Smokin' Seventeen

Dave handed me the party platter, our eyes met for a long moment, and I had an irrational stab of fear that he knew I suspected him of murder. I placed the platter on the table and made an effort to pull myself together. There was no hard evidence that suggested Dave was the killer, I told myself. I usually had good intuition, but it was only intuition after all, and it wasn’t infallible. And in this case it felt ridiculous.

“The antipasto looks great,” I said. “Did you put the platter together?”

“We picked it up at Giovichinni’s.” Dave moved close beside me, his breath soft against my ear. “That’s a killer dress.”

I felt my scalp prickle and my heart skipped a beat. “Killer? W-what do you mean by that?”

“Think about it,” Dave said. And he winked at me.

My mother brought the chicken Parmesan to the table, and I took my usual seat to my dad’s left. Dave chose the seat next to me.

“Dave came over and made the most wonderful meal for us the other night,” Grandma said to Emma Brewer. “He even made chocolate cake.”

“It’s always been his way to relax,” Emma said. “When he was a little boy he made up his own brownie recipe. The more stress he had, the more he needed to cook.”

I wondered how much cooking it took to mitigate murdering five people.

Grandma helped herself to spaghetti. “I’m surprised he don’t do all the cooking for you.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “He makes too much of a mess. There’s dirty dishes everywhere.”

“That’s a man for you,” Grandma said. “Always making a mess.”

“Not always,” Dave said. “Sometimes we know how to avoid making a mess. For instance, the bail bonds lot killer broke his victim’s necks. No bloody mess.”

“That’s terrible,” Grandma said. “I don’t know how a person could do that.”

“Probably like working in a slaughterhouse,” Dave said. “After you kill the first hundred cows it starts to feel like just another day on the job.”

“Have you ever worked in a slaughterhouse?” my father asked him.

“No. But I worked in a bank. There are similarities.”

“David, that is not funny,” his mother said.

“How do you know the killer is a man?” Grandma asked Dave. “It could be a woman.”

Dave wrapped his hand around my neck. “You need some muscle to break a neck.” He applied pressure and rocked me slightly side to side. “I don’t think a woman would have the strength. And from what I’ve read, Lou Dugan wasn’t a lightweight like Stephanie.”

The instant I got home I was going to call Morelli. And then I was going to make sure my gun was loaded.

“The hand,” I said to Dave. “Remove it.”

He released my neck and reached for his wineglass. “Just making a point.”

I jostled against him and some of his wine slopped over onto his shirt.

“Omigosh,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

Okay, it was childish, but he wasn’t the only one who could make a point. Although looking at it in retrospect it was probably not a good idea to piss off a guy I suspected of being a serial killer. I would have been more worried if he’d shot his victims. I didn’t think he could strangle all of us at the dinner table. Still, my heart was tap dancing in my chest, and my stomach was producing acid at a record rate. Maybe I’d go from my parents’ house directly to Morelli’s. He bought Maalox by the gallon jug, and I could tell him about Dave.

Everyone sat for a moment in openmouthed horror, staring at the purple stains on Dave’s shirt.

His mother dug in her purse for a stain remover stick, and my mother ran to get the Spray ’n Wash.

An hour and a half later we waved good-bye to Emma, Herb, and Dave.

“Except for when you spilled Dave’s wine, that went pretty good,” Grandma said.

My mother rolled her eyes. “He tried to kiss Stephanie good-bye, and she kicked him.”

“It was an accident,” I said.

“I don’t like him,” my father said.

My mother was hands on hips. “He’s a nice young man. Why don’t you like him?”

“I don’t need a reason,” my father said. “I just don’t like him. And I don’t like this shirt, either. I hate this shirt.”

I hung my bag on my shoulder and left my parents’ house.

THIRTY-EIGHT

I DROVE THE SHORT DISTANCE to Morelli’s house, parked behind his green SUV, and used my key to open his door.

Morelli was on the couch, watching a Two and a Half Men rerun. He looked me up and down and smiled. “Is it Christmas morning?”

“Not nearly,” I said. “I have raging heartburn. I stopped for whatever it is you’re currently using.”

He pointed to a large bottle of Tums on the coffee table. “My reflux was doing great until someone started gifting you murder victims.”