“That's what happens when you walk out. And how was I to know where you were? You could have been kidnapped. You could have had a brain seizure and wandered off with amnesia. How was I to know you'd be back and want spice cake?”
“I had reasons for leaving,” I wailed. “Perfectly good reasons.”
“What reasons?”
“Morelli was going to arrest me . . . maybe.”
My mother took a deep breath. “Arrest you?”
“There's a small possibility that I might be a homicide suspect.”
My mother made the sign of the cross.
Grandma didn't look nearly so glum. “There was a woman on TV the other day. On one of them talk shows. She said she'd been arrested for smoking dope. She said when you get arrested the cops lock you up in a little cell and then s
it around watching you on closed-circuit TV, waiting for you to go to the bathroom. She said there's this stainless steel commode in one corner of your cell, and it hasn't got a toilet seat or anything, and that's where you have to go. And she said the commode faces the TV camera just so they can all get a good view of the whole thing.”
My stomach went hollow and little black dots danced in front of my eyes. I wondered if I had enough money in my bank account to buy a ticket to Brazil.
Grandma's expression got crafty. “The woman on TV said what you needed to do before you got arrested was to drink a lot of Kaopectate. She said you needed to get good and plugged up so you could wait until you got out on bail.”
I sat down in a chair and put my head between my knees.
“This is what comes of working for your father's cousin,” my mother said. “You're a smart girl. You should have a decent job. You should be a schoolteacher.”
I thought of Mary Lou's kid with the graham crackers smeared in his hair, and felt better about being a bounty hunter. You see, it could always be worse, I thought. I could be a schoolteacher.
“I need to go home,” I said, retrieving my coat from the hall closet. “Lots of work to do tomorrow. Got to get to bed early.”
“Here,” my mother said, handing me a grocery bag. “Some meat loaf. Enough for a nice sandwich.”
I looked in the bag. Meat loaf. No spice cake.
“Thanks,” I said to my mother. “Are you sure there isn't any spice cake left?”
“A homicide suspect,” my mother said. “How could such a thing happen?”
I didn't know. I wondered the same thing. In fact, I wondered all the way home. I wasn't such a bad person. I only cheated a little on my taxes, and I paid most of my bills. I didn't cuss at old people (at least not to their face). I didn't do drugs. So why was I having such rotten luck? Okay, so I didn't go to church as often as I should, but my mother went regularly. I thought that should count for something.
I rolled Big Blue into the lot. It was late. All the good spots were taken, so I was back by the Dumpster again. What's new. At least it afforded me cover from a drive-by. Maybe I'd park here all the time.
I looked up at my apartment and realized my lights were on. That was weird, because I was almost positive I'd shut them off when I left this afternoon. I got out of the car and walked to the middle of the lot. I looked up at my windows again. The lights were still on. What did this mean? It could mean the lights had been on when I left, and I was suffering from early onset of dementia. Probably I could add a touch of paranoia to the dementia.
A shadowy figure appeared briefly toward the far wall of my living room, and my heart skipped a beat. Someone was in my apartment. I was relieved to be able to rule out the dementia, but I still had a problem. I really didn't want to do my own investigating and get shot at for the third time today. Unfortunately, the alternative was to call the police. Since I was low on Kaopectate, I didn't t think calling the police was a good alternative.
The figure reappeared. Long enough for me to decide it was a man. He moved closer to the window, and I was able to see his face.
The face belonged to Morelli.
Of all the nerve. Morelli had broken into my apartment. And that wasn't even the worst of it. He was eating something. I suspected it was spice cake.
“PIG!” I yelled. “Creep!”
He didn't seem to hear. Probably the TV was on.
I did a fast walk around the lot and found Morelli's black Toyota 4x4. I gave the back bumper a kick, and the alarm went off.
Faces appeared in the windows above me while the alarm wailed away.