“These aren't so bad,” she said, shuffling through the pack.
I looked over at them. Eeew.
“You think it's real obvious he's dead?” Grandma asked.
“He's in a casket.”
“Well, I still think they're pretty good. I think we should see if that Grand Union lady recognizes him.”
“Grandma, we can't ring some woman's doorbell and show her pictures of a dead man.”
Grandma pawed through her big black patent-?leather handbag. “The only other thing I got is the memorial brochure from Stiva. The picture's kind of fuzzy, though.”
I took the paper from Grandma and looked at it. It was a photo of Lipinski and his wife. And below it was the Twenty-?third Psalm. Lipinski was standing with his arm around a slim woman with short brown hair. It was a snapshot, taken outdoors on a summer day, and they were smiling at each other.
“Kind of funny they used that picture,” Grandma said. “I overheard people talking, saying as how Lipinski's wife left him last week. Just up and went. And she didn't show up for the viewing, either. Nobody could find her to tell her about it. Was like she just disappeared off the face of the earth. Just like Fred. Except from what I heard, Laura Lipinski left on purpose. Packed her bags and said she wanted a divorce. Isn't that a shame?”
Now I know there are billions of women out there who are slim with short brown hair. But my mind made the leap anyway to the severed head with the short brown hair. Larry Lipinski was the second RGC employee to die a violent death in the space of a week. And while it seemed like a remote connection, Fred had been in contact with Lipinski. Lipinski's wife was gone. And Lipinski's wife could, in a very vague way, fit the body in the bag.
“Okay,” I said, “let's show the pictures to Irene Tully.” What the hell. If she freaked out I'd write it off as an average day. I dug her address out of my bag. Apartment 117, Brookside Gardens. Brookside Gardens was an apartment complex about a quarter mile from the strip mall.
“Irene Tully,” Grandma said. “The name sounds familiar, but I can't place her.”
“She said she knew Fred from the seniors' club.”
“I guess that's where I heard of her. There's lots of people in that seniors' club, and I don't go to the meetings all the time. I can only take so much of old people. If I want to see loose skin I can look in the mirror.”
I turned into Brookside Gardens and started searching for numbers. There were six buildings arranged around a large parking area. The buildings were two-?story brick, done up in colonial modern, which meant the trim was white and the windows were framed by shutters. Each apartment had its own outside entrance.
“Here it is,” Grandma said, unbuckling her seat belt. “The one with the Halloween decoration on the door.”
We walked up the short sidewalk and rang the bell.
Irene looked out at us. “Yes?”
“We need to ask you about the disappearance of Fred Shutz,” Grandma said. “And we got a picture to show you.”
“Oh,” Irene said. “Is it a picture of Fred?”
“Nope,” Grandma said. “It's a picture of the kidnapper.”
“Well, actually, we aren't really sure Fred was kidnapped,” I said. “What Grandma meant was—”
“Take a look at this,” Grandma said, handing Irene one of the photos. “Of course, the suit might be different.”
Irene studied the photo. “Why is he in a casket?”
“He's sort of dead now,” Grandma said.
Irene shook her head. “This isn't the man.”
“Maybe you're just thinking that because his eyes are closed, and he don't look so shifty,” Grandma said. “And his nose looks a little smushed. I think he might have fallen on his face after he blew his brains out.”
Irene studied the picture. “No. It's definitely not him.”
“Bummer,” Grandma said. “I was sure he was the one.”
“Sorry,” Irene said.