Read Online Two for the Dough by Janet Evanovich - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Janet Evanovich
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have anything to do with Kenny?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.”
The upstairs window opened and my mother stuck her head out. “Stephanie,” she stage-whispered, “what are you doing out there? What will the neighbors think?”
“Nothing to worry about, Mrs. Plum,” Morelli called. “I was just leaving.”
Rex was running in his wheel when I got home. I switched the light on, and he stopped dead in his tracks, black eyes wide, whiskers twitching in indignation that night had suddenly disappeared.
I kicked my shoes off en route to the kitchen, dropped my pocketbook onto the counter, and punched PLAY on my answering machine.
There was only one message. Gazarra had called at the end of his shift to tell me no one knew much about Morelli. Only that he was working on something big, and that it tied in to the Mancuso-Bues investigation.
I hit the off button and dialed Morelli.
He answered slightly out of breath on the sixth ring. Probably had just gotten into his apartment.
There didn’t seem to be much need for small talk. “Creep,” I said, cutting to the heart of the matter.
“Gosh, I wonder who this could be.”
“You lied to me. I knew it, too. I knew it right from the beginning, you jerk.”
Silence stretched taut between us, and I realized my accusation covered a lot of territory, so I narrowed the field. “I want to know about this big secret case you’re working on, and I want to know how it ties in to Kenny Mancuso and Moogey Bues.”
“Oh,” Morelli said. “ That lie.”
“Well?”
“I can’t tell you anything about that lie.”
Thoughts of Kenny Mancuso and Joe Morelli had kept me thrashing around most of the night. At seven I rolled myself out of bed, feeling cranky and bedraggled. I showered, dressed in jeans and T-shirt, and made a pot of coffee.
My basic problem was that I had plenty of ideas about Joe Morelli and hardly any about Kenny Mancuso.
I poured out a bowl of cereal, filled my Daffy Duck mug with coffee, and picked through the contents of the envelope Spiro had given me. The storage facility was just off Route 1 in an area of strip-mall-type light-industrial complexes. The photo of the missing casket had been cut from some sort of flyer or brochure and showed a casket that was clearly at the bottom of the funeral food chain. It was little more than a plain pine box, devoid of the carvings and beveled edges usually found on burg caskets. Why Spiro would buy twenty-four of these crates was beyond my comprehension. People spent money on funerals and weddings in the burg. Being buried in one of these caskets would be lower than ring around the collar. Even Mrs. Ciak next door, who was on Social Security and turned her lights off each night at nine to save money, had thousands set aside for her burial.
I finished my cereal, rinsed the bowl and spoon, poured a second cup of coffee, and filled Rex’s little ceramic food dish with Cheerios and blueberries. Rex popped out of his soup can with his nose twitching in excitement. He rushed to the dish, crammed everything into his cheeks, and rushed back to his soup can, where he hunkered in butt side out, vibrating with happiness and good fortune. That’s the neat part about a hamster. It doesn’t take much to make a hamster happy.
I grabbed my jacket and the large black leather pocketbook that held all my bounty-hunter paraphernalia and headed for the stairs. Mr. Wolesky’s TV droned through his closed door and the aroma of bacon frying hung in the hallway just in front of Mrs. Karwatt’s apartment. I exited the building in solitude and paused for a moment to enjoy the crisp morning air. A few leaves still tenaciously clung to trees, but for the most part limbs were bare and spidery against the bright sky. A dog barked in the neighborhood behind my apartment building and a car door slammed. Mr. Suburbia was going to work. And Stephanie Plum, bounty hunter extraordinaire, was off to find twenty-four cheap
“Cross my heart and hope to die.”
The upstairs window opened and my mother stuck her head out. “Stephanie,” she stage-whispered, “what are you doing out there? What will the neighbors think?”
“Nothing to worry about, Mrs. Plum,” Morelli called. “I was just leaving.”
Rex was running in his wheel when I got home. I switched the light on, and he stopped dead in his tracks, black eyes wide, whiskers twitching in indignation that night had suddenly disappeared.
I kicked my shoes off en route to the kitchen, dropped my pocketbook onto the counter, and punched PLAY on my answering machine.
There was only one message. Gazarra had called at the end of his shift to tell me no one knew much about Morelli. Only that he was working on something big, and that it tied in to the Mancuso-Bues investigation.
I hit the off button and dialed Morelli.
He answered slightly out of breath on the sixth ring. Probably had just gotten into his apartment.
There didn’t seem to be much need for small talk. “Creep,” I said, cutting to the heart of the matter.
“Gosh, I wonder who this could be.”
“You lied to me. I knew it, too. I knew it right from the beginning, you jerk.”
Silence stretched taut between us, and I realized my accusation covered a lot of territory, so I narrowed the field. “I want to know about this big secret case you’re working on, and I want to know how it ties in to Kenny Mancuso and Moogey Bues.”
“Oh,” Morelli said. “ That lie.”
“Well?”
“I can’t tell you anything about that lie.”
Thoughts of Kenny Mancuso and Joe Morelli had kept me thrashing around most of the night. At seven I rolled myself out of bed, feeling cranky and bedraggled. I showered, dressed in jeans and T-shirt, and made a pot of coffee.
My basic problem was that I had plenty of ideas about Joe Morelli and hardly any about Kenny Mancuso.
I poured out a bowl of cereal, filled my Daffy Duck mug with coffee, and picked through the contents of the envelope Spiro had given me. The storage facility was just off Route 1 in an area of strip-mall-type light-industrial complexes. The photo of the missing casket had been cut from some sort of flyer or brochure and showed a casket that was clearly at the bottom of the funeral food chain. It was little more than a plain pine box, devoid of the carvings and beveled edges usually found on burg caskets. Why Spiro would buy twenty-four of these crates was beyond my comprehension. People spent money on funerals and weddings in the burg. Being buried in one of these caskets would be lower than ring around the collar. Even Mrs. Ciak next door, who was on Social Security and turned her lights off each night at nine to save money, had thousands set aside for her burial.
I finished my cereal, rinsed the bowl and spoon, poured a second cup of coffee, and filled Rex’s little ceramic food dish with Cheerios and blueberries. Rex popped out of his soup can with his nose twitching in excitement. He rushed to the dish, crammed everything into his cheeks, and rushed back to his soup can, where he hunkered in butt side out, vibrating with happiness and good fortune. That’s the neat part about a hamster. It doesn’t take much to make a hamster happy.
I grabbed my jacket and the large black leather pocketbook that held all my bounty-hunter paraphernalia and headed for the stairs. Mr. Wolesky’s TV droned through his closed door and the aroma of bacon frying hung in the hallway just in front of Mrs. Karwatt’s apartment. I exited the building in solitude and paused for a moment to enjoy the crisp morning air. A few leaves still tenaciously clung to trees, but for the most part limbs were bare and spidery against the bright sky. A dog barked in the neighborhood behind my apartment building and a car door slammed. Mr. Suburbia was going to work. And Stephanie Plum, bounty hunter extraordinaire, was off to find twenty-four cheap
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