Half an hour later I was back in my apartment, deciding what to wear for an evening of sleuthing. I settled on boots, a long denim skirt, and a white knit shirt. I spiffed up my makeup and put a few hot rollers in my hair. When the rollers came out I was several inches taller. I still wasn’t tall enough to make it in pro ball, but I bet I could intimidate the hell out of the average Pakistani.
I was debating Burger King versus Pizza Hut when the phone rang.
“Stephanie,” my mother said, “I have a big potful of stuffed cabbages. And spice cake for dessert.”
“Sounds good,” I said, “but I’ve made plans for this evening.”
“What plans?”
“Dinner plans.”
“Do you have a date?”
“No.”
“Then you don’t have any plans.”
“There’s more to life than dates.”
“Like what?”
“Like work.”
“Stephanie, Stephanie, Stephanie, you work for your no-good cousin Vinnie catching hoodlums. This is no kind of work.”
I mentally bashed my head against the wall.
“I’ve got vanilla ice cream, too, for the spice cake,” she said.
“Is it low-fat ice cream?”
“No, it’s the expensive kind that comes in the little cardboard tub.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll be there.”
Rex popped out of his soup can and stretched, front feet out, hindquarters raised. He yawned and I could see down his throat all the way to the insides of his toes. He sniffed at his food cup, found it lacking, and moved on to his wheel.
I gave him a rundown on my night, so he wouldn’t worry if I came home late. I left the light burning in the kitchen, turned my answering machine on, grabbed my pocketbook and brown leather bomber jacket, and locked up after myself. I’d be a little early, but that was okay. It’d give me time to read through the obits and decide where to go after supper.
Streetlights were blinking on when I pulled up to the house. A harvest moon hung low and swollen in the dusky evening sky. The temperature had dropped since the afternoon.
Grandma Mazur met me in the foyer. Her steel gray hair was tightly curled in little sausage rolls all over her head. Pink scalp gleamed between the rolls.
“Went to the beauty parlor today,” she said. “Thought I might pick up some information for you on the Mancuso case.”
“How’d it go?”
“Pretty good. I got a nice set. Norma Szajack, Betty’s second cousin, was there getting her hair dyed, and everyone said that’s what I should do. I would have tried it out, but I saw on a show that some of them hair dyes give you cancer. I think it might have been Kathy Lee. Had on this woman with a tumor the size of a basketball, and she said it came from hair dye.
“Anyway, Norma and me got to talking. You know Norma’s boy Billie went to school with Kenny Mancuso and now Billie works at one of them casinos in Atlantic City. Norma said when Kenny got out of the army he started going down to Atlantic City. She said Billie told her Kenny was one of them high rollers.”
“Did she say if Kenny had been to Atlantic City lately?”
“Didn’t say. Only other thing was that Kenny called Billie three days ago and asked to borrow some money. Billie said yeah, he could do that, but then Kenny never showed up.”
“Billie told all this to his mother?”
“Billie told it to his wife, and she went and told Norma. I guess she wasn’t too happy that Billie was gonna loan money to Kenny.”
“You know what I think?” Grandma Mazur said. “I think someone whacked Kenny. I bet he’s fish food. I saw a show about how real professionals get rid of people. It was on one of them educational channels. What they do is they slit their throats, and then they hang them upside down in the shower to drain all the blood so they don’t ruin the carpet what with the bleeding and all. Then the trick is to gut the dead guy and puncture his lungs. If you don’t puncture the lungs they float when you dump them in the river.”
My mother made a strangled sound from the kitchen, and I could hear my father choking behind his paper in the living room.
The doorbell rang and Grandma Mazur jumped to attention. “Company!”
“Company,” my mother said. “What company? I wasn’t expecting company.”
“I invited a man for Stephanie,” Grandma said. “This one’s a real catch. Not much to look at, but he’s got a good job with money.”
Grandma opened the front door and Spiro Stiva walked in.
My father peered over the top of his paper. “Christ,” he said, “it’s a fucking undertaker.”
