'Usually you calm down by the time the basket's empty.'
'Somebody blew up Mama Macaroni,' my mother said. 'That doesn't bother me. She had it coming. What bothers me is that it was supposed to be you. It was your car.'
'I'm being careful. And it's not certain that it was a bomb. It could have been an accident. You know how it is with my cars. They catch on fire, and they explode.'
My mother made a strangled sound in her throat, and her eyes sort of glazed over. 'That's true,' she said. 'Hideously true.'
'Marilyn Rugach said Stiva's got most of Mama Macaroni at the funeral parlor,' Grandma said. 'Marilyn works there part-time doing bookkeeping. I talked to Marilyn this morning, and she said they brought the deceased to the home in a zippered bag. She said there was still some parts missing, but she wouldn't say if they found the mole. Do you think there's any chance that they'll have an open casket at the viewing? Stiva's pretty good at patching people up, and I sure would like to see what he'd do with that mole.'
My mother made the sign of the cross, a hysterical giggle gurgled out of her, and she clapped a hand over her mouth.
'You should give up on the ironing and have a snort,' Grandma said to my mother.
'I don't need a snort,' my mother said. 'I need some sanity in my life.'
'You got a lot of sanity,' Grandma said. 'You got a real stable lifestyle. You got this house and you got a husband . . . sort of. And you got daughters and granddaughters. And you got the Church.'
'I have a daughter who blows things up. Cars, trucks, funeral parlors, people.'
'That only happens once in a while,' I said. 'I do lots of other things besides that.'
My mother and grandmother looked at me. I had their full attention. They wanted to know what other things I did besides blowing up cars and trucks and funeral parlors and people.
I searched my mind and came up with nothing. I did a mental replay of yesterday. What did I do? I blew up a car and an old lady. Not personally but I was somewhere in the mix. What else? I made love to Morelli. A lot. My mother wouldn't want to hear about that. I got fired. I shot a guy in the foot. She wouldn't want to hear that either.
'I can play the cello,' I said. I don't know where it came from. It just flew out of my mouth.
My mother and grandmother stood frozen in openmouthed shock.
'Don't that beat all,' Grandma finally said. 'Who would have thought you could play the cello?'
'I had no idea,' my mother said. 'You never mentioned it before. Why didn't you tell us?'
'I was... shy. It's one of those personal hobbies. Personal cello playing.'
'I bet you're real good,' Grandma said.
My mother and grandmother looked at me expectantly. They wanted me to be good.
'Yep,' I said. 'I'm pretty good.'
Stephanie, Stephanie, Stephanie, I said to myself. What are you doing? You are such a goofus. You don't even know what a cello looks like. Sure I do, I answered. It's a big violin, right?
'How long have you been taking lessons?' Grandma wanted to know.
'A while.' I looked at my watch. 'Gee, I'd like to stay, but I have things to do. I was hoping I could borrow Uncle Sandor's Buick.'
Grandma took a set of keys out of a kitchen drawer. 'Big Blue will be happy to see you,' she said. 'He doesn't get driven around too much.'
Big Blue corners like a refrigerator on wheels. It has power brakes but no power steering. It guzzles gas. It's impossible to park. And it's powder blue. It has a shiny white top, powder blue body, silver-rimmed portholes, fat whitewall tires, and big gleaming chrome bumpers.
'I guess you need a big car like Blue so you can carry that cello around with you,' Grandma said.
'It's a perfect fit for the backseat,' I told her.
I took the keys and waved myself out of the house. I walked to the garage, opened the door, and there it was . . . Big Blue. I could feel the vibes coming off the car. The air hummed around me. Men loved Big Blue. It was a muscle car. It rode on a sweaty mix of high-octane gas and testosterone. Step on the gas and hear me roar, the car whispered. Not the growl of a Porsche. Not the vroooom of a Ferrari. This car was a bull walrus. This car had cajones that hung to its hubcaps.
Personally, I prefer cajones that sit a little higher, but hey, that's just me. I climbed aboard, rammed the key in, and cranked Blue over. The car came to life and vibrated under me. I took a deep breath, told myself I'd own a Lexus someday, and slowly backed out of the garage.
Grandma trotted over to the car with a brown grocery bag. 'Your mother wants you to drop this off at Valerie's house. Valerie forgot to take it last night.'
Valerie was renting a small house at the edge of the Burg, about a half mile away. Until yesterday, she was sharing the house with Albert Kloughn. And since she was back to calling him her oogie woogams, I suppose he was about to return.
I wound through a maze of streets, brought Big Blue to the curb in front of Val's house, and stared at the car parked in front of me. It was Lula's red Firebird. Two possibilities. One was that Valerie had skipped out on a bond. The other was that she'd taken my smart-mouth advice and called Lula for diet tips. I rolled out of the Buick and got on with the brown-bag delivery.
Val opened the door before I reached the porch. 'Grandma called and said you were on your way.'
'Looks like Lula's here. Are you FTA?'
