Turbo Twenty-Three (Stephanie Plum #23)(60)

He put the Cayenne in gear and drove out of the lot.

“You didn’t see that one coming,” I said.

“No, but it’s beginning to pull together. I have to spend some time at my desk. I’m going to drop you at your car and we’ll pick this up later tonight. I’ll send you a text when I’m leaving the building.”

It was a little after five o’clock when we got to the office, and the lights were out. My car was parked at the curb. Its doors were locked, but Lula had placed the keys in our usual hiding spot on top of the left rear wheel. I had no plans to see Morelli, so I drove to my parents’ house to mooch dinner.

My grandmother opened the door for me. Her hair was red and she was wearing black Pilates pants and a Harley-Davidson T-shirt.

“What do you think?” she asked me.

“I like the red. It’s pretty.”

And it was pretty, but it was going to take some time for me to get used to seeing it on Grandma.

“I wanted a new look,” Grandma said. “Bertie gave me the T-shirt.”

“How’s it going with Bertie?”

“It’s going real good, but I’m not sure how long it’s going to last. There’s a lot of maintenance you gotta do to keep up with a relationship. There’s tweezing and shaving and moisturizing. Plus you gotta pretend you haven’t already heard his jokes. And I think I might be getting a rash down there from riding on his motorcycle. I don’t know if I’m cut out to be a biker chick.”

“Is that Stephanie?” my mother yelled from the kitchen. “Is she staying for dinner? Tell her we’re having meatloaf and mashed potatoes.”

“I’m staying!” I yelled back.

My father was in his chair, watching television. I passed him on my way to the kitchen, and he grunted at me. “The news is terrible,” he said. “Every day it gets worse. I don’t know why I watch.”

“Is Bertie coming to dinner?” I asked Grandma.

“No. I’m meeting him later at the funeral home. They finally released the body of the Bogart Bar guy, and his viewing is tonight. It’s going to be big. I bet the TV people will be there. Bertie and I are going out after. We might go to the movies. There’s a horror flick at the multiplex that Bertie wants to see. I think it’s got zombies in it.”

My mother was mashing the potatoes. “You can’t go to the viewing dressed like that,” she said to my grandmother. “And I don’t want to hear that you tried to get the lid up if it’s a closed casket.”

“I’m hoping it won’t be closed casket,” Grandma said. “I wouldn’t mind seeing what a Bogart Bar man looks like.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t look like a Bogart Bar man,” my mother said. “He’s had an autopsy!”

“And I guess he would have melted by now anyway,” Grandma said. “Still, it would be interesting to see what’s left.”

“Stephanie,” my mother said. “Stir the gravy.”

My grandmother took the meatloaf to the table, and I leaned toward my mother.

“Whatever happened last night with Bertie and Grandma?”

“I don’t know. I fell asleep on the couch, and when I woke up it was morning. I guess he tiptoed past me.”

“Did you talk to Grandma?”

“No. I don’t know what to say.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. I think it’ll resolve itself.”

“Where’s the potatoes?” Grandma said. “We gotta keep on schedule. I don’t want to be late or I won’t get a good seat. Marion Wurtzer is picking me up at six-thirty sharp.”

We all took our places and filled our plates.

“You should go to this viewing,” Grandma said to me. “The killer might be there. That’s the way it is in the movies. The killer always makes a showing.”

“Why on earth would she want to see the killer?” my mother said.

“Gravy,” my father said.

Grandma passed the gravy to him. “Everybody wants to see the killer. And besides, Stephanie is working with Ranger to get to the bottom of this.”

“I’d think you were switched at birth,” my mother said, slanting a look at me, “but you have the Mazur nose.”

“It’s a good one, too,” Grandma said. “It’s one of our best features.”

Grandma might be right about the killer showing up at the viewing, but how was I supposed to recognize him? He wasn’t going to have “Killer” tattooed on his forehead. Plus, I don’t share Grandma’s enthusiasm for viewings. The flower smell makes me nauseous. I don’t like looking at dead people. And I’m not all that excited about talking to the live people.

“I wonder if the Bogart people will be there,” Grandma said. “I’m hearing that the big Bogart guy, Harry Bogart, has taken off for parts unknown. It wouldn’t be right if no one from the company showed up. I mean, the deceased was made into a Bogart Bar. Seems like the least they could do is honor that memory.”

I didn’t think there would be much representation from the Bogart family. Possibly some co-workers, but even that seemed unlikely.

“When is the funeral?” I asked Grandma.

“Tomorrow morning. It’s going to be a traffic stopper. Bertie and me are going on his motorcycle.”