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“Of course I just came from church, so I might still have some holy protection.”
Gobbles wasn’t saying anything. He had a grim set to his mouth, and I knew he had it figured out.
“There are going to be police here,” I said to Gobbles. “You might want to go home or wherever it is that you go.”
“You’ll call me?”
“As soon as I know something.”
“So let me see if I got this put together right,” Lula said. “Pooka was making fleas, and he was gonna shoot them off in the fireworks. And then all the people at homecoming would get fleas dropped on them, and the fleas might be infected with this Yersinia. Which we don’t want to have, either.”
“Right.”
“And just exactly what is this Yersinia?” She tapped it into her phone. “Plague!” she yelled. “It’s freaking plague. It’s the black death. Do you know what this shit does to you? It gives you boo-boos. And then your fingers and toes turn black and fall off. Good thing I don’t have a dick. Imagine what it could do to that!” She kicked her shoes off and looked at her toes. “I see a flea. I got a flea on me. Shoot it. Burn it. Somebody do something.”
I looked down at her feet. “I don’t see any fleas.”
“What’s that on my big toe?”
“It looks like a wart.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot. I have to go home,” Lula said. “I’m gonna take a shower and boil all my clothes. If I leave can you catch a ride with Morelli?”
“No problem.”
•••
I was alone when Morelli pulled to the curb.
“I have a hazmat team on the way,” he said. “Do you know if anyone’s in the house?”
“I haven’t seen anyone. I have a description of Pooka’s van but no license plate number. You probably want to sift through his office in the science building.”
A patrol car arrived and parked beside Morelli’s SUV, and Morelli gave the uniform instructions to secure the second-floor apartment but not go in.
“We don’t want this broadcast on the evening news,” Morelli said. “Who knows about this besides you?”
“Gobbles. And he’s not going to say anything. And Lula. She just went home to boil her clothes.”
I saw sweat bead on Morelli’s upper lip.
“Cramps?” I asked him.
“It’s okay. It’ll pass. Probably. We need to contain Lula. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to babysit her for a couple days.”
“What all would that involve?”
“Twenty-four-seven. You could bring her over to your apartment.”
“Are you insane? Live with Lula? She snores. Loud. And she would be in my bathroom. I don’t like other people in my bathroom.”
“You let me use it.”
“I didn’t mind you using it. It felt friendly. I was in love with you.”
“I notice you used the past tense. You’re not still in love with me?”
“I am but I don’t want to admit it. And I certainly don’t want to say it out loud.”
