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k a couple steps forward. Jimmy’s sisters rushed up behind her. Tootie rammed her walker into Grandma’s back, and Grandma almost took a header onto the casket. Grandma regained her footing, whirled around, and clocked Tootie on the side of her head with her handbag. Tootie fell down to the ground, still tethered to her oxygen.
“Excuse me,” Grandma said to Tootie. “That was an accidental reflex reaction caused by you being rude at my honey’s funeral.”
Angie muttered something in Italian and rushed at Grandma, waving her bandaged hands in the air. Morelli restrained her before she got in striking range.
The funeral director stepped in and suggested that in spite of the brilliant blue sky he thought it might rain and everyone should immediately go to their cars. The suggestion was taken, and there was a mad scramble to be first out of the cemetery.
Grandma put her flower on the casket and told Jimmy he was invited to the wake but she’d understand if he didn’t show up, being that he might have other things to do. We made our way down to the waiting car. Grandma took one last look up the hill, perhaps checking for aliens, and we all piled into the limo.
“That’s a good-size purse you’re carrying,” Morelli said to Grandma. “Really packs a wallop.”
“I gotta fit my essentials into it,” Grandma said.
We all knew one of her essentials was a .45 long-barrel.
CHAPTER EIGHT
BY THE TIME we arrived at the Mole Hole, the parking lot was full, and cars lined both sides of the street. The front door was open, and people were spilling out onto the sidewalk.
“I knew Jimmy would get a crowd, but this is even more than I expected,” Grandma said.
“Don’t kid yourself,” my father said. “It’s about the free potato salad and the girls with the big hooters. You can’t work here unless you’ve got big hooters. Even the men have hooters.”
“Jimmy didn’t have hooters,” Grandma said.
We pushed our way in with Morelli leading the way. I was behind Grandma, keeping watch over her. My parents trailed behind me. The donated food had been set out on the bar. Liquor was flowing, compliments of the La-Z-Boys. Emma Gorse and Mary Ann Wozinski found Grandma and offered their condolences. Three more women lined up behind them.
Lula bustled over. “Your extensions are smokin’,” she said. “I could see them all the way across the room.” She elbowed Grandma. “Condolences.”
“Thank you,” Grandma said. “Have some kielbasa.”
Connie pushed her way through the crowd. “This is insane,” Connie said. “I’ve never seen this many people at a wake. They’re going through the buffet like they haven’t eaten in a week, and some of them want to know when the pole girls arrive and the show starts.”
My father was at the bar shoveling food onto his plate. My mother looked like she wanted to iron a shirt.
“You’re in charge of my family,” I told Morelli. “I’m looking for Charlie Shine or Stan or Benny the Skootch.”
“Benny was at the church and the cemetery. I haven’t seen Charlie Shine, and I don’t know Stan,” Morelli said. “Lou Salgusta and Julius Roman are also club members. They were with Benny earlier. I don’t see any of them now, so I’m guessing they’re in the back room.”
I glanced over at the door to the back room. Crap. Been there. Done that. Not a good experience.
“Is there a problem?” Morelli asked.
“Nope,” I said. “Easy-peasy.”
I marched over and knocked on the back room door. The door opened, and Stan looked out at me.
“My sincere condolences on your loss,” he said.
I nodded politely. “Thank you. I need to talk to the La-Z-Boys.”
Stan was blocking my view of the room, but I heard a voice some distance behind him.
“Who’s there?” a man asked.
“Stephanie Plum,” Stan said.
“Bring her over here. Has she got the keys?”
