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“Did you see Ethel?”
“If Ethel was in the double-wide the raccoons wouldn’t be there. Ethel would have those raccoons for lunch.”
“You should get those raccoons to leave,” Lula said. “They’re gonna make a mess.”
“They already made a mess, and I have no clue how to get them out. Stick a fork in me. I’m done here.”
• • •
I dropped Lula off at the bonds office and called Joe Morelli. Morelli is a plainclothes cop in Trenton. He works crimes against persons. Mostly pulls homicides. And he’s pretty much my boyfriend.
I’ve known Morelli just about all my life. Some of our times together have been good, and some have been not so good. Lately they’ve been comfortable. Past experience tells me that the comfort level could change in a heartbeat. He’s six feet tall and slim with hard-toned muscle. His hair is black and wavy, and because he’s on cop salary he always needs a cut. You put him in a suit and he looks like an Atlantic City casino pit boss. In jeans and a T-shirt he’s totally hot. He has a big orange shaggy-haired dog named Bob, a serviceable green SUV, and a small house that he inherited from his Aunt Rose.
“Yo,” Morelli said on the first ring.
“I have a problem.”
“Me too,” Morelli said. “I’m thinking about you naked, and you aren’t here.”
“You know Simon Diggery’s snake, right?”
“Ethel.”
“Yes. She’s sort of escaped. Simon’s in the lockup, and I think Ethel is slithering around the neighborhood.”
“And?”
“And she’s a fifty-pound boa! She might eat things that don’t want to get eaten. Like cats and dogs and little people. She might even eat big people.”
“I know that neighborhood. Ethel could only improve it.”
“What if Ethel gets out of the neighborhood?”
“Cupcake, she’s not going to get out of the neighborhood. Someone will spot her, and she’ll be snake stew.”
“I promised Simon I would take care of her.”
I heard Morelli blow out a sigh, and I knew he was staring down at his shoe. Probably thinking he could have any woman he wanted and wondering why he wanted me. I often wondered the same thing.
“Is this heading somewhere?” he asked.
“Yes, but I don’t know where. In the interest of public safety, should people be notified that there’s a boa wandering around looking for a snack?”
“The morally correct answer is yes, but the practical answer is no. Simon’s neighborhood would be filled with snake hunters, four or five government agencies would want to take the snake away from him, and my sister-in-law, who hates snakes, would panic.”
“I don’t suppose you’d want to help me look for Ethel.”
“Thought you’d never ask.”
“I’ll be at your house in ten minutes.”
• • •
The sun was low in the sky when Morelli and I got to the dirt road leading to Simon’s double-wide. Morelli drove at a crawl, and we peered out, looking for Ethel in the scrubby front yards of the locals. The road was about two miles long, partially wooded and partially cleared by squatters living in shacks, trailers, patched-together bungalows, and an occasional yurt. Abandoned cars served as chicken coops and guesthouses. Simon’s place was at the end of the road.
Morelli parked in what served as Simon’s driveway, and we got out and stood, hands on hips, taking it all in.
“Now what?” Morelli asked.
