I pushed through the back door and almost stepped on a tray of chicken parts.
“Hey, girlfriend,” Lula said. “Look at us. Are we chefs, or what?”
Grandma and Lula were dressed in white chef’s jackets. Grandma was wearing a black cap that made her look like a little old Chinese man, and Lula was wearing a puffy white chef’s hat like the Pillsbury Doughboy. They were standing in front of a propane grill.
“Where’d you get the grill?” I asked.
“I borrowed it from Bobby Booker. He brought it over in his truck on the promise he was gonna get some of our award-winning barbecue chicken someday. Now that we got this here grill, my barbecue is gonna turn out perfect. Only thing is, I can’t get it to work. He said there was lots of propane in the tank. And my understanding is, all I have to do is turn the knob.”
“I got some matches,” Grandma said. “Maybe it’s got one of them pilot lights that went out.”
Lula took the matches, bent over the grill, and Phunnf! Flames shot four feet into the air and set her chef’s hat on fire.
“That did it,” Lula said, stepping back, hat blazing. “It’s cookin’ now.”
Grandma and I had a split second of paralysis, mouths open, eyes bugged out, staring at the flaming hat.
“What?” Lula said.
“Your hat’s on fire,” Grandma told her. “You look like one of them cookout marshmallows.”
Lula rolled her eyes upward and shrieked. “Yow! My hat’s on fire! My hat’s on fire!”
I tried to knock the hat off her head, but Lula was running around in a panic.
“Hold still!” I yelled. “Get the hat off your head!”
“Somebody do something!” she shouted, wild-eyed, arms waving. “Call the fire department!”
“Take the damn hat off,” I said to her, lunging for her and missing.
“I’m on fire! I’m on fire!” Lula yelled, running into the grill, knocking it over. Her hat fell off her head onto the ground and ribbons of fire ran raced in all directions across my parents’ yard.
Growing grass was never a priority for my father. His contention was if you grew the grass, you had to cut the grass. And what was the point to that? The result was that most of our backyard was dirt, with the occasional sad sprinkling of crab grass. In seconds, the fire burned up the crabgrass and played itself out, with the exception of a half-dead maple tree at the back of the yard. The tree went up like Vesuvius.
I could hear fire trucks whining in the distance. A car pulled into the driveway, a car door opened and closed, and Morelli strolled into the yard. Lula’s hat was a lump of black ash on the ground. The tree was a torch in the dusky sky.
“I saw the fire on my way home from work,” Morelli said. “I stopped by to help, but it looks like you have everything under control.”
“Yep,” I said. “We’re just waiting for the tree to burn itself out.”
He looked at the grill and the chicken. “Barbecuing tonight?”
A pack of dogs rounded the corner of the house, ran yapping up to the chicken, and carried it off.
“Not anymore,” I said. “Want to go for pizza?”
“Sure,” he said.
We each took our own cars, sneaking out between the fire trucks that were angling into the curb. I followed Morelli to Pino’s, parked next to his SUV in Pino’s lot, and we pushed through the restaurant’s scarred oak front door into the heat and noise of dinner hour. At this time of day, the majority of tables were filled with families. At ten in the evening, Pino’s would be crammed with nurses and cops unwinding off the second shift. We were able to snag a small table in the corner. We didn’t have to read the menu. We knew it by heart. Pino’s menu never changes.
Morelli ordered beer and a meatball sub. I got the same.
“Looks like you’re working for Rangeman,” Morelli said, taking in my black T-shirt and sweatshirt with the Rangeman logo on the left front. “What’s that about?”
“It’s temporary. He needed someone to fill in on the search desk, and I needed the money.”
Back when we were a couple, Morelli hated when I associated with Ranger. He thought Ranger was a dangerous guy from multiple points of view, and of course Morelli was right. From the set of his jaw, I suspected he still hated that I was associating with Ranger.
“What have you got on your desk these days?” I asked him, thinking it best to get off the Ranger topic.
“A couple gang slayings and the Chipotle thing.”
“Are you making any progress with Chipotle?”
We paused while the waitress set two glasses of beer on the table.
Morelli sipped his beer. “Originally, I thought it felt like a couple professionals had come in from out of town, but that didn’t make sense after they went for Lula. These guys are afraid Lula will finger them.”
“She gave you a description. Have you had any luck with that?”
“Lula’s description fit half the men in this country. Average height, one shorter than the other, brown hair, average build, late forties to early fifties, she wasn’t close enough to see eye color. No distinguishing features, and she said they dressed like white men. What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“So you have nothing?”
“Worse than that, we have more than we can manage. The million-dollar reward brought out every crackpot in the state. We had to pull Margie Slater off traffic duty and sit her in a room with a phone so she could field the calls coming in. They were clogging the system.”
“Lula’s convinced Chipotle was killed over barbecue sauce, and she figures the killers will be at the cook-off. She’s entered the contest so she’ll have the inside track at identifying them.”
“That’ll make sense if she lives that long.”
“Do you have someone watching her house?”
“That kind of surveillance only happens in the movies. We’re so underbudgeted we’re one step away from holding bake sales to pay for toilet paper.”
“Have you considered the barbecue sauce connection?”
“I’ve considered a lot of connections. Chipotle had so much bad juju going it’s a wonder he wasn’t killed sooner. He has three ex-wives who hated him. Everyone on his television show hated him. His sister hated him. He was suing his manager. And the tenants in his New York co-op signed a petition to get him evicted.”
“Who would have thought? He was all smiley on the jar of barbecue sauce.”
“It’s not that easy to slice off someone’s head,” Morelli said.
“The way Lula tells it, there wasn’t any struggle.”
“Yeah. That bothers me. Would you stand there and let someone decapitate you? And what about the guy who did it? Why would he choose decapitation? There are so many easier, cleaner ways to kill someone. And this was done in broad daylight in front of the Sunshine Hotel. It was almost like it wasn’t planned.”
“A spontaneous decapitation?”
Morelli grinned. “Yeah.”
“And he just happened to be carrying a meat cleaver around with him?”
“Maybe he was a butcher.”
“So all we have to do is look for an impulsive butcher.”
Morelli signaled for another beer. “I’m having fun.”
“Me, too.”
“Do you want to go home and go to bed?”
“Jeez,” I said. “Is that all you ever think about?”
“No, but I think about it a lot. Especially when I’m with you.”
“I thought we were supposed to be mad at each other.”
Morelli shrugged. “I don’t feel mad anymore. I can’t even remember what we were fighting about.”
“Peanut butter.”
“It was about more than peanut butter.”
“So you do remember?”
“You called me an insensitive clod,” Morelli said.
“And?”
“I’m not a clod.”
“But you admit to being insensitive?”
