High Five

by Janet Evanovich

  “Grandma!”

  “Boy,” she said, “this guy don't look so good.”

  “Get down!”

  “I gotta finish this roll out. I hate when there's pictures left over.”

  I ran down the aisle between the folding chairs. “You can't do this!”

  “I can now that I got this chair. I was only getting the side of his face before. And that wasn't working good, on account of there's a lot of his head missing.”

  “Stop taking pictures this instant and get down!”

  “Last picture!” Grandma said, climbing off the chair, dropping the camera into her purse. “I got some beauts.”

  “Close the lid! Close the lid!”

  Crash!

  “Didn't realize it was so heavy,” Grandma said.

  I moved the chair back against the wall. I scrutinized the casket to make sure everything looked okay. And then I took Grandma by the hand. “Let's get out of here.”

  The door was wrenched open before we got to it, and Stiva gave me a startled look. “What are you doing in here? I thought you were leaving the building.”

  “I couldn't find Grandma,” I said. “And um—”

  “She came in here to rescue me,” Grandma said, hanging on to me, making her way to the door. “I was paying my respects when the alarm went off, and everybody stampeded out of here. And somebody knocked me over, and I couldn't get up. The midget was in here with me, but it would have taken two of them to do the job. If it wasn't for my granddaughter coming to get me I'd have burned to a cinder.”

  “Little person!” Randy Briggs said. “How many times do I have to tell you, I'm not a midget.”

  “Well, you sure do look like a midget,” Grandma said. She sniffed the air. “Do I smell smoke?”

  “No,” Stiva said. “It looks like a false alarm. Are you all right?”

  “I think so,” Grandma said. “And it's a lucky thing, too, because I got fragile bones on account of I'm so old.” Grandma glanced over at me. “Imagine that, a false alarm.”

  Imagine that. Unh. Mental head slap.

  There were two fire trucks in the street when we left. Mourners were outside, shivering in the drizzle, kept in place by curiosity and the fact that their coats were inside. A police car was angled at the curb.

  “You didn't set that alarm off, did you?” I asked Grandma Mazur.

  “Who, me?”

  MY MOTHER WAS waiting at the door when we got back to the house. “I heard the sirens,” she said. “Are you all right?”

  “Sure we're all right,” Grandma said. “Can't you see we're all right?”

  “Mrs. Ciak got a call from her daughter, who told her there was a fire at Stiva's.”

  “No fire,” Grandma said. “It was one of them false alarms.”

  My mother's mouth had turned grim.

  Grandma shook the rain off her coat and hung it in the closet. “Ordinarily I guess I might feel bad that the fire department had to go out for nothing, but I noticed Bucky Moyer was driving. And you know how Bucky loves to drive that big truck.”

  Actually this was true about Bucky. In fact, he'd been suspected on more than one occasion for setting off a false alarm himself just so he could take the truck out.

  “I have to go,” I said. “I have a lot to do tomorrow.”

  “Wait,” my mother said, “let me give you some chicken.”

  GRANDMA CALLED AT eight. “I got a beauty parlor appointment this morning,” she said. “I thought maybe you could give me a ride, and on the way we could drop the you-​know-​what off.”

  “The film?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When is your appointment?”

  “Nine.”

  WE STOPPED AT the photo store first. “Do that one-​hour thing,” Grandma said, handing me the film.

  “That costs a fortune.”

  “I got a coupon,” Grandma said. “They give them to us seniors on account of we haven't got a lot of time to waste. We have to wait too long to get our pictures back, and we could be dead.”

  After I deposited Grandma at the hair salon I drove to the office. Lula was on the Naugahyde couch, drinking coffee, reading her horoscope. Connie was at her desk, eating a bagel. And Vinnie was nowhere in sight.

  Lula put the paper down as soon as she spied me walking through the door. “I want to know all about it. Everything. I want details.”

  “Not much to tell,” I said. “I chickened out and didn't wear the dress.”

  “What? Say that again?”

  “It's sort of complicated.”

  “So you're telling me you didn't get any this weekend.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Girl, that's a sad-​ass state of affairs.”

  Tell me about it.

  “You got any FTAs?” I asked Connie.

  “Nothing came in on Saturday. And it's too early for today.”

  “Where's Vinnie?”

  “At the lockup, writing bail on a shoplifter.”

  I left the office and stood outside, staring at the Buick. “I hate you,” I said.

  I heard someone laughing softly behind me and turned to find Ranger.

  “You always talk to your car like that? Think you need a life, Babe.”

  “I've got a life. What I need is a new car.”

