I gave his place a green light, drove the Lincoln back to the funeral home, and exchanged it for my Buick.
I caught Morelli in my rearview mirror half a block from my parents' house. He idled in front of the Smullenses' until I parked the Buick. When I stepped out of the car, he crept forward and parked behind me. I suppose I couldn't blame him for being cautious.
'What were you doing at Delio's?' Morelli wanted to know. 'I assume you were baiting Spiro about the truck.'
'You assume right.'
'Anything come of it?'
'He said he didn't know anyone from Macko Furniture. And he discounted the possibility that Moogey might have taken the caskets. Apparently Moogey was the group idiot. I'm not even sure Moogey was involved.'
'Moogey drove the caskets to New Jersey.'
I leaned back against the Buick. 'Maybe Kenny and Spiro didn't include Moogey in the master plan, but somewhere along the line Moogey found out and decided to cut himself in.'
'And you think he borrowed the furniture truck to move the caskets.'
'It would be one theory.' I pushed off from the Buick and hitched my bag higher onto my shoulder. 'I'm picking Spiro up at eight tomorrow to take him to work.'
'I'll catch up with you in his lot.'
I let myself into the darkened house and paused for a moment in the front hall. The house was always at its best when it was asleep. There was an air of satisfaction to the house at the end of the day. Maybe the day hadn't gone exactly right, but the day had been lived and the house had been there for its family.
I hung my jacket in the hall closet and tiptoed into the kitchen. Finding food in my kitchen was always hit or miss. Finding food in my mother's kitchen was a sure thing. I heard the stairs creak and knew from the tread that it was my mother.
'How did it go at Stiva's?' she asked.
'It went okay. I helped him lock up, and then I drove him home.'
'I guess it's hard for him to drive with his wrist. I hear he got twenty-three stitches.' I pulled out some ham and provolone cheese.
'Here, let me,' my mother said, taking the ham and cheese, reaching for the loaf of rye bread on the counter.
'I can do it,' I said.
My mother took her good carving knife from the knife drawer. 'You don't slice the ham thin enough.'
When she'd made each of us a sandwich, she poured two glasses of milk and set it all on the kitchen table. 'You could have invited him in for a sandwich,' she said.
'Spiro?'
'Joe Morelli.'
My mother never ceased to amaze me. 'There was a time when you would have chased him out of the house with that carving knife.'
'He's changed.'
I tore into the sandwich. 'So he tells me.'
'I hear he's a good cop.'
'A good cop is different from a good person.'
I woke up disoriented, staring at a ceiling from a previous life. Grandma Mazur's voice snapped me back to the present.
