the bad-smelling, rangy men are straight. I find out Ranger’s gay and I’m going straight to the freezer section at Shop & Bag. Only men you can count on these days is Ben and Jerry.”
Connie and I nodded sympathetically. Used to be I worried about losing my boyfriends to Joyce Barnhardt. Now I had to worry about losing them to her brother, Kevin.
I was curious about Ranger, but I wasn’t nearly as curious as Lula. I had bigger fish to fry. I had to find Mo. I had to get my pickup. I had to nail down Joe Morelli’s sudden disinterest in me. I was pretty sure it didn’t have to do with a shortage of Y chromosomes.
I backtracked to my parents’ house, recruited my father to drive the Buick home and zipped off to the garage.
My father didn’t say anything on the trip over, but his thoughts were vibrating off the top of his head.
“I know,” I said, testily. “I wouldn’t be having this trouble if I’d bought a Buick.”
The Nissan was parked in a numbered slot in the lot. My father and I cut our eyes to it in silent suspicion.
“You want me to wait?” my father asked.
“Not necessary.”
My father cruised off. We’d done this routine before.
Ernie, the service manager, was in the little office attached to the warehouse of bays. He saw me on line and stepped from behind the counter, took my keys from a hook on the wall and pulled my bill. “You talked to Slick about the carburetor?”
“Yes.”
Ernie smiled. “We like to keep our customers happy. Don’t want you going away without a full explanation.”
I was so happy I was practically suicidal. If I had to spend any more time talking to Slick, I was going to slit my throat.
“I’m in sort of a hurry,” I said, passing Ernie my credit card. Another lie. I had absolutely nothing to do. I was all dressed up with nowhere to go.
If I was a hotshot detective I’d park myself in a van a couple houses down from the candy store, and I’d watch Mrs. Steeger. Unfortunately, I wasn’t a hotshot detective. I didn’t have a van. I couldn’t afford to buy one. I couldn’t afford to rent one. And since everyone in the burg was so nosy, a van probably wouldn’t work anyway.
Just for kicks I drove by Morelli’s house. Sort of test-driving the pickup. Morelli’s car was parked at the curb, and lights were on inside the house. I eased up behind the 4x4 and cut the engine. I checked myself out in the rearview mirror. When a person has orange hair it’s best to appraise it in the dark.
“Well, what the hell,” I said.
By the time I knocked on Morelli’s front door my heart was doing little flutter things in my chest.
Morelli opened the door and grimaced. “If you have another dead guy in your car I don’t want to hear about it.”
“This is a social call.”
“Even worse.”
The chest flutterings stopped. “What kind of a crack is that?”
“It’s nothing. Forget it. You look frozen. Where’s your coat?”
I stepped into the foyer. “I didn’t wear a coat. It was warmer when I started out this afternoon.”
I followed Morelli back to the kitchen and watched while he filled a cordial glass with amber liquid.
“Here,” he said, handing the glass over. “Fastest way to get warm.”
I took a sniff. “What is it?”
“Schnapps. My uncle Lou makes it in his cellar.”
I tried a teeny taste and my tongue went numb. “I don’t know…”
Morelli raised eyebrows. “Chicken?”
“I don’t see you drinking this stuff.”
Morelli took the glass from my hand and tossed the contents down his throat. He refilled the glass and gave it back to me. “Your turn, Cupcake.”
“To the Pope,” I said and drained the glass.
“Well?” Morelli asked. “What do you think?”
I did some coughing and openmouthed wheezing. My throat burned, and liquid fire roiled in my stomach and shot through to every extremity. My scalp started to sweat, and my vagina went into spasm. “Pretty good,” I finally said to Morelli.
“Want another?”
I shook my finger in a no motion. “Maybe later.”
“What’s with the suit?”
I told him about Ranger’s car, and about my second trip to speak to Mrs. Steeger. I told him about Dorothy Rostowski and Mrs. Bartle.
