“It's my Annie
Hall look.”
“Looks to me like you've put a jelly doughnut in a bag labeled bran muffin.”
I rushed down the hall and took the stairs. I got to the ground floor and remembered the package Dillon was holding. “Wait a minute,” I yelled to Morelli. “I'll be right back.”
I scrambled down the stairs to the cellar and pounded on Dillon's door.
Dillon peered out.
“I'm late, and I need my package,” I said.
He handed me a bulky overnight mail envelope, and I ran back up the stairs.
“Three minutes one way or the other can make or break a pot roast,” I told Morelli, grabbing him by the hand, dragging him across the lot to his truck. I hadn't intended to go with him, but I figured if we hit traffic he could use his rooftop flasher. “You have a flasher on this truck?” I asked, climbing on board.
Morelli buckled himself in. “Yeah, I have a flasher. You don't expect me to use it for pot roast, do you?”
I swiveled in my seat and stared out the back window.
Morelli cut his eyes to the rearview mirror. “Are you looking for Kenny?”
“I can feel him out there.”
“I don't see anyone.”
“That doesn't mean he isn't there. He's good at this sneaking around stuff. He walks into Stiva's and chops off body parts, and nobody sees him. He came out of nowhere at the mall. He spotted me at Julia Cenetta's house and in the motel parking lot, and I never had a clue. Now I have this creepy feeling he's watching me, following me around.”
“Why would he be doing that?”
“For starters, Spiro told Kenny I'd kill him if he continued to harass him.”
“Oh boy.”
“Probably I'm just being paranoid.”
“Sometimes paranoia is justified.”
Morelli stopped for a light. The digital readout on his dashboard clock blinked to 5:58. I cracked my knuckles, and Morelli glanced over at me, eyebrows raised.
“Okay,” I said, “so my mother makes me nervous.”
“It's part of her job,” Morelli said. “You shouldn't take it personally.”
We turned off Hamilton, into the burg, and traffic disappeared. There were no car lights behind us, but I couldn't shake the feeling that Kenny had me in his sights.
My mother and Grandma Mazur were at the door when we parked. Usually it was the differences between my mother and grandmother that caught my attention. Today it was the similarities that seemed obvious. They stood tall, with their shoulders back. It was a defiant posture, and I knew it was my posture, too. Their hands were clasped in front of them, their gaze was unwavering, fixed on Morelli and me. Their faces were round; their eyes were hooded. Mongol eyes. My Hungarian relatives had come from the steppes. Not a city dweller among them. My mother and grandma were small women and had grown even smaller with age. They were dainty-boned and petite, with baby-fine hair. Probably they were descended from pampered, caravan-cosseted Gypsy women.
I, on the other hand, was a throwback to some plow-pulling, rawboned wife of a barbarian farmer.
I hiked up my skirt to jump from the truck, and saw my mother and grandmother flinch at the sight.
“What's this outfit?” my mother demanded. “Can't you afford clothes? Are you wearing other people's? Frank, give Stephanie some money. She needs to buy clothes.”
“I don't need to buy clothes,” I said. “This is new. I just bought it. It's the style.”
“How will you ever get a man when you're dressed like this?” My mother turned to Morelli. “Am I right?”