Turbo Twenty-Three (Stephanie Plum #23)(36)

“There’s my honey,” Grandma said.

My mother went pale.

“He could be okay,” I said to my mother. “He’s probably a lawyer.”

“Nope,” Grandma said. “He tends bar at Kranski’s in north Trenton. His name’s Bertie. And he’s got tattoos all over the place.”

Bertie took his helmet off, hooked it onto the back of his bike, and walked toward us.

“He reminds me of someone,” my mother said.

“Willie Nelson,” I told her. “But I think he’s older than Willie. Willie’s only in his eighties.”

“Bertie isn’t that old,” Grandma said. “It’s that the smoke in the bar’s aged him. He’s still a handsome devil, though. Wait until you see him up close. He’s got bedroom eyes. The one bedroom eye you can’t see so much on account of it’s behind the cataract, but the other one is a beaut.”

We all said hello to Bertie and moved inside to the living room where my father was in his favorite chair, watching television.

“This is my honey, Bertie,” Grandma said to my father.

My father looked over at Bertie. “Are you going to marry her?” my father asked.

“Not tonight,” Bertie said.

My father gave up a sigh and turned back to the television.

“Dinner is ready to go on the table,” my mother said. “We have pot roast.”

We all shuffled into the dining room and took a seat. I helped my mother with the pot roast, potatoes, green beans, gravy, and red cabbage. There was red wine, beer, and a pitcher of water on the table.

“It’s too bad Joseph couldn’t come to dinner tonight,” Grandma said. “We would all be couples.” She turned to Bertie. “Joseph is Stephanie’s boyfriend. He’s a homicide detective.”

“That’s got to be a pretty interesting job in Trenton these days,” Bertie said. “Was he assigned to the Bogart Bar murder?”

I shook my head, no. “He wasn’t working that night,” I said.

“Stephanie was there,” Grandma said. “She saw the whole thing. The Bogart Bar man fell out of the freezer truck, right at her feet.”

Bertie looked impressed. “No kidding! How did you manage that?”

“I was involved in a car accident,” I said. “It was a coincidence.”

My father was at the head of the table, barely tolerating the conversation, waiting for the food to be passed to him. My mother always put the meat platter directly in front of him, but the rest of the food was distributed along the length of the table.

“Potatoes,” he barked, leaning forward, knife in one hand, fork in the other.

Everyone jumped in their seat, and Grandma handed him the potatoes.

“I heard another Bogart worker got frozen,” Grandma said. “And it doesn’t look like they have any suspects.”

“It’s obvious to me,” Bertie said. “They should talk to Kenny Morris.”

“Who’s Kenny Morris?” I asked him.

“He’s Mo’s kid,” Bertie said. “He’s a regular at the bar where I work. He’s got a real grudge against Bogart. Gets a snootful and all he can talk about is how he hates Bogart and wants to ruin him.”

“Why does he hate Bogart?”

“He had a thing for Bogart’s daughter. Asked her to marry him and she turned him down. He blamed it on her father. He said her father wouldn’t have her involved with a Morris.”

“Gravy,” my father said.

Grandma passed him the gravy.

“That’s so sad,” Grandma said. “It’s just like Romeo and Juliet, but instead of Romeo and Juliet dying, Romeo turns some people into Popsicles.”

“It seems like a stretch,” I said. “Did he ever say anything that would make you think he killed the two Bogart men?”

“Not directly,” Bertie said, “but he hated Bogart Bars. He said they were his father’s idea, and Bogart stole it. And he said he had a plan to get even. He said that a lot. Personally, I think he turned that Bogart worker into a Bogart Bar to torture old Harry. And I think one day it’s going to be Harry Bogart who gets dipped in chocolate and nuts.”

“You should be a detective,” Grandma said to Bertie. “You have this all figured out.”

“People talk to bartenders and barbers,” Bertie said. “Occupational hazard.”

“What about the man who was frozen today?” I said. “He wasn’t turned into a Bogart Bar.”

“Yep,” Bertie said. “That presents a dilemma.”

“You’ll have to ask Kenny about it when you see him next,” Grandma said.

My experience is that drunks aren’t especially reliable. Fact and fiction tend to intermingle, stories get inflated, emotions run amok. So I wasn’t going to immediately decide Kenny Morris was a killer. I wasn’t going to dismiss it either.

“How often does he come into the bar?” I asked Bertie.

“Couple times a week. Always on Saturday night. Guess that’s a low point in his week since he’s not seeing the Bogart girl.”

Bertie had his plate heaping with food, and he poured gravy over everything.

“This gravy rocks,” Bertie said.