Read Online Two for the Dough by Janet Evanovich - Free Book Online Page A

for pudding,” Grandma said to my mother when we reached the porch. “We brought Officer Morelli with us on account of he hasn’t had any homemade pudding in an awful long time.”
    My mother’s lips pinched tight.
    “I hope I’m not intruding,” Morelli said. “I know you weren’t expecting company.”
    This is the opening statement that will get you into any burg house. No housewife worth her salt will ever admit to having her house not up to company twenty-four hours a day. Jack the Ripper would have easy access if he used this line.
    My mother gave a curt nod and grudgingly stepped aside while the three of us slid past.
    For fear of mayhem, my father had never been informed of the choo-choo incident. This meant he regarded Morelli with no more and no less contempt and apprehension than any of the other potential suitors my mother and grandmother dragged in off the street. He gave Joe a cursory inspection, engaged in the minimum necessary small talk and returned his attention to the TV, studiously ignoring my grandmother as she passed out pudding.
    “They had a closed casket all right for Moogey Bues,” my grandmother said to my mother. “I got to see him anyway on account of the accident.”
    My mother’s eyes opened wide in alarm. “Accident?”
    I shrugged out of my jacket. “Grandma caught her sleeve on the lid, and the lid accidentally flew open.”
    My mother raised her arms in appalled supplication. “All day I’ve had people calling and telling me about the gladioli. Now tomorrow I’ll have to hear about the lid.”
    “He didn’t look so hot,” Grandma Mazur said. “I told Spiro that he did a good job, but it was pretty much a fib.”
    Morelli was wearing a blazer over a black knit shirt. He took a seat, and his jacket swung wide, exposing the gun at his hip.
    “Nice piece!” Grandma said. “What is it? Is that a forty-five?”
    “It’s a nine-millimeter.”
    “Don’t suppose you’d let me see it,” Grandma said. “I’d sure like to get the feel of a gun like that.”
    “NO!” everyone shouted in unison.
    “I shot a chicken once,” Grandma explained to Morelli. “It was an accident.”
    I could see Morelli searching for a reply. “Where did you shoot it?” he finally asked.
    “In the gumpy,” Grandma said. “Shot it clear off.”
    Two puddings and three beers later, Morelli peeled himself away from the TV. We left together and lingered to talk privately at the curb. The sky was starless and moonless and most of the houses were dark. The street was empty of traffic. In other parts of Trenton the night might feel dangerous. In the burg the night felt soft and secure.
    Morelli turned my suit collar up against the chill air. His knuckles brushed my neck, and his gaze lingered on my mouth. “You have a nice family,” he said.
    I narrowed my eyes. “If you kiss me I’ll scream, and then my father will come out and punch you in the nose.” And before any of those things happened, I’d probably wet my pants.
    “I could take your father.”
    “But you wouldn’t.”
    Morelli still had his hands on my collar. “No, I wouldn’t.”
    “Tell me about the car again. There was no sign of struggle?”
    “No sign of struggle. The keys were in the ignition and the driver’s door was closed but unlocked.”
    “Any blood on the pavement?”
    “I haven’t been out to the scene, but the crime lab checked around and didn’t come up with any physical evidence.”
    “Prints?”
    “They’re in the system.”
    “Personal possessions?”
    “None found.”
    “Then he wasn’t living out of the car,” I reasoned.
    “You’re getting better at this apprehension agent stuff,” Morelli said. “You’re asking all the right questions.”
    “I watch a lot of television.”
    “Let’s talk about Spiro.”
    “Spiro hired me to look into a mortuarial problem.”
    Morelli’s face creased in laughter. “Mortuarial problem?”
    “I don’t want to talk about it.”
    “Doesn’t