'It's all I've got.' I wrapped my arms around the beaver and hefted it off the table. 'This weighs a ton!'
Lula got her hands under his butt and helped me to the door. We loaded the beaver into the Cayenne cargo area and drove it across town to Joyce's house.
Joyce lives in a big white colonial with fancy columns and a large yard. The house is the result of her last divorce. Joyce got the house, and her husband got a new lease on life. There was a red Jeep in the driveway, and lights were shining in the downstairs windows.
Lula and I dragged the beaver out of the back of the Cayenne and lugged it to Joyce’s front porch. We set the beaver down, I rang the bell, and Lula and I ran for cover. We hunkered down behind the red Jeep and gulped air.
The front door opened, and Joyce said, 'What on earth?'
I pushed the button to make the eyes glow, and I peeked around the car.
Joyce was bent over looking at the beaver.
A man came up behind her. Not Dickie. A younger, chunkier guy in jeans and a thermal T-shirt. 'What is it?' he asked.
'It's a beaver.'
'Well, bring it inside,' he said. 'I like beaver.'
Joyce pushed and pulled the beaver inside and closed the door. Lula and I scurried to a window on the side of the house where curtains hadn't been drawn and looked in at Joyce and the Jeep guy. The two of them were examining the beaver, patting it on the head, smiling at it.
'Think they've had a few drinkie-poos,' Lula said. 'Anyone in their right mind wouldn't bring the beaver from hell into their house.'
Alter a minute or two, Joyce and the Jeep guy got tired of the beaver and walked away. I waited until they were a safe distance, and then I pushed the bang! button. There was a moment's lag, and then BLAM! Beaver fur and beaver stuffing as far as the eye could see.
The fur and glop hung from couches, chairs, tables, and table lamps. It was in Joyce s hair and was stuck to the back of her shirt. Joyce froze for a beat, turned, and looked around with her eyes bugged out.
'Fuck!' Joyce shrieked. 'Fuck, fuck, fuck!'
'Holy crap,' Lula said.
We sprang from the window and ran through the neighbor's yard to where we'd parked the car. We jumped in, and I laid rubber out of there.
'Guess it wasn't a singing beaver after all,' I said.
'Yeah, darn,' Lula said. 'I was looking forward to hearing some singing.'
I was smiling so wide my cheeks ached. 'It was worth my last eight dollars.'
'That was awesome,' Lula said. 'That Coglin is a freakin' genius.'
Lula had her Firebird parked in the small lot behind the office. I dropped her off at her car and motored home to my apartment.
Morelli was watching television when I came in.
'You look happy,' he said. 'You must have had a productive day.'
'It started off slow, but it ended okay.'
'There's a casserole in the refrigerator. It's from my mom. It has vegetables in it and everything. And I could use another beer. The game's coming on.'
Hours later, we were still in front of the television when Morelli s cell phone rang.
'I'm not answering it,' Morelli said. 'The guy who invented the cell phone should rot in hell.'
The ringing stopped and a minute later, it started again.
Morelli shut the phone off.
We had three minutes of silence, and my phone rang in the kitchen.
'Persistent bastard,' Morelli said.
The ringing didn't stop, and finally Morelli went to the kitchen and answered the phone. He was smiling when he came back.
'Good news?' I asked.
'Yes, but I'm going to have to go to work.'
'The Berringer case?'
'No. Something else.'
He went to the bedroom, rousted Bob off the bed, and snapped the leash on him. 'I might have to go under for a while, but I'll call,' Morelli said. 'And don't worry about Dickie. I'm sure it'll work out okay.' He grabbed his jacket and kissed me. 'Later.'
I closed and locked the door after him and stood for a moment taking the pulse of the apartment. It felt empty without Morelli. On the other hand, I could watch something sappy on television, wear my ratty, comfy flannel jammies, and hog the bed.
SIX
I got up late because there was no real good reason to get up early. I made coffee and ate junky cereal out of the box and pushed it down with a banana. My files were spread.across the dining room table. Coglin, Diggery, and a third file I hadn't yet opened. Today was the day for the third file. I had the file in my hand when my phone rang.
'Are you all right?' my mother asked.
'Couldn't be better.'
'Have you seen the paper this morning?'
'No.'
'Don't look,' she said.
'Now what?'
'It's all over the news that you killed Dickie.'
'Tell her I'll visit her in the big house,' Grandma yelled at my mother. 'Tell her I'll bring cigarettes so she can pay off the butch guards.'
'I'll call you back,' I said to my mother.
I disconnected and looked out my peephole. Good deal.
Mr. Molinowski's morning paper was still lying in front of his door. I tiptoed out, snatched it up, and scurried back into my apartment.
The headline read LOCAL BOUNTY HUNTER PRIME SUSPECT in Orr disappearance. Front page. And the article was accompanied by an unflattering picture of me taken while I was waiting for Gobel in the municipal building lobby. They'd interviewed Joyce, and Joyce was quoted as saying I'd always been jealous of her and had fits of violent behavior even as a child. There was a mention of the time Grandma and I accidentally burned down the funeral home. There was a second file photo of me with no eyebrows, the result of my car exploding into a fireball a while back. And then there were several statements by secretaries who'd witnessed me going postal on Dickie. One of the secretaries stated that I pointed a gun at Dickie and threatened to 'put a big hole in his head.'
'That was Lula,' I said to the empty apartment.
I put the paper back on Mr. Molinowski's welcome mat, returned to my apartment, threw the bolt on the door, and called my mother.
'All a pack of lies,' I said to my mother. 'Ignore it. Everything's fine. I went downtown to have coffee with Marty Gobel and someone got the wrong idea.'
There was a pause while my mother talked herself into halfway believing the story. 'I’m having a roast chicken tonight. Are you and Joseph coining to dinner?'
It was Friday. Morelli and I always had dinner at my parents' house on Friday night.
'Sure,' I said. 'I'll be there. I don't know about Joe. He's on a case.'
I drank coffee and read the third file. Stewart Hansen was charged with running a light and possession of a controlled substance. He was twenty-two years old, unemployed, and he lived in a house on Myrtle Street at the
