Explosive Eighteen

I looked around. I didn’t see David Niven. “No David Nivens here,” I told her.

I hung up with Joyce, and I bumped into Morelli.

“What are you doing here?” I asked him. “Is this official business or did you come for the cookies?”

“Official business. The captain wanted police presence, and I’m supposed to be looking for Joyce.”

“Do you think you’ll find her?”

“Not here. She’d be crazy to show up here. Although it’s hard to assess the extent of Joyce’s craziness.”

“My exact thoughts.”

Morelli was wearing his show-no-emotion cop face. “Berger let me see the tape.”

“And?” I asked.

“And I’m glad I tangled with Ranger and not you. You’re an animal. You kicked the crap out of that poor bastard.”

“I felt threatened.”

“No doubt.” His gaze traveled from my face to my enhanced cleavage, and his expression softened. “I like this sweater.”

Now this is the Morelli I know and love. “Does this sweater fixation mean things are returning to normal?”

“No, this means I’m trying not to focus on your face. You look worse than I do, and I have a broken nose.” He very gently touched a fingertip to my nose and the corner of my mouth. “Does it hurt?”

“Not a lot, but you could kiss it and make it better.”

He brushed a whisper of a kiss across my nose and my mouth. “I’m so sorry this happened to you.”

“You like me?” I asked him.

“No, but I’m working on it.”

I guess I could live with that. “I was attacked by Razzle Dazzle. Did you recognize him on the tape?”

Morelli shook his head. “No. But Berger seemed to know him.”

“I talked to Brenda earlier today. Not much came of it. I still have no idea why everyone’s interested in the photograph.”

“Berger’s briefed me on the major players, and he called me in to see the tape, but he isn’t talking beyond that. I don’t think he knows the whole story. Someone above him wants that photograph. This isn’t trivial.”

“Why is Berger playing nice with you?”

“You’re the only one who’s seen the photograph, and I’m a connection to you.”

“But I don’t have the photograph, and I don’t know anything. I described Tom Cruise and Ashton Kutcher to the FBI sketch artists.”

Morelli did a palms up. “No one believes you.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. You have nothing to gain by lying. And you look really sexy tonight from your neck down.”

“I thought you didn’t like me.”

“Cupcake, that sweater transcends like or not like.”

I punched him in the chest. “I’m going to find Grandma.”

Grandma had scored a folding chair in the third row and had saved the one next to her for me.

“This here’s a real disappointing viewing,” Grandma said. “I expected better, what with Frank Korda being packed off to the junkyard. I don’t think there’s even a reporter for the paper. And so far I haven’t seen any killers pass by. Only Connie’s Uncle Gino, and he’s pretty much retired. He’s just here for the refreshments. I was hoping to see Joyce Barnhardt. Now, that would be something.” Grandma stared at the casket for a long moment. “Do you think they got him dressed up in there?” she asked. “What kind of tie do you suppose he’s wearing? I bet it’s hard to dress someone after they’ve been compacted. He probably looks like a waffle.” She sighed with longing. “I sure would like to take a look.”

I didn’t want to look. Not even a little. Like Morelli, I’d come here on the odd chance Barnhardt would show. Now that I’d made contact with her, I was anxious to leave.

“How long do you want to stay?” I asked Grandma. “Are you ready to go?”

“Maybe another ten minutes,” Grandma said. “I’m waiting to see if the widow Korda’s gonna cry.”

I thought chances of that were zero to nothing. The widow Korda was tight-lipped and dry-eyed, looking like she’d rather be home watching Cheers reruns. It was hard to see jewelry details from the third row, but it looked to me like she was wearing small gold hoop earrings and a simple gold necklace.

“I’m going to wander around,” I told Grandma. “I’ll meet you by the refreshments.”

I reached the table with cookies and coffee set out just as my mom called me.

“What happened to you? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. Eighteen people have called me so far asking if you were in a car crash. I’ve been calling you for a half hour and you haven’t been answering.”

“I couldn’t hear the phone ringing when I was in the viewing room. Too much noise.”

“Myra Kruger said you had a black eye. And Cindy Beryl said you had a broken knee. How can you drive with a broken knee?”

“I don’t have a broken knee. I have a scrape on my knee, and a bruise under my eye. I slipped in a parking garage and banged my face into a parked car. It’s not serious.”

“Did you get shot?”

“No!”

I disconnected and stared at the tray of cookies. Nothing soft enough for me to eat with a split lip. I looked around the room and wondered who else had ratted me out to my mother. My phone rang again. Joyce.

“Well?” Joyce asked. “What was she wearing?”

“Small gold hoops and a gold necklace. It didn’t look especially expensive, but what do I know.”

“Were there diamonds in the hoops or the necklace?”

“No.”

“Interesting,” Joyce said. And she hung up.

It was close to nine o’clock when Grandma found her way to the cookie table. She ate three cookies, wrapped four more in a napkin, put them in her purse, and she was ready to head for home.

“It got better after you left,” she said. “Melvin Shupe came through the line and cut the cheese right when he got up to the casket. He said he was sorry, but the widow made a big fuss over it. And then the funeral director came with air freshener, and when he sprayed it around, Louisa Belman got a asthma attack and they had to cart her out the back door to get some air. Earl Krizinski was sitting behind me, and he said he saw Louisa’s underpants when they picked her up, and he said he got a stiffy.”

“Louisa Belman is ninety-three years old.”

“Well, I guess to Earl underpants are underpants.”

We walked the block to the truck without incident. We got in and Grandma got a text.

“It’s from Annie,” Grandma said. “She wants to know if you found your true love.”

“Tell her I’m not looking, but if he happens along, she’ll be one of the first to know.”

“That’s a lot to write,” Grandma said. “I’ll just say not yet.” She tapped out the message and sat back in the seat. “It was so much easier when I was young. You got a boyfriend, and you married him. You had some kids, you got older, one of you died, and that was it.”

“Jeez. No true love?”

“There’s always been true love, but in my day, you either talked yourself into thinking you had it, or you talked yourself into thinking you didn’t need it.”

***

I took Grandma home, but I didn’t go in. It had been a long day, and I was looking forward to my quiet apartment. I did the usual bad guy car search in my lot, parked the truck, and crossed to the apartment building’s back door with one hand wrapped around the Glock. I took the elevator to my floor and walked down the hall thinking I should probably learn how to shoot. I knew the basics. Lula, Morelli, and Ranger all carried semiautomatics. So I had a lot of exposure, but my actual use was limited.

I let myself into my apartment, still holding the Glock. I stepped into the small foyer and realized the television