“What were you going to do with it?”
“Pay off my Jeep.”
“Honey, you don't have a Jeep.”
The casket clasp felt heavy in my pocket. Not in terms of ounces and pounds, but in measurements of dread. I didn't want to go knocking on Spiro's door. When in dread, my rule was always to procrastinate.
“I thought maybe I'd go home for lunch,” I said to Morelli. “And then I could bring Grandma Mazur back to Stiva's with me. There'll be someone new in George Mayer's room, and Grandma really likes to get out to afternoon viewings.”
“Very thoughtful of you,” Morelli said. “Am I invited for lunch?”
“No. You already had pudding. If I bring you home for a meal they'll never let up. Two meals are as good as engaged.”
I stopped for gas on the way to my parents' and was relieved not to see Morelli anywhere. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad, I thought. I probably wouldn't get the finder's fee, but at least I'd be done with Spiro. I turned at Hamilton and drove past Delio's Exxon.
My heart dropped when I hit High Street and saw Morelli's Fairlane parked in front of my parents' house. I attempted to park behind him, misjudged, and took out his right taillight.
M
orelli got out of his car and examined the damage. “You did that on purpose,” he said.
“I didn't! It's this Buick. You can't tell where it ends.” I gave him the evil eye. “What are you doing here? I told you no lunch.”
“I'm protecting you. I'll wait in the car.”
“Fine.”
“Fine,” Morelli said.
“Stephanie,” my mother called from the door. “What are you doing standing out there with your boyfriend?”
“You see?” I said to Morelli. “What did I tell you? Now you're my boyfriend.”
“Lucky you.”
My mother was waving us forward. “Come in. What a nice surprise. Good thing I have extra soup. And we have some fresh bread your father just got from the bakery.”
“I like soup,” Morelli said.
“No. No soup,” I told him.
Grandma Mazur appeared at the door. “What are you doing with him?” she asked. “I thought you said he wasn't your type.”
“He followed me home.”
“If I'd known I'd have put on some lipstick.”
“He's not coming in.”
“Of course he's coming in,” my mother said. “I have plenty of soup. What would people think if he didn't come in?”
“Yeah,” Morelli said to me. “What would people think?”
My father was in the kitchen putting a new washer in the kitchen faucet. He looked relieved to see Morelli standing in the hallway. He'd probably prefer I bring home someone useful, like a butcher or a car mechanic, but I guess cops are a step up from undertakers.
“Sit at the table,” my mother said. “Have some bread with cheese. Have some cold cuts. I got the cold cuts at Giovichinni's. He's always got the best cold cuts.”
While everyone was ladling out soup and scarfing up cold cuts I pulled the paper with the casket photo out of my pocketbook. The detail in the photo wasn't especially good, but the hardware looked similar to what I'd seen at the fire site.