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“This trip doesn't take Anthony Barroni out of the picture,” Ranger said, “but it definitely back-burners him.”
We pulled into the Rangeman garage at five-thirty. Ranger parked and walked me to the Buick. “You have a half hour to get to Morelli. Where are you taking him?”
“We're having dinner with my parents. They have wedding cake for two hundred.”
“Isn't this nice,” my mother said, glass in hand, amber liquid swirling to the rim, stopping just short of sloshing onto the white tablecloth. “It's so quiet. I hardly have a headache.”
Two leaves had been ta
ken out of the dining room table, and the small dining room seemed strangely spacious. The table had been set for five. My mother and father sat at either end, and Morelli and I sat side by side and across from Grandma, who was lost behind the massive three-tier wedding cake that had been placed in the middle of the table.
“I was looking forward to a party,” Grandma said. “If it was me, I would have had the reception anyway. I bet nobody would even have noticed Valerie wasn't there. You could have just told everybody she was in the ladies' room.”
Morelli and my father had their plates heaped with meatballs, but I went straight for the cake. My mother was going with a liquid diet, and I wasn't sure what Grandma was eating since I couldn't see her.
“Valerie called when they got off the plane in Orlando , and she said Albert was breathing better, and the panic attacks were not nearly as severe,” my mother said.
My father smiled to himself and mumbled something that sounded like “friggin' genius.”
“How'd Sally take the news?” I asked my mother. “He must have been upset.”
“He was upset at first, but then he asked if he could have the wedding gown. He thought he could have it altered so he could wear it onstage. He thought it would give him a new look.”
“You gotta credit him,” Grandma said. “Sally's always thinking. He's a smart one.”
I had the cake knife in hand. “Anyone want cake?”
“Yeah,” Morelli said, shoving his plate forward. “Hit me.”
“I heard your garage got blown up,” Grandma said to Morelli. “Emma Rhinehart said it went up like a bottle rocket. She heard that from her son, Chester . Chester delivers pizza for that new place on Keene Street , and he was making a delivery a couple houses down from you. He said he was taking a shortcut through the alley, and all of a sudden the garage went up like a bottle rocket. Right in front of him. He said it was real scary because he almost hit this guy who was standing in the alley just past your house. He said the guy looked like his face had melted or something. Like some horror movie.”
Morelli and I exchanged glances, and we were both thinking Spiro.
An hour later, I helped Morelli hobble down the porch stairs and cross the lawn. I'd parked the Buick in the driveway, and I'd bribed one of the neighborhood kids into baby-sitting the car. I loaded Morelli into the car, gave the kid five dollars, and ran back to the house for my share of the leftovers.
My mother had bagged some meatballs for me, and now she was standing in front of the cake. She had a cardboard box on the chair and a knife in her hand.
“How much do you want?” she asked.
Grandma was standing beside my mother. “Maybe you should let me cut the cake,” Grandma said. “You're tipsy.”
“I'm not tipsy,” my mother said, very carefully forming her words. It was true. My mother wasn't tipsy. My mother was shitfaced.
“I tell you, we're lucky if we don't find ourselves talking to Dr. Phil one of these days,” Grandma said.
“I like Dr. Phil,” my mother said. “He's cute. I wouldn't mind spending some time with him, if you know what I mean.”
“I know what you mean,” Grandma said. “And it gives me the creeps.”
“So how much of the cake do you want?” my mother asked me again. “You want the whole thing?”
“You don't want the whole thing,” Grandma said to me. “You'll give yourself the diabetes. You and your mother got no control.”
“Excuse me?” my mother said. “No control? Did you say I had no control? I am the queen of control. Look at this family. I have a daughter in Disney World with oogly woogly smoochikins. I have a granddaughter who thinks she's a horse. I have a mother who thinks she's a teenager.” My mother turned to me.
“And you! I don't know where to begin.”
“I'm not so bad,” I said. “I'm taking charge of my life. I'm making changes.”
