'Don't ask,' I said.
7
STIVA'S FUNERAL HOME was in a big white house on Hamilton. There'd been a fire in the basement, and much of the house was newly rebuilt and refurnished. New green indoor-outdoor carpet on the front porch. New ivory medallion wallpaper throughout. New industrial-strength blue-green carpeting in the lobby and viewing rooms.
I parked the Blue Bomb in the lot and helped Grandma wobble inside on the black patent-leather pumps she always wore to evening viewings.
Constantine Stiva was in the middle of the lobby, directing traffic. Mrs. Balog in slumber room three. Stanley Krienski in slumber room two. And Martha Deeter, who was clearly going to be the big draw, was laid out in room one.
Not long ago I'd had a run-in with Constantine's son, Spiro. The result had been the aforementioned fire and the mysterious disappearance of Spiro. Fortunately, Con was the consummate undertaker, his demeanor always controlled, his smile sympathetic, his voice as smooth as vanilla custard. There was never any ugly mention of the unfortunate incident. After all, I was a potential customer. And with my line of work it might be sooner rather than later. Not to mention Grandma Mazur.
'And who are you visiting tonight?' he asked. 'Ah yes, Ms. Deeter is resting in room one.'
Resting. Unh.
'Let's get a move on,' Grandma said, taking me by the hand and pulling me forward. 'Looks like there's already a crowd collecting.'
I scanned the faces. Some regulars like Myra Smulinski and Harriet Farver. Some other people who probably worked for RGC and most likely wanted to make sure Martha was really dead. A knot of people dressed in black, staying close to the casket—family members. I didn't see any representatives from Big Business. I was pretty sure my father was wrong about the mob doing in Uncle Fred and the garbage people. Still, it didn't hurt to keep my eyes open. I also didn't see any aliens.
'Will you look at this,' Grandma said. 'Closed casket. Isn't this a fine howdy-do. I get dressed up and come out to pay my respects, and I don't even get to see anything.'
Martha Deeter was shot and autopsied. They'd taken her brain out to get weighed. After she was put back together she probably looked like Frankenstein. I was personally relieved to see a closed casket.
'I'm going to check out the flowers,' Grandma said. 'See who sent what.'
I did another crowd scan and spotted Terry Gilman,
'Terry Gilman?' I said with more statement than question, extending my hand.
Terry was slim and blond and had dated Morelli all through high school. None of which endeared her to me. She was wearing an expensive gray silk suit and matching heels. Her manicure was to die for, and the gun she carried in a slim-line shoulder holster was discreetly hidden by the line of her jacket. Only someone who had worn a similar rig would notice Terry's.
'Stephanie Plum,' Terry said, 'nice to see you again. Were you friends with Martha?'
'No. I'm here with my grandma. She likes to come to scope out the caskets. How about you? Were you friends with Martha?'
'Business associates,' Terry said.
That hung in the air for a moment.
'I hear you're working for your uncle Vito.'
'Customer relations,' Terry said.
Another silence.
I rocked back on my heels. 'Funny how Martha and Larry died from gunshots one day apart.'
'Tragic.'
I lowered my voice and leaned a little closer. 'That wasn't your job, was it? I mean, you weren't the one to, uh—'
'Whack them?' Terry said. 'No. Sorry to disappoint you. It wasn't me. Anything else you want to know?'
'Well, yeah, actually my uncle Fred is missing.'
'I didn't whack him either,' Terry said.
'I didn't think so,' I said, 'but it never hurts to ask.'
Terry glanced at her watch. 'I've got to give my respects, and then I'm out of here. I have two more viewings tonight. One at Moser and one across town.'
'Boy, sounds like Vito's business is booming.'
Terry shrugged. 'People die.'
Uh-huh.
Her eyes focused on something beyond my shoulder, and her interest shifted. 'Well, well,' she said, 'look who's here.'
