Morelli fished car keys out of his pocket. “You'd better think of a good story to tell your mother. She's going to want to know why my clothes were in your car.”
“She won't think anything of it. I've got men's clothes in my car all the time.”
Morelli grinned.
“What were those clothes?” my mother asked when I came into the house. “Pants and shoes?”
“You don't want to know.”
“I want to know,” Grandma Mazur said. “I bet it's a pip of a story.”
“How's your hand?” I as
ked her. “Does it hurt?”
“Only hurts if I make a fist, and I can't do that with this big bandage on. I'd be in a pickle if it had been my right hand.”
“Got any plans for today?”
“Not until tonight. Joe Loosey is still laid out. I only got to see his penis, you know, so I thought I'd like to go see the rest of him at the seven o'clock viewing.”
My father was in the living room, reading his paper. “When I go, I want to be cremated,” he said. “No viewing.”
My mother turned from the stove. “Since when?”
“Since Loosey lost his Johnson. I don't want to take any chances. I want to go right from wherever I fall to the crematorium.”
My mother set a plateful of scrambled eggs in front of me. She added a side of bacon, toast, and juice.
I ate my eggs and considered my options. I could sequester myself in the house and do my protective granddaughter thing, I could drag Grandma around with me while I did my protective granddaughter thing, or I could go about my business and hope Grandma wasn't on Kenny's agenda today.
“More eggs?” my mother asked. “Another piece of toast?”
“I'm fine.”
“You're all bones. You should eat more.”
“I'm not all bones. I'm fat. I can't button the top snap on my jeans.”
“You're thirty years old. You have to expect to spread when you hit thirty. What are you doing still wearing jeans, anyway? A person your age shouldn't be dressing like a kid.” She leaned forward and studied my face. “What's wrong with your eye? It looks like it's twitching again.”
All right, eliminate option number one.
“I need to keep some people under surveillance,” I said to Grandma Mazur. “You want to tag along?”
“I guess I could do that. You think it'll get rough?”
“No. I think it'll be boring.”
“Well, if I wanted to be bored I could sit home. Who are we looking for, anyway? Are we looking for that miserable Kenny Mancuso?”
Actually, I'd intended to hang tight to Morelli. In a roundabout way I suppose it amounted to the same thing. “Yeah, we're looking for Kenny Mancuso.”
“Then I'm all for it. I have a score to settle with him.”
Half an hour later she was ready to go, wearing her jeans and ski jacket and Doc Martens.
I spotted Morelli's car a block down from Stiva's on Hamilton. Didn't look like Morelli was in the car. Probably Morelli was with Roche, swapping war stories. I parked behind Morelli, being careful not to creep too close and knock out his lights, again. I could see the front and side door to the funeral home, and the front door to Roche's building.