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I was halfway through Runion when my mom called on my cell.
“Where are you?” she wanted to know.
“I'm at work.”
&nbs
p; “It's five-thirty. We're supposed to be at the church for rehearsal. You were going to stop here first, and then we were all going over to the church. We've been waiting and waiting.”
Crap! “I forgot.”
“How could you forget? Your sister's getting married tomorrow. How could you forget?”
“I'm on my way. Give me twenty minutes.”
“I'll take your grandmother with me. You can meet us at the church. You just bring Joseph and the cello.”
“Joseph and the cello,” I dumbly repeated.
“Everyone's waiting to hear you play.”
“I might be late. There might not be time.”
“We don't have to be at Marsillio's for the rehearsal dinner until seven-thirty. I'm sure there'll be time for you to practice your cello piece.”
Crap. Crap. And double crap!
I grabbed my bag and took off, across the control room, down the stairs, into the garage. Ranger had just pulled in. He was getting out of his car as I ran to Morelli's SUV.
“I'm late!” I yelled to him. “I'm frigging late!”
“Of course you are,” Ranger said, smiling.
It took me twelve minutes to get across town to the Burg and then into Morellis neighborhood. I'd had to drive on the sidewalk once when there was traffic at a light. And I'd saved two blocks by using Mr. Fedorka's driveway and cutting through his backyard to the alley that led to Morellis house.
I locked the SUV in the garage, ran into the house, into the living room.
“The wedding rehearsal is tonight,” I yelled at Morelli. “The wedding rehearsal!”
Morelli was working his way through a bag of chips. “And?”
“And we have to be there. We're in the wedding party. It's my sister. I'm the maid of honor. You're the best man.”
Morelli set the chips aside. “Tell me those aren't blood splatters on your shoes.”
“I sort of punched Anthony Barroni in the nose.”
“Anthony Barroni was at Rangeman?”
“It's a long story. I haven't time to go into it all. And you don't want to hear it anyway. It's . . . embarrassing.” I had Bob clipped to his leash.
“I'm taking Bob out, and then I'm going to help you get dressed.” I dragged Bob out the back door and walked him around Morelli's yard. “Do you have to go, Bob?” I said. “Gotta tinkle? Gotta poop?”
Bob didn't want to tinkle or poop in Morelli's yard. Bob needed variety. Bob wanted to tinkle on Mrs. Rosario's hydrangea bush, two doors down.
“This is it!” I yelled at Bob. “You don't go here and you're holding it in until I get back from the stupid rehearsal dinner.”
Bob wandered around a little and tinkled. I could tell he didn't have his heart in it, but it was good enough, so I dragged Bob inside, fed him some dog crunchies for dinner, and gave him some fresh water. I ran upstairs and got clothes for Morelli. Slacks, belt, button-down shirt. I ran back downstairs and shoved him into the shirt, and then realized he couldn't get the slacks over the cast. He was wearing gray sweatpants with one leg cut at thigh level.
