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First, it wasn’t my birthday. Second, I didn’t know anyone named Kenny who would be sending me flowers. Third, it was definitely my address on the card. Four, no return address for Kenny.
I could see getting weird mail at the office. I gave out business cards to all sorts of people. At one point Vinnie had my picture on a billboard. And there was the occasional newspaper story about me burning down a mortuary or creating chaos at a bingo game. It bothered me that someone sent flowers to my apartment, though, because I was careful about giving out my home address. Although, now that I thought about it, my apartment had been firebombed a couple times, so clearly it wasn’t impossible to find me. At least it was flowers this time and not a dildo.
I left the flowers on the kitchen counter and said hello to Rex. He was in his soup can and didn’t acknowledge me. Probably he’d had a tough night running on his wheel and was still exhausted. I knew how he felt. I didn’t have a lot of gas left in my tank, either.
I went to my computer and googled pastry schools. I’d fibbed to Lula about the email and laundry. I’d really wanted to come home and look into baking. I mean, how hard can it be? You follow a recipe, right? Chances of stepping on a snake and getting hit in the face were small in a bakery. The pay couldn’t possibly be any worse than what I’m making now. And I would wear a cool white pastry chef coat.
I searched around and found there were a couple programs at local junior colleges, and a bunch of online courses. Or I could go the do-it-yourself route and download some cake recipes. Sort of do a test-drive to see if I liked baking cakes as much as I liked eating cakes.
I found a recipe for chocolate layer cake that looked straightforward. I’d never made a cake on my own, but I’d watched my mom and Grandma Mazur make tons of cakes. I printed out the recipe and made a list of ingredients, including two cake pans.
I had plenty of time until Ranger was due to pick me up so I trekked out to the supermarket and got everything I needed to make a cake, plus a six-pack of beer, a bag of chips, and lunch meat for sandwiches.
“This is exciting,” I said to Rex, when I got back to my kitchen and lined my ingredients up on the counter. “This could be my dream job. This could be my life’s work. It’s possible that I was always meant to be a pastry chef and just never realized it before now.”
Rex was nosing through the litter on the bottom of his cage, looking for hidden food treasures. I dropped a single Frito corn chip into his cage and he was beside himself with happiness. This is why hamsters are better than boyfriends. It doesn’t take a lot to make a hamster happy.
FOURTEEN
I WAS WAITING outside when Ranger drove up. I was wearing a black skirt, a stretchy red top, a white linen jacket, and black flats. The bruise on my cheek was green, black, and blue. I went with extra mascara to balance out the cheek color, and I substituted first-aid ointment for lip gloss.
“Babe,” Ranger said when I slipped into the Porsche.
It was more question than greeting.
“Ernest Blatzo didn’t feel like going back to jail,” I said.
“And?”
“And so, he didn’t go.”
“Would you like help?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll do it tomorrow morning,” Ranger said. “I don’t want to walk through his snake-infested yard at night.”
No kidding.
We parked in the lot and waited at the side entrance of the funeral home for Monica to arrive.
“Do you think she’s in any danger?” I asked Ranger.
“Without a motive for the two killings, it’s hard to say who’s in danger.”
The front doors hadn’t yet opened for mourners, but the parking lot was nearly full, and a large crowd was gathered on the porch, spilling down the stairs and onto the sidewalk in front of the building.
A black Rangeman SUV stopped in front of us and Monica Linken got out. The short skirt on her skin-tight fuchsia dress rode up high on her thigh, and her boobs almost jiggled out of the low scoop neck. She tugged her skirt down and leaned toward Ranger and me.
“I’m not wearing any underwear,” she said.
“You’re in good company,” I told her. “Neither is Ranger.”
This got a smile out of Ranger.
We took our places at the head of the casket, and Monica hauled out her electronic cigarette and powered up. The funeral home director asked her if she’d like a few moments alone with her husband, and Monica said she’d already had too many, thank you.
The double doors to slumber room number one opened, and people poured in. Grandma Mazur was at the front of the crush. She half ran the length of the room and was third in line to see the deceased. She would have been second but Myra Campbell elbowed her out of the way at the last minute.
