.”

“To make sure you keep your clothes on,” I said.

“Yeah, that would be it.”

We got out of the Firebird and took the stairs. The air was foul, reeking of urine and stale fast-food burgers and fries. We got to the third-floor landing, and Lula started arranging her equipment. Gun shoved into the waistband of her jeans. Cuffs half out of her pocket. Stun gun rammed into her jeans at the small of her back. Pepper spray in hand.