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“I’m hungry,” Lula said, driving off. “I could use a healthy lunch like nachos from the convenience store on Olden.”
“That’s not healthy.”
“It’s corn and it’s got cheese product. That’s two of the major food groups.”
“If we wait until we get back to the office we can stop at Giovichinni’s and get a salad.”
“A salad? What do I look like, an alpaca? I’m a big woman. I can’t keep going on a salad. I need salt and grease and shit.”
I had to get into a slinky little black dress tonight. I wasn’t up for salt and grease and shit. “Giovichinni will add all that stuff to your salad. Just ask for it.”
“Yeah, but I’ll have to pay extra.”
I have no willpower. If Lula stops for nachos, I’ll get them too. Or even worse, I’ll get a couple hotdogs.
“My treat,” I said.
“That’s different then. Here we go to Giovichinni.”
Giovichinni’s Deli and Meat Market is just down the street from the bonds office. My family has shopped there for as long as I can remember, and it ranks on a par with the funeral home and the beauty salon for dishing dirt. Lula parked at the curb and we went straight to the deli counter. I got a salad with grilled chicken, and Lula got a salad with barbecued pork, extra bacon, blue cheese, and a side of macaroni and cheese.
“I’m glad you suggested a healthy salad,” she said, moving to check out. “This is just what I needed.”
I made a large effort not to grimace. Her salad was a heart attack in a takeout carton. And it looked fabulously delicious. I was going to have a hard time not ripping it out of her hands.
“What’s new?” I said to Gina Giovichinni when I got to the register.
“Annette Biel is preggers. We’re starting a pool for birth weight and if it looks like her husband or Reggie Mangello.”
“She’s been seeing Reggie Mangello?”
“He did some drywall for them nine months ago when they fixed up their cellar.”
“Anything else? Anything about Geoffrey Cubbin?”
“The guy who ran off with the old people’s money? Nope. Haven’t heard anything worth repeating.”
“I’m looking for him. Let me know if you hear something.”
We took our salads back to the office, along with a Greek salad for Connie. Nothing for Vinnie. He’d be out having a nooner with a duck or getting a good whacking from Madam Zaretsky.
“I checked the cabs,” Connie said, digging into her salad. “No one had a pickup at or near the hospital the night Cubbin disappeared.”
“He didn’t drive himself,” I said. “His car was in his garage. And he couldn’t walk far in his condition. So he had to have help.”
“True,” Connie said. “Or someone could have snatched him.”
“I can almost believe a post-op patient could manage to get himself to the elevator and not get noticed. I’m having a hard time seeing someone kidnap a patient and get him out the door.”
“Maybe he went out the window,” Lula said. “And then he got collected.”
“He was on the fourth floor,” I said. “That’s a long way down.”
Lula shoveled in barbecued pork. “Yeah, he would have had to be encouraged. And it would have made a good thump. If he landed on cement his head would’ve cracked open like Humpty Dumpty, but I’m pretty sure there’s grass all around the hospital. So no point poking around, looking for brains.”
It was a gruesome possibility, and it didn’t make total sense, but it was as good as any theory I had. “If you wanted to kill Cubbin, wouldn’t it be easier to do it after he left the hospital?” I asked Lula and Connie.
“Maybe it was some old lady who was already in the hospital for being so old,” Lula said.
