A light rain had started to fall. He pulled my jacket hood up and tucked my hair in. His finger traced a line at my temple, our eyes met, and for a terrifying moment I thought he might kiss me. The moment passed, and Ranger pulled back.
"Let me know when you decide," he said.
"Decide?"
He smiled. "About the car."
"Okeydokey."
Unh! I climbed into the Buick and roared off into the mist. I stopped for a light and thunked my head on the steering wheel while I waited for the green. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, I thought while I thunked. Why had I said "okeydokey"? What a dopey thing to say! I did one last thunk and the light turned.
Grandma was getting coated with hairspray when I got to the salon. Her hair was steel gray, and she kept it cut short and curled in rolls that marched in side-by-side rows on her pink skull. "I'm almost done," she said. "Did you get the pictures?"
"Not yet."
She paid for her wash and set, stuffed herself into her coat, and carefully tied the plastic rain bonnet on her head. "That was some viewing last night," she said, being cautious how she walked on the wet pavement. "What a lot of excitement. You weren't even there when Margaret Burger pitched a fit over the guy in room three. You remember how Margaret's husband, Sol, died from a heart attack last year? Well, Margaret said it was all over a problem Sol was having with the cable company. Margaret said they drove Sol to high blood pressure. And she said the guy who did it was the dead guy in room three, John Curly. Margaret said she came to spit on his dead body."
"Margaret Burger came to Stiva's to spit on someone?" Margaret Burger was a sweet white-haired lady.
"That's what she told me, but I didn't actually see her spit. I guess I came in too late. Or maybe after she saw this John Curly person she decided not to do it. He looked even worse than Lipinski."
"How did he die?"
"Hit and run. And from the looks of him he must have got hit by a truck. Boy, I'm telling you these companies are something. Margaret said Sol was arguing over his bill, just like Fred, and this smart-mouth in the office, John Curly, didn't want to hear anything."
I parked in front of One-Hour Photo and got Grandma's pictures.
"These aren't so bad," she said, shuffling through the pack.
I looked over at them. Eeew.
"You think it's real obvious he's dead?" Grandma asked.
"He's in a casket."
"Well, I still think they're pretty good. I think we should see if that Grand Union lady recognizes him."
"Grandma, we can't ring some woman's doorbell and show her pictures of a dead man."
Grandma pawed through her big black patent-leather handbag. "The only other thing I got is the memorial brochure from Stiva. The picture's kind of fuzzy, though."
I took the paper from Grandma and looked at it. It was a photo of Lipinski and his wife. And below it was the Twenty-third Psalm. Lipinski was standing with his arm around a slim woman with short brown hair. It was a snapshot, taken outdoors on a summer day, and they were smiling at each other.
"Kind of funny they used that picture," Grandma said. "I overheard people talking, saying as how Lipinski's wife left him last week. Just up and went. And she didn't show up for the viewing, either. Nobody could find her to tell her about it. Was like she just disappeared off the face of the earth. Just like Fred. Except from what I heard, Laura Lipinski left on purpose. Packed her bags and said she wanted a divorce. Isn't that a shame?"
Now I know there are billions of women out there who are slim with short brown hair. But my mind made the leap anyway to the severed head with the short brown hair. Larry Lipinski was the second RGC employee to die a violent death in the space of a week. And while it seemed like a remote connection, Fred had been in contact with Lipinski. Lipinski's wife was gone. And Lipinski's wife could, in a very vague way, fit the body in the bag.
"Okay," I said, "let's show the pictures to Irene Tully." What the hell. If she freaked out I'd write it off as an average day. I dug her address out of my bag. Apartment 117, BrooksideGardens. BrooksideGardens was an apartment complex about a quarter mile from the strip mall.
"Irene Tully," Grandma said. "The name sounds familiar, but I can't place her."
"She said she knew Fred from the seniors' club."
"I guess that's where I heard of her. There's lots of people in that seniors' club, and I don't go to the meetings all the time. I can only take so much of old people. If I want to see loose skin I can look in the mirror."
I turned into BrooksideGardens and started searching for numbers. There were six buildings arranged around a large parking area. The buildings were two-story brick, done up in colonial modern, which meant the trim was white and the windows were framed by shutters. Each apartment had its own outside entrance.
"Here it is," Grandma said, unbuckling her seat belt. "The one with the Halloween decoration on the door."
We walked up the short sidewalk and rang the bell.
Irene looked out at us. "Yes?"
"We need to ask you about the disappearance of Fred Shutz," Grandma said. "And we got a picture to show you."
"Oh," Irene said. "Is it a picture of Fred?"
"Nope," Grandma said. "It's a picture of the kidnapper."
"Well, actually, we aren't really sure Fred was kidnapped," I said. "What Grandma meant was—"
"Take a look at this," Grandma said, handing Irene one of the photos. "Of course, the suit might be different."
Irene studied the photo. "Why is he in a casket?"
"He's sort of dead now," Grandma said.
Irene shook her head. "This isn't the man."
"Maybe you're just thinking that because his eyes are closed, and he don't look so shifty," Grandma said. "And his nose looks a little smushed. I think he might have fallen on his face after he blew his brains out."
Irene studied the picture. "No. It's definitely not him."
"Bummer," Grandma said. "I was sure he was the one."
"Sorry," Irene said.
"Well, they're still pretty good pictures," Grandma said, when we got back to the car. "They would have been better if I could have got his eyes to open."
I took Grandma home and bummed lunch off my mom. All the while I was looking for Bunchy. Last I saw him was Saturday, and I was beginning to worry. Figure that one out. Me worrying about Bunchy. Stephanie Plum, mother hen.
I left my parents and took Chambers to Hamilton. Bunchy picked me up on Hamilton. I saw him in my rearview mirror, pulled to the curb, and got out to talk to him.
"Where've you been?" I asked. "Take Sunday off?"
"I had some work to catch up on. Bookies gotta work sometimes too, you know."
"Yeah, only you're not a bookie."
"We gonna start that again?"
"How'd you find me just now?"
"I was riding around, and I got lucky. How about you? You get lucky?"
"That's none of your damn business!"
His eyes crinkled with laughter. "I was talking about Fred."
"Oh. One step forward, two steps backward," I said. "I get things that seem like leads and then they go nowhere."
"Like what?"
"I found a woman who saw Fred get into a car with another man the day he disappeared. Problem is, she can't describe the man or the car. And then something weird happened at the funeral home, and it feels to me like it might tie in, but I can't find any logical reason why."
"What was the weird thing?"
"There was a woman at one of the viewings who seemed to have a similar problem to the one Fred was having with the garbage company. Only this woman had problems with her cable company."
Bunchy looked interested. "What kind of problems?"
"I don't know exactly. Grandma told me about it. She just said they were similar to Fred's."
"I think we should talk to this woman."
"We? There's no we."
"I thought we were working together. You brought me lamb and everything."
"I felt sorry for you. You were pathetic, sitting out there in your car."