Page 12 of Now or Never

I took a small sip of wine. Surely a small sip was okay. I mean, I didn’t even know if Iwaspreggers. “Bruno Jug.”

“He’s a big fish,” Grandma said.

My mother made the sign of the cross. “He’ll have you killed,” my mother said. “He’s bonkers. He was bad enough when he was sane, and now he’s crazy.”

“Lots of people have tried to kill Stephanie,” Grandma said. “Her apartment just got firebombed. That was a good one.”

I wanted more wine, but I’d had my sip, so I reached for the bread basket. I took a couple chunks and slathered them with butter.

“Most women die from heart disease and breast cancer, but mydaughter is going to get killed by Bruno Jug,” my mother said. “A bullet to the brain.”

“Not necessarily,” Grandma said. “It depends who does his wet work. If he uses Jimmy the Pig, she could get bludgeoned. And sometimes people just disappear, and you don’t know if they’re in the landfill or dumped offshore.”

My father stopped eating and picked his head up. “Who’s getting dumped offshore?”

“Stephanie,” my mother said. “She’s going after Bruno Jug. He didn’t show up for court and now she’s going to put him in cuffs at Larry Luger’s viewing.”

“Larry Luger died?”

“Aneurysm,” Grandma said. “Come on him all of a sudden while he was brushing his teeth.”

“Hunh,” my father said. “Brushing his teeth.” And he went back to eating his shells.

My mother chugged a glass of wine and poured another. “Why me?” she asked.

Grandma tipped her head up and sniffed. “It smells like something is burning. Is anything on the stove in the kitchen?” she asked my mom.

My mom went quiet for a moment. “No,” she said. “I’m sure the stove is off. I smell it too. It smells more like someone has a fireplace going.”

“There’s no fireplaces in these houses,” Grandma said. “It must be the Weavers grilling again. It smells like they’re toasting marshmallows.”

“It’s me,” I said. “It’s my jacket. I can’t get the smell out from the fire.”

“It makes me hungry for dessert,” Grandma said. “Good thing I bought a cake this morning.”

The funeral home is on the edge of the Burg. For years it was owned and managed by Constantine Stiva. It has since changed hands, but everyone still calls it Stiva’s. It’s a large white colonial-type structure with a wide front porch, a small parking lot on the side, a newer brick addition, and several garages in the rear. Grandma and I arrived early enough to get one of the prized parking spots in the lot. Grandma hurried off to the front porch so she would be one of the first in line to push through the big double doors when the viewing began at seven o’clock. I lingered in the car. I was in no hurry to go into the funeral home. I especially was in no hurry to encounter Bruno Jug at the funeral home. It would be a spectacle. Fortunately, it was unlikely that he would show. I couldn’t see the new Mrs. Jug hanging at the cookie table with Grandma and her pals.

I waited until the last straggler had disappeared inside the building, and then I left my car and joined the viewing.

Grandma and her crew had a viewing routine. First in, grab the good seats up front where you could check out the mourners as they passed in front of the casket. Tonight, they’d also be scrutinizing the widow for signs of Botox. At seven forty-five they would get in line and pay their respects. Then they’d head for the cookie station. Doors closed at nine o’clock. I’d only known Grandma to leave before nine o’clock on one occasion and that was because she had uncontrollable diarrhea from God knows what. So, I was stuck in the funeral home until nine o’clock. This was my punishment for celebrating with two men. I guess it could have been worse. There were cookies. And so far, no Bruno Jug.

I hung out in the lobby, wandering around the perimeter ofthe room. There were upholstered benches, but I thought I would look pathetic if I sat on one all by myself. Like the last girl asked to dance at a seventh-grade mixer. People would talk. They’d say,There’s Stephanie Plum. Her apartment got firebombed again. Poor thing.

Morelli called me at eight o’clock. “Bob misses you,” Morelli said. “Do you have a headache yet?”

Bob is Morelli’s dog. He’s big and orange, and he smiles a lot.

“It’s all good,” I said. “Grandma and the ladies just got to the cookie table. I have an hour to go.”

“And then?”

“If I don’t have a headache, I thought I might take a drive over to Bruno Jug’s house. He’s FTA and if I could bring him in, I would be able to pay off my credit card.”

“You don’t want to mess with Bruno Jug. He’s easily offended. Like if someone tried to cuff him, he’d take it personally and have them soaked in gasoline and set on fire. Let Vinny bring him in.”

“Rumor has it that Jug’s senile.”

“I’ve heard the rumor. I’ve also heard a rumor that his new bride is pregnant by their Chihuahua and that the world is coming to an end in thirty-two days.”

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