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Dillan and I were relaxing in front of the television when Grandma came in.
“Boy, did I have a day,” Grandma said. “I drove all over, and I almost got the stopping thing figured out.” She squinted at Dillan. “And who's this nice young man?”
I introduced Dillan, and then since it was dinnertime I made all of us peanut-butter-and-potato-chip sandwiches. We ate them in front of the television and between Grandma and Dillan, somehow, the six-pack disappeared. Grandma and Dillan were feeling pretty happy, but I was starting to worry about Bob. I was imagining him alone in Morelli's house with nothing to eat but the cardboard pizza box. And the couch. And the bed. And the curtains and rug and Morelli's favorite
chair. Then I imagined Morelli shooting Bob, and that wasn't a good picture.
I called Morelli but there was no answer. Rats. I should never have left Bob alone in the house. I had my keys in my hand and was putting my jacket on when Morelli arrived with Bob in tow.
“Going somewhere?” Morelli asked, taking in the keys and jacket.
“I was worried about Bob. I was going to drive over to your house and see if everything was okay.”
“I thought maybe you were leaving the country.”
I gave him a big fake smile.
Morelli unhooked Bob's leash, said hello to Grandma and Dillan, and dragged me into the kitchen. “I need to talk to you.”
I heard a yelp from Dillan and figured Bob was getting acquainted.
“I'm armed,” I said to Morelli, “so you better be careful. I have a gun in my purse.”
Morelli took the purse and threw it across the room.
Uh-oh.
“That was Junior Macaroni in Hannibal's garage,” Morelli said. “He works for Stolle. Very weird to find him in Hannibal's garage. And it gets even weirder.”
I did a mental grimace.
“Macaroni was sitting in a lawn chair.”
“It was Lula's idea,” I said. “Well, okay, so it was mine too, but he looked so uncomfortable lying on the cement floor.”
Morelli cracked a grin. “I should arrest you for tampering with a crime scene, but he was such a vicious bastard, and he looked so fucking stupid.”
“How do you know I wasn't the killer?”
“Because you carry a thirty-eight and he was shot with a twenty-two. And more than that, you couldn't hit a barn at five paces. The only time you ever shot anyone, there was divine intervention.”
True.
“How many people know I sat him in the lawn chair?”
“Nobody knows, but about a hundred have guessed. No one will tell.” Morelli looked at his watch. “I have to go. I have a meeting set up for tonight.”
“This isn't a meeting with Ranger, is it?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
Morelli pulled a pair of bracelets out of his jacket pocket, and before I realized what was happening I was cuffed to the refrigerator.
“Excuse me?” I said.
“You were going to follow me. I'll leave the key in your mailbox downstairs.”
