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“How am I supposed to get him out of there? I can’t just break down the door. We’re talking about Joe’s mom and crazy Grandma Bella.”
“Do you want me to go in?”
“Would you do that for me?”
“We could make a deal.”
“Oh boy.”
“Think about it,” Ranger said. “I’ll catch up with you after the viewing.”
I left Ranger and drove my loaner CR-V home to my apartment building. I’d watched Ranger’s eyes go from brown to black when he suggested a deal. I knew what it meant when his pupils dilated like that. It meant Ranger was feeling friendly. And when Ranger was friendly it was hard not to want to be friendly back.
I pulled the files on the dead women out of my bag and took them to the dining room table. Besides former addresses and work histories, the files also listed relatives. Bitsy Muddle was survived by a younger brother who was living in Ewing. I called his phone, and he picked up on the second ring.
“I’m helping the police investigate your sister’s death,” I told him. “I have just a quick question.”
“Sure, but I already told them all I knew.”
“She usually ran her errands on Saturdays. Did you ever drive her around?”
“No. We would meet at the diner for lunch sometimes, but I didn’t see a lot of her after she moved to that retirement place. She was always on the go. I figured she was being bused around by the retirement people.”
I thanked him for his help and called the retirement community office.
“Most of our residents are very independent,” the manager told me. “Some have cars, and others have friends and relatives who take them shopping. We have a wing for assisted living, but Miss Muddle wasn’t housed there. She was living in what is simply an apartment complex for senior citizens.”
“Would it be possible to speak to some of her neighbors?”
“Of course. We always try to cooperate with the police. Most of her neighbors have already been questioned. Some were questioned several times, so I can’t guarantee a happy interview.”
“Understood.”
I wasn’t in the mood to drive over to Golden Years Retirement Village and go door to door, grilling Bitsy’s neighbors. I’d wait to see what Ranger got for me, and I could talk to Rose Walchek’s relatives at the viewing.
Saturday was usually my designated clean-the-apartment day, so I squirted some toxic goop into the toilet and swished it around with the toilet brush. Then I took a bunch of toxic liquid-saturated wipes from the pop-up container and wiped down all the bathroom surfaces. I changed out the towels and made my bed with fresh linens. I ran over the kitchen and bathroom floors with the Swiffer contraption that uses the wet pads, and I considered the wall-to-wall carpet in the rest of the apartment. Usually I borrowed my mother’s vacuum cleaner, but I’d forgotten to stop on my way home. Probably now that I had a slow cooker and was going to be Susie Homemaker I should get my own vacuum cleaner.
I wrote “Buy vacuum cleaner” on the notepad in the kitchen. I made myself a peanut butter and olive sandwich for dinner and gave a small chunk to Rex. He scurried out of his soup can, stuffed the chunk of bread into his cheek pouch, blinked his eyes at me, and scurried back into his can. I took the eye blink as a thank-you. Hamsters have limited communication skills.
I changed into skinny black slacks and a silky white blouse for the viewing. I still had my hair pulled up into a ponytail, and I slashed on some extra mascara since it was an evening affair.
I arrived a little after seven, which was a big mistake for the viewing of a high-profile murder victim. The lot was filled, and parking on the street was nonexistent. There was a huge crush of people on the front porch, and the crush spilled over onto the steps. It had to be total insanity inside. I drove around the block and pulled into the driveway to the funeral home garages. Unless they had to pull a hearse out to make an emergency dead guy pickup, I figured I’d go unnoticed.
I sneaked through the back door, walked past the small hostess kitchen and the funeral director’s office, and came out into the packed lobby. The noise was a smidgeon below rock concert, the temperature had to be in the nineties, and the entire place smelled like carnations and deodorant failure.
I was standing by the table with the coffee and tea and cookies, and I had to somehow get to Rose. She was laid out in Slumber Room No. 1. This was the largest of the slumber rooms, the premier spot. It was reserved for murder victims and the grandmasters of various lodges and social clubs.
I pushed my way through the crowd to the room entrance and worked my way forward. Two men and a woman were
standing at the head of the casket. Obviously relatives. They were my target. Grandma and Gordon had seats in the second row. I picked out Mama Giovichinni, my parents’ neighbor Mrs. Ciak, a few women from Bingo, and a bunch of other people from the Burg. The line of mourners inching up to the casket ran the length of the room and out the door. If I tried to cut the line I’d be attacked and ejected. My only hope was to wait until the viewing was ending and everyone stampeded out to the lobby to get last-minute cookies.
Grandma turned and saw me and waved.
“Over here,” she shouted. “We saved you a seat.”
The seat was between Grandma and Randy Berger. I hadn’t noticed it at first because Berger was occupying two seats. It wasn’t that he was excessively fat, it was more that he was just so big. I made a no thanks gesture, but Grandma was having none of it. Berger managed to pull most of himself off the seat and I squished myself into it.
“I was hoping you’d be here,” Berger said. “Have you thought about the job offer?”
