Part 2 (1/2)

I didn't feel like being alone with my thoughts, so I ambled over to my parents' house to mooch leftovers.

”Other women have daughters who work in banks and business offices. I have a daughter who looks for people,” my mother said, watching me eat. ”How did this happen? What am I supposed to say to Marion Weinstein when she asks what my daughter does?”

”Tell her I'm in law enforcement.”

”You could get a good job if you just put your mind to it. I hear the personal products plant has openings.”

”Just what I wanted to do... spend my days over-seeing the boxing machine at the tampon factory.”

A car door slammed shut out on the street, and Grandma hustled into the house. ”You should have been there! That Stiva knows how to do a viewing, I'm telling you. The place was packed. Joe Lojak looked real good. Nice color to his cheeks. Real natural. He had on a red tie with little brown horse heads on it. And the best part was I beat Myra out for the best seat. She even had her hair done, but I got the seat in the first row next to the window! I'm telling you, I'm good.

”And everybody was talking about Sam Franco! They found him in Biggy's van. And that isn't all. Mildred Sklar was there, and you know Mildred's boy is a police dispatcher, and Mildred said it just came in that they went out to Biggy's house and found the murder weapon in Biggy's closet. Can you imagine!”

”I'm not surprised,” my mother said. ”Biggy Zaremba is a hoodlum.”

”What about Biggy?” I asked. ”Did they arrest Biggy?”

”Nope,” Grandma said. ”He clean got away.”

I called Lula and left a message on her machine. ”Found Sam Franco,” the message said. ”So that's the end of that. Give you the details tomorrow.”

After two hours of television at my parents' house I still didn't feel comfortable with the Zaremba thing. Not that it was any of my business. My business was simple. Find the missing person. Deliver him to the court. Solving murders was a whole other ball game, and bounty hunters weren't on that team.

”Well,” Grandma said, ”guess I'm going to bed. Gotta get my beauty rest.”

My father opened his mouth to say something, received a sharp look from my mother, and closed his mouth with a snap. My father, on occasion, had likened my grandmother to a soup chicken, and no one was able to deny the resemblance.

”It's late for me too,” I said, pulling myself to my feet.

Late enough for me to act like an idiot and snoop along Roosevelt Street under cover of darkness. Don't ask why I felt compelled to do this. Sometimes it's best not to examine these things too closely.

I waved good-bye to my mother and drove down High Street as if I were going home. After three blocks I turned and doubled back and parked at the corner of Roosevelt and Green. The neighborhood was quiet and very dark. No moon in the sky. Downstairs lights were on in all the houses. The burg was a peeper's paradise at night. No one drew their curtains or pulled their shades. Drawn shades might mean your house wasn't immaculate, and no burg housewife would admit to having a dirty house. With the exception of Biggy's house. Biggy's curtains were always closed. Even now when Biggy wasn't in the house, the shades were drawn from force of habit. Biggy had enemies. There were people who might want to snipe at Biggy while he crushed beer cans on his forehead and watched Tuesday Night Fights. I traveled this street all the time, and I knew Biggy never left himself open for target practice.

If this was the movies there'd be a cop watching the Zaremba house, waiting for Biggy. Since Hollywood was a long way from Trenton, I was on the street alone. Round-the-clock surveillance wasn't in the Trenton cop budget.

I followed the sidewalk to the alley and hung a left. I'd only walked a few feet when a car cruised down Green and pulled to the curb. It was a red Firebird with rap music playing so loud the car seemed to levitate at standstill. The driver cut the music and got out of the car. Lula.

”Hah!” she said. ”Knew I'd find you sneaking around here. Could hear on the phone you weren't satisfied.”

”Curiosity is a terrible thing.”

”Killed the cat,” Lula said. ”Biggy catches you in his yard it gonna kill you too.”

”If Biggy has any sense at all, he's on his way to Mexico.”

”Uh-oh,” Lula said. ”Don't look now, but we have company.”

The company was Grandma Mazur. She was husling across the street, waving at us, her white tennis shoes a beacon in the darkness, a distant streetlight reflecting off the big patent leather purse looped into the crook of her arm. I dreaded to speculate what was in the purse.

”I thought you might be coming here to do investigating,” she said. ”Thought you might need a hand.”

What I needed was a parade permit.

”Bet you snuck out of the house,” Lula said to Grandma.

”Was easy,” Grandma said. ”They don't pay attention to me. All I have to do is say I'm getting a gla.s.s of water and then walk out the back door.”

”I wanted to go through the alley at night,” I said. ”I wanted to be out here like Sam. See what he saw.”

”Then let's do it,” Lula said.

”Yeah,” Grandma chirped. ”Let's do it.”

We strolled forward in silence and stopped when we got to the house owned by Lucille and Walter Kuntz. We moved ten feet into the yard, and we could clearly see Lucille watching TV in the back room. She was dressed in a nightgown, her hair was slicked back, and I guessed she was fresh from the shower.

”Where's her husband?” Grandma wanted to know.

”Works the night s.h.i.+ft at the stadium. Security guard. Gets off at twelve. Except last night he worked a double s.h.i.+ft and didn't get home until eight in the morning.”

We simultaneously swiveled our heads to Myra Smulinski's house when the downstairs lights blinked off.

”Myra goes to bed early,” Lula said.

We turned our attention back to Lucille. Lucille stayed up late. Maybe she even fell asleep in front of the television.

”Squirrel wasn't peeping in Myra's windows,” Lula finally said. ”Nothing to see in Myra's windows. Lots to see in Lucille's.”

”Nothing to see in Biggy's windows either,” I said. ”Biggy keeps his shades drawn. So why did Biggy kill Sam if it wasn't for peeking in his windows?”

”Could be anything,” Lula said. ”Sam could have seen Biggy unloading a van full of hot blenders.”

”Maybe it's something h.o.m.os.e.xual,” Grandma said. ”Maybe Sam and Biggy were having an affair. And Biggy wanted to end it, and Sam wouldn't hear of it. And so Biggy shot him.”

We both just looked at Grandma.

”I was watching television last week and one of talk shows was about h.o.m.os.e.xuals,” Grandma said. ”I know all about them now. And it turns out they're all over the place. You never know who's gonna pop out of the closet next. Some of those h.o.m.os.e.xual men even wear ladies underpants. Must be hard to fit your ding dong into a pair of lace panties. Maybe that's why Biggy is so mean. Maybe his ding dong don't fit.”

Sort of like the Grinch whose shoes were too tight.

”I gotta lot of theories,” Grandma said. ”Old ladies got a lot of time to think about these things.”

A car swung into the alley and caught us in its headlights.

”Hope it's not the police,” Lula said. ”The police give me the hives on account of my previous profession.”

”Hope it's not my dumb son-in-law,” Grandma said. ”He gives me the hives on account of he's such an old fart.”

I wasn't nearly so concerned about the hives as I was about my life expectancy. I didn't have a good feeling about the car. Normally a driver would slow at the sight of three women walking in an alley. This car seemed to be accelerating. In fact, this car was flat-out aiming for us!

”Run!” I yelped, spinning Grandma around, pointher at Myra's back door. ”Run for cover!”