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I said to Linda. “Benny Gorman, Michael Barroni, Louis Lazar. I want to know if they got a new car in the last three months and what kind?”
“I heard you quit working for Vinnie. So what's up with the names?”
“Part-time job. Routine credit check for CBNJ.” I had no idea what CBNJ stood for, but it sounded good, right?
I could hear Linda type the names into her computer. “Here's Barroni,” she said. “He bought a Honda Accord two weeks ago. Nothing on Gorman. And nothing's coming up on Lazar.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“Boy, the wedding's almost here. I guess everyone's real excited.”
“Yeah. Valerie's a wreck.”
“That's the way it is with weddings,” Linda said.
I disconnected and took a moment to enjoy my coffee. I liked sitting in Morelli's office. It wasn't especially pretty, but it felt nice because it was filled with all the bits and pieces of Morelli's life. I didn't have an office in my apartment. And maybe that was a good thing because I was afraid if I had an office it might be empty. I didn't have a hobby. I didn't play sports. I had a family, but I never got around to framing pictures. I wasn't learning a foreign language, or learning to play the cello, or learning to be a gourmet cook.
Well hell, I thought. I could just pick one of those things. There's no reason why I can't be interesting and have an office filled with stuff. I can collect tennis balls in the park. And I can get a plant and let it die.
And I can play the damn cello. In fact, I could probably be a terrific cello player.
I took my coffee mug downstairs and put it in the dishwasher. I grabbed my bag and my jacket. I yelled goodbye to Bob as I was going out the door. And I set off on foot for my parents' house. I was going to borrow Uncle Sandors Buick. Again. I had no other option. I needed a car. Good thing it was a long walk to my parents' house and I was getting all this exercise because I was going to need a doughnut after taking possession of the Buick.
Grandma was at the door when I strolled down the street. “It's Stephanie!”
Grandma yelled to my mother.
Grandma loved when I blew up cars. Blowing up Mama Macaroni would be icing on the cake for Grandma. My mother didn't share Grandma's enthusiasm for death and disaster. My mother longed for normalcy. Dollars to doughnuts, my mother was in the kitchen ironing. Some people popped pills when things turned sour. Some hit the bottle. My mother's drug of choice was ironing. My mother ironed away life's frustrations.
Grandma opened the door for me, and I stepped into the house and dropped my bag on the hall table.
“Is she ironing?” I asked Grandma Mazur.
“Yep,” Grandma said. “She's been ironing since first thing this morning. Probably would have started last night but she couldn't get off the phone. I swear, half the Burg called about you last night. Finally we disconnected the phone.”
I went to the kitchen and poured myself a cup of coffee. I sat down at the little kitchen table and looked over at my mother's ironing basket. It was empty.
“How many times have you ironed that shirt you've got on the board?” I asked
my mother.
“Seven times,” my mother said.
“Usually you calm down by the time the basket's empty.”
“Somebody blew up Mama Macaroni,” my mother said. “That doesn't bother me. She had it coming. What bothers me is that it was supposed to be you. It was your car.”
“I'm being careful. And it's not certain that it was a bomb. It could have been an accident. You know how it is with my cars. They catch on fire, and they explode.”
My mother made a strangled sound in her throat, and her eyes sort of glazed over. “That's true,” she said. “Hideously true.”
“Marilyn Rugach said Stiva's got most of Mama Macaroni at the funeral parlor,” Grandma said. “Marilyn works there part-time doing bookkeeping. I talked to Marilyn this morning, and she said they brought the deceased to the home in a zippered bag. She said there was still some parts missing, but she wouldn't say if they found the mole. Do you think there's any chance that they'll have an open casket at the viewing? Stiva's pretty good at patching people up, and I sure would like to see what he'd do with that mole.”
My mother made the sign of the cross, a hysterical giggle gurgled out of her, and she clapped a hand over her mouth.
“You should give up on the ironing and have a snort,” Grandma said to my mother.
“I don't need a snort,” my mother said. “I need some sanity in my life.”
