“If I knew where he went, I’d be there, and I’d choke him until he coughed up the money.”
“Cranberry Manor would be grateful.”
“I don’t give a fig about Cranberry Manor,” Susan said. “Those people are old. They’re gonna die. I want the money.”
A police car angled to a stop behind Lula’s Firebird and two guys got out. One was sort of a friend of mine, Carl Costanza. We’d done Communion together, among other things. Costanza and his partner stood, hands on their gun belts, looking at Lula’s Firebird, then looking at me, sizing up the situation. I gave them a little wave and they walked over.
“We got a report from a neighbor that a woman was acting suspiciously, creeping around this house,” Carl said.
“That might be Lula,” I told him.
“Who’s Lula?” Susan Cubbin asked.
“She’s my partner,” I said.
“And why is she creeping around my house?”
“She thought she saw a cat. And she’s a real cat lover.”
“Oh jeez,” Susan said, “don’t tell me my cat got out again.”
“It could always be some other cat,” I said.
“I gotta make sure. What color was it? Where’s your partner?”
“Hey, Lula!” I yelled.
Lula poked her head around the side of the house. “You call me?”
“What color cat did you see?”
“Say what?”
“You know, the cat you went to find . . . when you were walking around the house just now. What color was it?”
“White,” Lula said.
“Thank goodness,” Susan said. “My Fluffy is orange.”
“Case closed,” Carl said.
“I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know if you hear from your husband,” I said to Susan.
“Yeah,” Susan said. “Likewise.”
We followed Carl and his partner to the curb.
“Was he in there?” Carl asked Lula.
“Not that I could see,” Lula said. “You’re talking about the white cat, right?”
“Right,” Carl said.
We all got into our cars and drove away.
“Now what?” Lula wanted to know.
“Now we visit Cranberry Manor. Did you see anything unusual when you were snooping?”
“I didn’t see any sign of Geoffrey Cubbin, but someone had been packing a suitcase.”
“Men’s clothes or women’s clothes?”
“Looked like women’s clothes.”
My cellphone rang, and Grandma’s number came up.
“I’m at the beauty parlor, and I need a ride,” Grandma said.
“Where are you going?”
“To the hospital, of course. I’m on the job. I just made that baloney up about the beauty parlor to get out of the house. I figured if your mother knew I was going to the hospital she’d head for the liquor cabinet.”
“We’ll be in big trouble if she finds out I took you to the hospital.”
“She won’t find out. I’m wearing a disguise, and I have a fake ID. As far as anyone knows I’m Selma Whizzer today.”
“What’s going on?” Lula wanted to know.
“It’s Grandma. She’s at the beauty parlor, and she needs a ride to the hospital so she can snoop for us. She said she’s in disguise.”
“I gotta see this. Is she at the beauty parlor on Hamilton by the bridal shop?”
“Yes.”
“I’m on it. Tell her we’re fifteen minutes out.”
FIVE
LULA ALMOST JUMPED the curb when she saw Grandma in front of the hair salon. Grandma was wearing a blond Marilyn Monroe wig, a hot pink tank top, black Pilates pants, and black kitten heels. She looked like the senior version of an inflatable sex toy doll that needed more air.
“Your granny’s real fashion forward with the retro wig, and I love the little pink tank top,” Lula said, “but we gotta fatten her up. I don’t like to be critical, only she’s got too much skin. You could fit a whole other person in that skin.”
Grandma tottered over on her little heels. “What do you think?” Grandma said, climbing into the backseat. “I bet you didn’t know who it was standing there until I waved at you.”
“It’s a good disguise,” Lula said, “but you might be cold in that tank top when you get into the hospital.”
“I got a sweater in my purse,” Grandma said. “I’m all prepared. I could take care of any situation. I’m packing heat more ways than one.”
Lula pulled out into traffic. “You telling me you got a gun?”
“Of course I got a gun. I got a big one too. A person’s gotta be prepared. You never know when you might have to stop a bank robbery.”