“I don’t need stuffed cabbage this bad,” I said to my mother.
She patted my arm. “It might not be so awful, and it wouldn’t hurt to be a little friendly with Stiva. Your grandmother’s not getting any younger, you know.”
“I invited Spiro over, being his mother’s spending all that time with Con in the hospital, and Spiro isn’t getting any good home-cooked meals.” Grandma winked at me and whispered in my direction. “Got you a live one this time!”
Just barely.
My mother slid an extra plate on the table. “It’s certainly nice to have company,” she said to Spiro. “We’re always telling Stephanie she should bring her friends home for dinner.”
“Yeah, except lately she’s gotten so picky with her men friends she don’t see much action,” Grandma told Spiro. “Just wait until you taste the spice cake for dessert. Stephanie made it.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“She made the cabbages too,” Grandma said. “She’s gonna make someone a good wife some day.”
Spiro glanced at the lace tablecloth and the plates decorated with pink flowers. “I’ve been shopping around for a wife. A man in my position needs to think about his future.”
Shopping around for a wife? Excuse me?
Spiro took the seat next to me at the table, and I discreetly inched my chair away with the hope that distance would get the little hairs on my arm to lie flat.
Grandma passed the cabbages to Spiro. “I hope you don’t mind talking about business,” she said. “I’ve got a lot of questions. For instance, I’ve always wondered about whether you dress the deceased in underwear. It don’t seem really necessary, but on the other hand …”
My father paused with the tub of margarine in one hand and the butter knife in the other, and for an irrational moment I thought he might stab Grandma Mazur.
“I don’t think Spiro wants to talk about underwear,” my mother said.
Spiro nodded and smiled at Grandma Mazur. “Trade secret.”
At ten minutes to seven Spiro finished off his second piece of cake and announced he would have to leave for the evening viewing.
Grandma Mazur waved to him as he pulled away. “That went pretty good,” she said. “I think he likes you.”
“Do you want more ice cream?” my mother asked. “Another cup of coffee?”
“No thanks. I’m stuffed. And besides, I have things to do tonight.”
“What things?”
“There are some funeral homes I need to visit.”
“What funeral homes?” Gandma yelled from the foyer.
“I’m starting with Sokolowsky’s.”
“Who’s at Sokolowsky’s?”
“Helen Martin.”
“Don’t know her, but maybe I should pay my respects all the same if you’re such good friends,” Grandma said.
“After Sokolowky’s I’m going to Mosel’s and then to The House of Eternal Slumber.”
“The House of Eternal Slumber? Never been to that one,” Grandma said. “Is it new? Is it in the burg?”
“It’s over on Stark Street.”
My mother crossed herself. “Give me strength,” she said.
“Stark Street isn’t that bad,” I told her.
“It’s full of drug dealers and murderers. You don’t belong on Stark Street. Frank, are you going to let her go to Stark
Street at night?”
My father looked up from his plate at the mention of his name. “What?”
“Stephanie’s going to Stark Street.”
My father had been engrossed in his cake and was clearly lost. “Does she need a ride?”
My mother rolled her eyes. “You see what I live with.”
Grandma was on her feet. “Won’t take me a minute. Just let me get my pocketbook, and I’ll be ready to go.”
Grandma applied fresh lipstick in front of the hall mirror, buttoned herself into her “good wool” coat, and hooked her black patent leather purse over her arm. Her “good wool” coat was a brilliant royal blue with a mink collar. Over the years the coat had seemed to grow in volume in direct proportion to the rate at which Grandma was shrinking, so that the coat was now almost ankle length. I took her elbow and steered her to my Jeep half expecting her knees to buckle under the weight of the wool. I had visions of her lying helpless on the sidewalk in a pool of royal blue, looking like the Wicked Witch of the West with nothing showing but shoes.
We went to Sokolowsky’s first as planned. Helen Meyer looked fetching in a pale blue lace dress, her hair tinted to match. Grandma studied Helen’s makeup with the critical eye of a professional.
