22 Caliber - A Stephanie Plum-inspired Story

Chapter Nine

I beat Morelli to his house that night. A few years ago he had inherited a row house on the outskirts of the Burg from his Aunt Rose. It was a comfortable house similar to my parents'. Living room, dining room and kitchen on the main floor; a bedroom, guest bedroom, office and bathroom on the upper floor. Over time Joe had made some changes to the house – adding a half-bath on the main floor, putting in a concrete floor in the basement, refinishing the hardwood floors. In other ways he had left the house as Aunt Rose had it. I'm glad he hadn't completely eradicated traces of Aunt Rose. I, for one, thought the merging of Joe's masculine furnishings with Aunt Rose's lace curtains worked.

I had a key and let myself in. Bob the dog came barreling down the hall with his tail wagging and skidded on the hardwood floor and splayed his feet out in an attempt to stop before he hit me. He wasn't successful. He hit me full force and knocked me back hard enough to rattle the windows and skew the pictures on the wall. He bounced back up and danced his happy dance, all smiley and drool-y, licked my face, then wheeled around and galloped through the house to the kitchen to get his ball. Bob's needs were simple. Playing ball and eating were Bob's two favorite things to do.

I hooked up Bob's leash and shoved a plastic grocery bag in my pocket. I hated having to carry a bag. It wasn't a big deal when the bag was empty but when it was filled with stinky dog poo it was impossible to look cool. We went for a short walk. Bob watered every bush, fire hydrant and electrical box between Morelli's house and the end of the street. We turned around to go back. A couple of houses away from home Bob started to hunch over. I pulled on his leash and dragged him back home, from the front of the house and through to the back. I finally released him from his leash into Morelli's backyard and left him to do his thing. Do I know how to walk a dog or what?

A few minutes after I returned, Morelli came home. He looked in the fridge. "Want something cool for your throat?" he said as he passed me a beer. He pulled out a tray of manicotti. "My mom came by this morning", he said in way of explanation. We each dished a portion onto plates and took turns heating dinner up in the microwave. While the plates were heating we put cutlery and napkins on the table. Joe scooped some dog crunchies into a bowl for Bob, added some cold manicotti and mixed it in. He refilled Bob's water dish and put it all on the floor. Bob wolfed it down within seconds and looked around for more.

We put our plates on the table and sat across from each other. Bob sat beside us and stared at us, eyes moving side to side as he watched each of us in hopes we might drop some crumbs of food. Bob was ever hopeful. Just as we started to eat, the doorbell rang and Mrs. Morelli and Grandma Bella let themselves into the house. They "yoo-hoo'd" and walked back to the kitchen. I blanched.

"You!" Grandma Bella shrieked as she saw me, "you hunt Mario. You bad girl. You in trouble. You got the eye." She looked down at our plates. "You eat manicotti? You no deserve manicotti. I spit in manicotti." And she leaned over and spat in my dinner.

"Wait!" said Joe. "I asked Stephanie to help find Mario. He is scheduled to go to court in a few days and no one has seen him. I was worried, but I don't have time to look for him myself. She has done nothing, absolutely nothing, wrong."

Grandma Bella hit Joe on the back of the head. "That for hunting Mario. He go to court. He good boy." And with this she turned around and stalked back through the house and out to the car. Mrs. Morelli followed behind and shook her head as she muttered something about crazy old mothers. I looked at my plate, then took it and put it on the floor. Bob wolfed down the remaining manicotti, licked the plate and looked beseechingly at Joe's plate. "Not a chance," Joe said. Bob flopped on the floor and gave a huge sigh of resignation. No more food for Bob tonight.

I looked at Joe. "Don't worry", Morelli said, "she can't give you the eye. I'm her favorite grandson."

I got a clean plate out of the cupboard, heated up another portion of manicotti and sat down again. "So, about Mario..." I said.