Fortune and Glory (Stephanie Plum, #27)(55)

Although the danger level was temporarily diminished now that Shine’s goons were on a plane flying back to Florida.

“I’m good,” Grandma said. “I’m packing and I got pepper spray as a backup. How about you?”

My little purse was lying on the console. “Lipstick, a comb, keys, phone, and a credit card holder.”

I also had Ranger’s gun in a compartment under my seat, plus God knows what else was stashed in the car.

“This is a hot car,” Grandma said. “I bet Ranger gave it to you.”

“It’s a loaner for this morning.”

“I’m going to be the talk of the Burg riding in the funeral procession in this car. I’m glad I got a new dress.”

I parked in the car line and Grandma and I went inside the church and found seats. I did a fast scan and found Gabriela sitting four rows behind me and to the left. Morelli was close to the front on the aisle. Ranger was standing behind the last pew.

“It looks like they’re doing a Requiem Mass,” Grandma said.

A Requiem Mass was long, and it included Holy Communion. I didn’t usually take communion, but I was starving, and communion would get me a cracker. Something to look forward to.

Forty minutes later I inched my way down the aisle in the communion line and caught Morelli’s attention. He shook his head at me, and looked down at the missal in his lap, making an effort not to laugh out loud. He knew I was only after the cracker.

When the ceremony was over, Benny moved down the aisle with impressive speed for a man of his size. I figured the single communion cracker wasn’t doing it for him and he was on a mission to get home to the buffet and booze.

The graveside ceremony was relatively short and without incident. No one was shot, punched, cursed out, or stabbed. The police in attendance looked disappointed. The local TV sat-news truck packed up and rolled to Benny’s house, hoping for better luck with the reception. The mourners scrambled to their cars.

“I always wanted to drive a Porsche,” Grandma said. “Would it be okay if I just drove it to the gate?”

“You don’t have a license.”

“Yes, but this is private property. I could drive here. And everyone’s only going two miles an hour. And you could take a picture of me behind the wheel.”

“Okay,” I said, “but only to the gate.”

Grandma got behind the wheel, I took her picture, and we joined the traffic jam slowly making its way to the cemetery exit. It was a large cemetery with gentle sloping hills. The newer section had acres of flat headstones and easy-to-mow grass. The older section where Carla had been laid to rest had large elaborate headstones. Some family plots had life-size marble sculptures and aboveground crypts. There was the occasional mature tree, clump of shrubs, and cluster of colorful plastic flowers.

We were creeping along through the older section when I caught a glimpse of Lou Salgusta. He was partially hidden behind a large winged angel. He was easy to spot because he was holding his flamethrower.

Grandma saw him, too. “It’s Lou!” she said. “He’s behind the angel on the Rigollini plot.”

The car line to the road was dotted with police, including Morelli. Plus, Ranger was somewhere behind me. I got my phone out to call Ranger, and Grandma jerked the wheel to the right and stomped on the gas pedal.

“I got him in my sights,” she said, leaving the road and bumping over the grass. “He’s thrown his last flame.”

“No!” I yelled. “No, no, no! Stop. Let Ranger go after him.”

“No time,” Grandma said, dodging headstones, hurtling down a small hill. “I’m gonna run over that little weasel. Get my gun out of my purse just in case we have to shoot him.”

Salgusta had moved from behind the angel and taken up a position behind a granite crypt. I looked over my shoulder and saw a couple of cars peel off the road after us. One looked like it might be Ranger in the Honda.

“This is an expensive sports car,” I said to Grandma. “It doesn’t do off-road.”

“It does now,” Grandma said. “Get ready to shoot him when I come around the crypt.”

I powered the window down and two-handed the long-barrel, but we were bouncing around so much that chances of me hitting Salgusta were zero to none. Even without the bouncing they weren’t all that good. I wasn’t exactly a marksman.

We came around the corner of the crypt and Grandma shouted, “Shoot him! Shoot him!”

Salgusta launched a forty-foot stream of fire that swept across the hood of the 911, and I answered with a shot that hit nothing. Grandma clipped a headstone and the Porsche jerked to a stop. Another burst of fire hit the car.

Morelli’s SUV slid to a stop on the driver’s side of the flaming Porsche. He hit the ground running and pulled Grandma out and away from the 911. I was out on my side and sprinting for cover. Ranger roared past me in the Honda. He stopped, jumped out of the car, and ran Salgusta down on foot. The Porsche was engulfed in flames and my vision was obscured by clouds of black smoke. I moved away from the fire and saw that Morelli had pulled his car to a safe distance and Grandma was sitting in it. A couple of unmarked cop cars had driven up and the guys were standing hands on hips, watching the bonfire. Two of them had fire extinguishers in case the fire started to spread.

Morelli crossed over to where I was standing and hugged me hard against him. Neither of us said anything for a full minute. He was the first to speak.