  He stared at me for a couple beats, and I was afraid to speculate on what he was thinking. His brown eyes were assessing, and his expression was mildly amused. “What would you be willing to do for a new car?”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  Again, the soft laugh. “Would it still have to be morally correct?”

  “What kind of car are we talking about?”

  “Powerful. Sexy.”

  I had a feeling those words might be included in the job description, too.

  A light rain had started to fall. He pulled my jacket hood up and tucked my hair in. His finger traced a line at my temple, our eyes met, and for a terrifying moment I thought he might kiss me. The moment passed, and Ranger pulled back.

  “Let me know when you decide,” he said.

  “Decide?”

  He smiled. “About the car.”

  “Okeydokey.”

  Unh! I climbed into the Buick and roared off into the mist. I stopped for a light and thunked my head on the steering wheel while I waited for the green. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, I thought while I thunked. Why had I said “okeydokey”? What a dopey thing to say! I did one last thunk and the light turned.

  Grandma was getting coated with hairspray when I got to the salon. Her hair was steel gray, and she kept it cut short and curled in rolls that marched in side-​by-​side rows on her pink skull. “I'm almost done,” she said. “Did you get the pictures?”

  “Not yet.”

  She paid for her wash and set, stuffed herself into her coat, and carefully tied the plastic rain bonnet on her head. “That was some viewing last night,” she said, being cautious how she walked on the wet pavement. “What a lot of excitement. You weren't even there when Margaret Burger pitched a fit over the guy in room three. You remember how Margaret's husband, Sol, died from a heart attack last year? Well, Margaret said it was all over a problem Sol was having with the cable company. Margaret said they drove Sol to high blood pressure. And she said the guy who did it was the dead guy in room three, John Curly. Margaret said she came to spit on his dead body.”

  “Margaret Burger came to Stiva's to spit on someone?” Margaret Burger was a sweet white-​haired lady.

  “That's what she told me, but I didn't actually see her spit. I guess I came in too late. Or maybe after she saw this John Curly person she decided not to do it. He looked even worse than Lipinski.”

  “How did he die?”

  “Hit and run. And from the looks of him he must have got hit by a truck. Boy, I'm telling you these companies are something. Margaret said Sol was arguing over his bill, just like Fred, and this smart-​mouth in the office, John Curly, didn't want to hear anything.�
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  I parked in front of One-​Hour Photo and got Grandma's pictures.

  “These aren't so bad,” she said, shuffling through the pack.

  I looked over at them. Eeew.

  “You think it's real obvious he's dead?” Grandma asked.

  “He's in a casket.”

  “Well, I still think they're pretty good. I think we should see if that Grand Union lady recognizes him.”

  “Grandma, we can't ring some woman's doorbell and show her pictures of a dead man.”

  Grandma pawed through her big black patent-​leather handbag. “The only other thing I got is the memorial brochure from Stiva. The picture's kind of fuzzy, though.”

  I took the paper from Grandma and looked at it. It was a photo of Lipinski and his wife. And below it was the Twenty-​third Psalm. Lipinski was standing with his arm around a slim woman with short brown hair. It was a snapshot, taken outdoors on a summer day, and they were smiling at each other.

  “Kind of funny they used that picture,” Grandma said. “I overheard people talking, saying as how Lipinski's wife left him last week. Just up and went. And she didn't show up for the viewing, either. Nobody could find her to tell her about it. Was like she just disappeared off the face of the earth. Just like Fred. Except from what I heard, Laura Lipinski left on purpose. Packed her bags and said she wanted a divorce. Isn't that a shame?”

  Now I know there are billions of women out there who are slim with short brown hair. But my mind made the leap anyway to the severed head with the short brown hair. Larry Lipinski was the second RGC employee to die a violent death in the space of a week. And while it seemed like a remote connection, Fred had been in contact with Lipinski. Lipinski's wife was gone. And Lipinski's wife could, in a very vague way, fit the body in the bag.

  “Okay,” I said, “let's show the pictures to Irene Tully.” What the hell. If she freaked out I'd write it off as an average day. I dug her address out of my bag. Apartment 117, Brookside Gardens. Brookside Gardens was an apartment complex about a quarter mile from the strip mall.

  “Irene Tully,” Grandma said. “The name sounds familiar, but I can't place her.”

  “She said she knew Fred from the seniors' club.”

  “I guess that's where I heard of her. There's lots of people in that seniors' club, and I don't go to the meetings all the time. I can only take so much of old people. If I want to see loose skin I can look in the mirror.”

  I turned into Brookside Gardens and started searching for numbers. There were six buildings arranged around a large parking area. The buildings were two-​story brick, done up in colonial modern, which meant the trim was white and the windows were framed by shutters. Each apartment had its own outside entrance.