“Should have used the green-toned concealer under the eyes,” she said. “You got to use a lot of concealer when you got lighting like this. Now Stiva’s got recessed lighting in his new rooms and that makes all the difference.”
I left Grandma to her own devices and went in search of Melvin Sokolowsky, locating him in his office just off the front entrance. The door to the office was open, and Sokolowsky was seated behind a handsome mahogany desk, tapping who knows what into a laptop. I rapped lightly to get his attention.
He was a nice-looking man in his mid-forties, dressed in the standard conservative dark suit, white dress shirt, and sober striped tie.
He raised eyebrows at the sight of me standing in his doorway. “Yes?”
“I want to speak to you about funeral arrangements,” I said. “My grandmother is getting on in years, and I thought it wouldn’t hurt to get some ballpark figures on caskets.”
He hauled a large leather-bound catalog up from the bowels of the desk and flipped it open. “We have several plans and a good selection of caskets.”
He turned to the casket called the Montgomery.
“This is nice,” I said, “but it looks a little pricey.”
He thumbed back a couple pages to the pine section. “This is our economy line. As you can see, they’re still quite attractive, with a nice mahogany stain and brass handles.”
I checked out the economy line but didn’t see anything nearly as cheap-looking as Stiva’s missing caskets. “Is this as cheap as you get?” I asked. “You have anything without the stain?”
Sokolowsky looked pained. “Who did you say this was for?”
“My grandmother.”
“She cut you out of the will?”
Just what the world needs … one more sarcastic undertaker. “Do you have any plain boxes or what?”
“Nobody buys plain boxes in the burg. Listen, how about if we put you on a payment plan? Or maybe we could skimp on the makeup … you know, only set your grandmother’s hair in the front.”
I was on my feet and halfway to the door. “I’ll think about it.”
He was on his feet equally as fast, shoving brochures into my hand. “I’m sure we can work something out. I could get you a real good buy on a plot….”
I ran into Grandma Mazur in the foyer.
“What was he saying about a plot?” she asked. “We already got a plot. It’s a good one too. Real close to the water spigot. The whole family’s buried there. Of course, when they put your aunt Marion in the ground they had to lower Uncle Fred and put her in on top on account of there wasn’t much space left. I’ll probably end up on top of your grandfather. Isn’t that always the way? Can’t even get no privacy when you’re dead.”
From the corner of my eye I could see Sokolowsky lurking in his doorway, sizing up Grandma Mazur.
Grandma Mazur noticed too.
“Look at that Sokolowsky,” she said. “Can’t keep his eyes off me. Must be this new dress I’m wearing.”
We went to Mosel’s next. Then we visited Dorfman’s and Majestic Mortuary. By the time we were on the road to The House of Eternal Slumber I was punchy with death. The smell of cut flowers clung to my clothes, and my voice had locked into hushed funereal tones.
Grandma Mazur had enjoyed herself through Mosel but had started to fade toward the end of Dorfman’s, and had sat out Majestic Mort, waiting for me in the Jeep while I ran inside and priced burial arrangements.
The House of Eternal Slumber was the only home left on my list. I cut through city center, past the state buildings and turnoffs to Pennsylvania. It was after nine, and the downtown streets were left to the night people—hookers, dealers, buyers, and the kiddie crews.
I turned right onto Stark, instantly plunging us into a despairing neighborhood of dingy brick-fronted row houses and small businesses. Doors to Stark Street bars stood open, spilling rectangles of smoking light onto dark cement sidewalks. Men loitered in front of the bars, passing time, transacting business, looking cool. The colder weather had driven most of the residents inside, leaving the stoops to the even less fortunate.
Grandma Mazur was on the edge of her seat, nose pressed to the window. “So this is Stark Street,” she said. “I hear this part of town is filled with hookers and drug dealers. I sure would like to see some of them. I saw a couple hookers on TV once, and they turned out to be men. This one hooker was wearing spandex tights, and he said he had to tape his penis up tight between his legs so it wouldn’t show. Can you imagine that?”
