I was lucky enough to get the last spot in the small parking lot attached to the funeral home. A few people were gathered on the big front porch, and more people were milling around in the lobby. Mrs. Poletti was in Slumber Room No. 1, which was a spot of honor reserved for the deceased who were expected to draw larger than usual crowds—mob bosses, victims of violent deaths, minor celebrities, and Grand Poobahs of the Knights of Columbus.
Grandma marched straight to the viewing room without so much as a nod to the cookie table. Her eyes narrowed and her lips compressed when she saw that the first row in front of the casket was already taken by the Poletti family. She would have to settle for a seat in the second row.
“Some of them family members should be standing at the head of the casket with the husband of the deceased,” Grandma said. “This new generation don’t know much.”
I recognized the two grandsons, Oswald and Aaron, Aaron’s wife, and Buster. “Who’s the man sitting next to Buster?” I asked Grandma. “He was at the house the day Mrs. Poletti died.”
“He’s some out-of-state relative who was visiting while he was on a job interview,” Grandma said.
“And the three older women next to him?”
“Sisters of the deceased. All of them spinsters. There was rumors of them always being a little off.”
“In what way?”
“I heard they liked each other too much, if you know what I mean.”
People were pouring in after us, filling all the seats, forming a line to give condolences and check out Mrs. Poletti’s hair and makeup.
Grandma knew everyone.
“Who’s that man?” I asked her.
“Buster’s father,” Grandma said. “He was a construction expeditor. The woman behind him knows Mrs. Poletti from Bingo.”
After an hour, the river of mourners dwindled to a small trickle, and I left my seat to eavesdrop and ask questions. Everyone had some connection to the Poletti family, whether it was blood or Bingo. Except for Grandma, who was just plain nosy.
Jimmy Poletti’s wife, Trudy, was noticeably absent. Silvio and Miriam Pepper arrived late, gave their condolences to the family, and left through a side door before I had a chance to talk to them. Aaron and his wife also left early. Oswald Poletti ambled out of the Slumber Room fifteen minutes before the viewing ended and pushed through the crowd to the cookie table. He was shoving Oreos into his rumpled jacket pocket when I cornered him.
“Sorry about your grandmother,” I said.
“She was, like, old,” he said.
“I don’t suppose you’ve heard from your father.”
“Dear old Dad don’t call much.”
“I don’t mean to be judgmental, but is there ever a moment in the day when you aren’t stoned?”
“What?”
Buster moved into my line of vision on his way to the door, and I ran after him.
“Stephanie Plum,” I said, extending my hand. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”
“You’re the bounty hunter who broke into my apartment and found Bernie.”
“I didn’t break in. The door was open.”
“I heard you were with Jimmy’s bookkeeper. For a little guy, he gets around.”
“He’s helping me find Jimmy.”
“Whatever.” He focused on my breasts in the stretchy white tanktop. “You’re cuter than I expected. I bet you’re good with handcuffs.”
“I’m even better with a stun gun,” I said. “And I’ve been known to shoot people on occasion.”
“Stop. You’re getting me excited. I’m getting a boner.”
“I guess that’s an accomplishment at your age,” I said.
Buster grimaced. “Jeez, you really know how to ruin a moment.”
“About Jimmy …”
“I don’t know anything about Jimmy. Personally, I think he was framed. And I don’t know where he is now. End of story.”
“He was in your apartment.”
“Yeah, but I wasn’t there. He has a key. Lots of people have keys. I’m that kind of guy. I never took the keys back when I moved in.”
“You don’t talk to Jimmy?”
“Who, me? He’s a felon. Do I look like the kind of guy who would talk to a felon?”
“Yes.”
“Boy, that hurts. I’m a law-abiding citizen.”
“Did you get the blood out of the carpet?”
“No. I tossed it. Some people have no consideration for other people’s property. Somebody had a lot of nerve popping Bernie in my apartment.”
“So you have no idea who killed Bernie?”
“If I knew who killed Bernie, I’d send him a bill for my carpet.”
“Everybody thinks it was Jimmy.”
“That’s jumping to conclusions. I don’t see Jimmy killing someone.”
“He tried to kill his bookkeeper.”
“Yeah, but everyone wants to kill Briggs. He’s annoying. Anyway, Jimmy only tried to run him over. Briggs pissed Jimmy off when he boinked the missus.”
“Excuse me?”
“You didn’t know?”
“Randy Briggs and Trudy Poletti?”
Buster grinned. “Yeah, Briggs is an animal. He probably humped the dog when he was done with Trudy.”
I felt my upper lip curl back. “Ewwwww.”
“We all knew Trudy fooled around, and Jimmy mostly looked the other way, but doing the bookkeeper was insulting. Briggs was a fucking employee. Not to mention people were making unflattering comparisons between Briggs and Jimmy. And just between you and me, I’ve seen Jimmy, and Briggs might be bigger in the old shlongarooni department.” Buster rocked back on his heels. “I guess you would know more about that than me.”
“I know nothing! Briggs had a firebomb shot into his apartment. He asked me for protection, and in return he’s helping me find Jimmy. Are you sure you don’t know where Jimmy is hiding?”
“Maybe I’ll remember if you show me your tits.”
“That’s disgusting. This is a viewing. There’s a dead woman in there.”
“How about if I ask to see them in a bar?”
“No.”
“Suppose I bought you dinner?”
“No.”
“What if I was in the hospital with a heart attack?”
“No.”
“Boy, you’re tough. Most women would go for the heart attack.”