  “Here it is,” Grandma said, unbuckling her seat belt. “The one with the Halloween decoration on the door.”

  We walked up the short sidewalk and rang the bell.

  Irene looked out at us. “Yes?”

  “We need to ask you about the disappearance of Fred Shutz,” Grandma said. “And we got a picture to show you.”

  “Oh,” Irene said. “Is it a picture of Fred?”

  “Nope,” Grandma said. “It's a picture of the kidnapper.”

  “Well, actually, we aren't really sure Fred was kidnapped,” I said. “What Grandma meant was—”

  “Take a look at this,” Grandma said, handing Irene one of the photos. “Of course, the suit might be different.”

  Irene studied the photo. “Why is he in a casket?”

  “He's sort of dead now,” Grandma said.

  Irene shook her head. “This isn't the man.”

  “Maybe you're just thinking that because his eyes are closed, and he don't look so shifty,” Grandma said. “And his nose looks a little smushed. I think he might have fallen on his face after he blew his brains out.”

  Irene studied the picture. “No. It's definitely not him.”

  “Bummer,” Grandma said. “I was sure he was the one.”

  “Sorry,” Irene said.

  “Well, they're still pretty good pictures,” Grandma said, when we got back to the car. “They would have been better if I could have got his eyes to open.”

  I took Grandma home and bummed lunch off my mom. All the while I was looking for Bunchy. Last I saw him was Saturday, and I was beginning to worry. Figure that one out. Me worrying about Bunchy. Stephanie Plum, mother hen.

  I left my parents and took Chambers to Hamilton. Bunchy picked me up on Hamilton. I saw him in my rearview mirror, pulled to the curb, and got out to talk to him.

  “Where've you been?” I asked. “Take Sunday off?”

  “I had some work to catch up on. Bookies gotta work sometimes too, you know.”

  “Yeah, only you're not a bookie.”

  “We gonna start that again?”

  “How'd you find me just now?”

  “I was riding around, and I got lucky. How about you? You get lucky?”

  “That's none of your damn business!”

  His eyes crinkled with laughter. “I was talking about Fred.”

  “Oh. One step forward, two steps backward,” I said. “I get things that seem like leads and then they go nowhere.”

  “Like what?”

  “I found a woman who saw Fred get into a car with another man the day he disappeared. Problem is, she can't describe the man or the car. And then something weird happened at the funeral home, and it feels to me like it might tie in, but I can't find any logical reason why.”

  “What was the weird thing?”

  “There was a woman at one of the viewings who seemed to have a similar problem to the one Fred was having with the garbage company. Only this woman had problems with her cable company.”

  Bunchy looked interested. “What kind of problems?”

  “I don't know exactly. Grandma told me about it. She just said they were similar to Fred's.”

  “I think we should talk to this woman.”

  “We? There's no we.”

  “I thought we were working together. You brought me lamb and everything.”

  “I felt sorry for you. You were pathetic, sitting out there in your car.”

  He wagged his finger at me. “I don't think so. I think you're getting to like me.”

  Like a stray dog. Maybe not that much. But he was right about talking to Margaret Burger. What was the harm? I had no idea where Margaret Burger lived, so I went back to my parents' house and asked Grandma.

  “I can show you,” she said.

  “Not necessary. Just tell me.”

  “And miss all the action? No way!”

  Why not? I had Bunchy tagging along. Maybe I should ask Mrs. Ciak and Mary Lou and my sister, Valerie. I took a deep breath. Sarcasm always made me feel better. “Get in the car,” I said to Grandma.

  I took Chambers to Liberty and turned onto Rusling.

  “It's one of these houses,” Grandma said. “I'll know it when I see it. I went to a get-​together there once.” She looked over her shoulder. “I think someone's following us. I bet it's one of them garbage people.”

  “It's Bunchy,” I said. “I'm sort of working with him.”

  “No kidding? I didn't realize this had turned into such a big investigation. We've got a whole team here.”

  I stopped at the house Grandma had described, and we all got out and collected together on the sidewalk. It had stopped raining, and the temperature had risen to pleasant.

  “My granddaughter tells me you're working together,” Grandma said to Bunchy, looking him over. “Are you a bounty hunter, too?”

  “No, ma'am,” he said. “I'm a bookie.”

  “A bookie!” Grandma said. “Isn't that something. I always wanted to meet a bookie.”

  I knocked on Margaret Burger's door, and before I could introduce myself Grandma stepped forward.

  “Hope we aren't disturbing you,” Grandma said. “But we're conducting an important investigation. Stephanie and me and Mr. Bunchy.”

>   Bunchy elbowed me. “Mr. Bunchy,” he said.