Game On: Tempting Twenty-Eight (Stephanie Plum #28)(20)

“Marilyn Kreger just told me that there’s going to be a viewing for Clark Stupin on Monday night, and the funeral is Tuesday morning,” Grandma said. “The viewing is going to be a big event. It’s open casket but I guess his mouth will be closed. Nobody’s saying if he’ll be buried with his tongue. Personally, I think the tongue should at least be in the casket with him.”

My mother gave a small shudder and kept mashing the hard-boiled eggs.

“Did you know the Stupins?” I asked Grandma.

“I think I might have met the mother in the bakery once a while ago,” Grandma said. “They live in north Trenton, but they go to the church here.”

According to Burg protocol, it isn’t necessary to know the deceased or the grieving family to enjoy the social aspects of the viewing. Mob celebrities and mutilated corpses draw especially large crowds.

I called Morelli to see how the fence project was going. There was a lot of shouting in the background.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Anthony and his wife are having a discussion about a fence boundary,” Morelli said. “I might be here later than planned if we have to move the fence.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “I have a lead on Oswald, and I’d like to follow it through. Let’s plan to get together for dinner.”

“It’s Saturday,” my mother said as I put my phone away. “You shouldn’t be working on Saturday. You should be spending the day with your boyfriend. You’re never going to get him to marry you this way.”

“He’s helping Anthony put up a fence,” I said. “It’s okay.”

“You aren’t getting any younger,” my mother said. “What happens if Joseph moves on? Where are you going to find another boyfriend?”

“There’s the internet,” Grandma said. “And I heard Stanley Puccinni is getting a divorce. He would be a good catch. He’s not as hot as Joe Morelli, but he’s got a Toyota dealership.”

“He’s also got two other ex-wives and seven kids,” I said.

“I guess you could look at it like he’s had practice wives,” Grandma said.

“I’m not interested in Stanley Puccinni,” I said.

“How about Walter Dimmit?” Grandma asked. “I saw him at the grocery store. He was working in the produce section, and he asked about you.”

“I’m not interested in him, either,” I said. “He’s eighty years old.”

My mother put the egg salad on the table. “Are you staying for lunch?” she asked me. “Your grandmother got some little rolls from the deli this morning. You can make a sandwich.”

“I got coleslaw too,” Grandma said, going to the refrigerator. “Gina Giovichinni just made it. And there’s some macaroni salad.”

I set the table and took a seat. “Where’s Dad?” I asked my mom.

“He’s at the track with your uncle Lou.”

“Are you going to the Stupin viewing?” Grandma asked me.

“Probably,” I said. Unless I caught Oswald in the meantime. Another reason to stick to Diesel. If we snagged Oswald, I could avoid the viewing.

“I wouldn’t mind a ride if you’re going to the funeral home on Monday,” Grandma said. “It’s a long way to walk in heels and now that I’m a single woman again I have to look attractive. You never know when you’re going to meet Mr. Good Enough.”



* * *




Diesel was waiting in front of the bonds office when I drove up and parked. Lights were off inside the building and the office looked closed.

Diesel opened the door to the passenger’s seat of my Ford Focus and slid in.

“Where’s Connie?” I asked.

“She left about ten minutes ago. She said she was bonding someone out and then she was done for the day.”

I cruised down Hamilton Avenue and followed Diesel’s directions to downtown Trenton, where the car show was being held in a parking lot.

I saw the food trucks and merchandise stands before I saw the rows of cars being exhibited.

“This is huge,” I said to Diesel. “How are we going to find Oswald in this crowd?”

“We’re going to walk around and hope we get lucky.”

After two hours we were still meandering without having an Oswald sighting. We’d passed through the Porsche and other luxury car sections several times. We looked at a couple of monster trucks. We spent some time with the exotic cars. Diesel was alert, scanning the gawkers, but clearly not especially interested in the cars.

“You aren’t a car guy,” I said.

“They’re a convenience. Transportation.”

“What kind of an exhibit would get you excited?”

“Hammocks, drinks in coconuts, maybe pool floaties.”

“What about sports? Do you get excited about sports?”

“Rugby.”

His phone buzzed with a text message. “It’s from Oswald,” Diesel said.

“What’s the message?”

“?‘So nice to see you again,’?” Diesel read. “?‘I very much like your pretty little assistant.’?”

Where are you? Diesel typed in.