I double-parked just short of the mortuary and studied The House of Eternal Slumber. It was one of the few buildings on the street not covered with graffiti. Its white masonry looked freshly scrubbed and an overhead fixture threw a wide arc of light. A small knot of suited men stood talking and smoking in the light. The door opened and two women, dressed in Sunday clothes, exited the building, joined two of the men, and walked to a car. The car left, and the remaining men went into the funeral home, leaving the street deserted.
I zipped into the vacated parking space and did a quick review of my cover story. I was here to see Fred “Ducky” Wilson. Dead at the age of sixty-eight. If anyone asked, I would claim he was my grandfather’s friend.
Grandma Mazur and I quietly entered the funeral parlor and scoped the place out. It was small. Three viewing rooms and a chapel. Only one viewing room was being used. The lighting was subdued and the furnishings were inexpensive but tasteful.
Grandma sucked on her dentures and surveyed the crush of people spilling out of Ducky’s room. “This isn’t gonna float,” she said. “We’re the wrong color. We’re gonna look like hogs in the henhouse.”
I’d been thinking the same thing. I’d hoped for a mix of races. This end of Stark Street was pretty much a melting pot, with hard luck being the common denominator more than skin color.
“What’s the deal here, anyway?” Grandma asked. “What’s with all these funeral homes? I bet you’re looking for someone. I bet we’re on one of them manhunts.”
“Sort of. I can’t tell you the details.”
“Don’t worry about me. My mouth is zipped and locked.”
I had a fleeting view of Ducky’s casket and even from this distance I knew his family had spared no expense. I knew I should look into it further, but I was tired of doing the bogus pricing out a funeral routine. “I’ve seen enough,” I told Grandma. “I think it’s time to go home.”
“Fine by me. I could use to get these shoes off. This manhunting stuff takes it out of a body.”
We swung through the front door and stood squinting under the overhead light.
“That’s funny,” Grandma said. “I could have swore we parked the car here.”
I heaved a sigh. “We did park th
e car here.”
“It isn’t here anymore.”
It sure as hell wasn’t. The car was gone, gone, gone. I pulled my phone out of my pocketbook and called Morelli. There was no answer at his home number, so I tried his car phone.
There was a short crackle of static and Morelli came on.
“It’s Stephanie,” I said. “I’m at The House of Eternal Slumber on Stark Street and my car’s been stolen.”
There was no immediate response, but I thought I heard some muffled laughter. “Have you called it in?” he finally asked.
“I’m calling it in to you.”
“I’m honored.”
“Grandma Mazur is with me, and her feet hurt.”
“Ten-four, Keemo Sabe.”
I dropped my phone back into my pocketbook. “Morelli’s on his way.”
“Nice of him to come get us.”
At the risk of sounding cynical, I suspected Morelli had been camped out in my parking lot, waiting for me to come home so he could get briefed on Perry Sandeman.
Grandma Mazur and I huddled close to the door, ever on the alert should my car cruise by. It was an uneventful, tedious wait, and Grandma seemed disappointed not to have been approached by drug dealers or pimps looking for fresh blood.
“Don’t know what all the to-do is about,” she said. “Here it is a perfectly good night, and we haven’t seen any crime. Stark Street isn’t what it’s cracked up to be.”
“Some slimeball stole my car!”
“That’s true. I guess this evening wasn’t a complete bust. Still, I didn’t see it happen. It just isn’t the same if you don’t see it happen.”
Morelli’s truck turned at the corner and made its way up Stark Street. He double-parked, set his flasher, and sauntered around to us. “What happened?”
“The Jeep was parked and locked in this empty space here. We were in the funeral home for less than ten minutes. When we came out, the Jeep was gone.”
“Any witnesses?”
“None that I know of. I didn’t canvass the neighborhood.” If there was one thing I’d learned in my short career as a bounty hunter, it was that no one saw anything on Stark Street. Asking questions was an exercise in futility.
“I had the dispatcher notify all cars as soon as I got your call,” Morelli said. “You should come down to the station tomorrow and fill out a report.”
Plum Boxed Set 1, Books 1-3 Stephanie Plum Novels) Page 30