"What's going on?" I asked one of the men.
"Somebody got shot."
"Do you know who?"
"Lipinski."
The shock must have shown on my face, because the man said, "Did you know him?"
I shook my head. "No. I was just coming to settle my aunt's bill. How did it happen?"
"Suicide. I was the one who found him," another of the men said. "I brought my truck in early, and I went inside to get my paycheck. And there he was with his brains blown out. He must have put the gun in his mouth. Christ, there was blood and brains all over the place. I wouldn't have thought Lipinski had that much brains."
"Are you sure it was suicide?"
"There was a note, and I read it. Lipinski said he was the one who offed Martha Deeter. Said they'd had a fight over an account, and he shot her. And then he tried to make it look like she was robbed. Said he couldn't live with what he'd done, so he was checkin' out."
Oh boy.
"That's horseshit," Bunchy said. "That smells like a load of horseshit."
I hung around for a while longer. The forensic photographer left. And most of the police left. The RGC men left one by one. And then I left, too, with Bunchy in tow. He'd gotten quiet after his horseshit pronouncement. And very serious.
"Two RGC employees are dead," I said to him. "Why?"
We locked eyes for a moment, and he shook his head and walked away.
* * * * *
I TOOK A fast shower, dried my hair, and dressed in a short denim skirt and red T-shirt. I took a look at my hair and decided it needed some help, so I did the hot roller thing. My hair still didn't look wonderful after the rollers, so I lined my eyes and added extra mascara. Stephanie Plum, master of diversion. If your hair is bad, shorten your skirt and add extra mascara.
Before I left the apartment, I took a minute to go through the Yellow Pages and find a new garbage company for Mabel.
Bunchy was in the lobby when I came down. He was leaning against the wall, and he was still looking serious. Or maybe he just looked tired.
"You look nice," he said to me. "Real nice, but you wear too much makeup."
* * * * *
GRANDMA WAS AT the door when I arrived. "Did you hear about the garbage guy? Blew his brains out. Lavern Stankowski called and said her son, Joey, was working the EMS truck. And he said he never saw anything like it. Said there was brains all over the place. Said the whole back half of the guy's head was stuck to the wall in the garbage office."
Grandma slid her uppers around some. "Lavern said the deceased was being laid out at Stiva's. Imagine the job Stiva's going to have with that one. Probably use up two pounds of putty to fill all the holes. Remember Rita Gunt?"
Rita Gunt was ninety-two when she died. She'd lost a lot of weight in the later years of her life, and her family had asked Stiva to give her a more robust look for her last public appearance. I guess Stiva had done the best he could with what he had to work with, but Rita had gone into the ground looking like Mrs. Potato Head.
"If somebody was going to kill me I wouldn't want it to be with a bullet to the head," Grandma said.
My father was in the living room in his favorite chair. And from the corner of my eye I saw him peek around the edge of his newspaper.
"I want to get poisoned," Grandma said. "That way my hair wouldn't get messed."
"Hmm," my father said thoughtfully.
My mother came out from the kitchen. She smelled like roast lamb and red cabbage, and her face glowed from stove steam. "Any word about Fred?"
"Nothing new," I said.
"I think there's something funny going on with these garbage people," Grandma said. "Somebody's killing the garbage people, and I bet they killed Fred, too."
"Larry Lipinski left a suicide note," I told her.
"It could have been forged," Grandma said. "It could have been a fake to throw everybody off guard."
"I thought it was aliens that took Fred," my father said from behind his paper.
"That would account for a lot of things," Grandma said. "Nothing to say aliens didn't off the garbage people, too."
My mother shot my father a warning glance and went back to the kitchen. "Everyone come to the table before the lamb gets cold," she said. "And I don't want to hear any more talk about aliens and killing."
"It's the change," Grandma whispered to me. "Your mother's been snarfy ever since she started the change."
"I heard that," my mother said. "And I'm not snarfy."
"I keep telling her she should take them hormone pills," Grandma said. "I've been thinking about taking them myself. Mary Jo Klick started taking them, and she said there were parts to her that had got all shriveled, and after a week on them hormones she was all plumped up again." Grandma looked down at herself. "I wouldn't mind getting plumped up in some of them parts."
We all went to the table and took our places. Grace was said at Christmas and Easter. Since this wasn't either of those, my father shoveled food onto his plate and dug in, head down, concentrating on the task at hand.
"What do you think happened to Uncle Fred?" I asked, catching his attention between forkfuls of lamb and potato.
He looked up surprised. No one ever asked his opinion. "Mob," he said. "When someone disappears without a trace, it's the mob. They've got ways."
"Why would the mob want to kill Uncle Fred?"
"I don't know," my father said. "All I know is it sounds like the mob."
"We better hurry," Grandma said. "I don't want to be late for the viewing. I want to get a good seat right up front, and there'll probably be a crowd, being that the deceased was shot. You know how some people are nosy about that sort of thing."
There was silence at the table, no one daring to make a comment.
"Well, I guess I might be a little nosy," Grandma finally said.
When we were done I put some lamb and potatoes and vegetables in a disposable aluminum pie plate.
"What's that for?" Grandma wanted to know.
I added a plastic knife and fork. "Stray dog down by the Kerner's."
"He eat with a knife and fork?"
"Don't ask," I said.
7
STIVA'S FUNERAL HOME was in a big white house on Hamilton. There'd been a fire in the basement, and much of the house was newly rebuilt and refurnished. New green indoor-outdoor carpet on the front porch. New ivory medallion wallpaper throughout. New industrial-strength blue-green carpeting in the lobby and viewing rooms.
I parked the Blue Bomb in the lot and helped Grandma wobble inside on the black patent-leather pumps she always wore to evening viewings.
Constantine Stiva was in the middle of the lobby, directing traffic. Mrs. Balog in slumber room three. Stanley Krienski in slumber room two. And Martha Deeter, who was clearly going to be the big draw, was laid out in room one.
Not long ago I'd had a run-in with Constantine's son, Spiro. The result had been the aforementioned fire and the mysterious disappearance of Spiro. Fortunately, Con was the consummate undertaker, his demeanor always controlled, his smile sympathetic, his voice as smooth as vanilla custard. There was never any ugly mention of the unfortunate incident. After all, I was a potential customer. And with my line of work it might be sooner rather than later. Not to mention Grandma Mazur.
"And who are you visiting tonight?" he asked. "Ah yes, Ms. Deeter is resting in room one."
Resting. Unh.
"Let's get a move on," Grandma said, taking me by the hand and pulling me forward. "Looks like there's already a crowd collecting."
I scanned the faces. Some regulars like Myra Smulinski and Harriet Farver. Some other people who probably worked for RGC and most likely wanted to make sure Martha was really dead. A knot of people dressed in black, staying close to the casket—family members. I didn't see any representatives from Big Business. I was pretty sure my father was wrong about the mob doing in Uncle Fred and the garbage people. Still, it didn't hurt to keep my eyes open. I also didn't see any aliens.