14bis Plum Spooky by Janet Evanovich Page B

temporary thing. Next week, you’ll be in Spain or Malaysia, and you’ll have your nuts back.”
    “True. Call Ranger and see if he knows anything about the Sky explosion. He monitors the police band.”
    I punched Ranger’s number, and he immediately came on the line.
    “Babe,” Ranger said.
    “Sky Social Club had an issue to night.”
    “That’s what I’m told.”
    “It wasn’t my fault.”
    “It’s never your fault,” Ranger said. “So far, no bodies found, but I don’t think they’ve been able to get into the building yet.”
    “I was watching the club when it blew. My man Munch is hanging out with a creepy guy named Wulf. Wulf left the club and BLAM!”
    “You want to stay far away from Wulf,” Ranger said.
    “You know him?”
    “I know about him.”
    “That’s a relief. I thought maybe you were related.”
    “Not nearly. Diesel and Wulf are Swiss.”
    “Swiss!”
    Diesel had been watching the tele vision behind the bar, but that brought his attention back to me.
    “You know where I keep the key if you need a safe haven,” Ranger said. And he disconnected.
    I looked at Diesel. “You’re Swiss?”
    “Origin of birth.”
    “You seem so American.”
    “I’ve spent a lot of time here.”
    I AWOKE ALONE in my bed. Diesel’s side was rumpled, but Diesel was missing. Daylight halfheartedly peeped from the edge of my curtains, and I could smell coffee brewing. I dragged myself out of bed and into the kitchen.
    Diesel handed me a mug and filled it with coffee. “It lives,” he said.
    “You’re up early. What’s the occasion?”
    “It’s not that early. It’s almost eight o’clock, and we need to be on the road. My sources tell me there’s going to be a memorial ser vice for Eugene Scanlon today. It’s being held in a church in north Philly I’m hoping his long-lost sister will show. Or his killer.”
    “I hate memorial ser vices.”
    “Maybe they’ll have doughnuts,” Diesel said. “You have thirty-five minutes to get memorial-ready”
    “What about the monkey?”
    “He’s had breakfast, his game is charged, and the tele vision remote is within reach.”
    T HE CHURCH WAS two blocks from Roberta Scanlon’s house. It was gray stone, with the standard bell tower and carved oak door. It was moderate size, and all parking was on the street. We arrived ten minutes ahead of the ser vice, and there were only a handful of cars at the curb. I was wearing my black suit with the short pencil skirt, three-inch heels, and a white silk sweater. Diesel had selected for the occasion his jeans without a rip in the knee.
    Roberta was at the door when we entered.
    “Thank you for coming,” Roberta said to Diesel and me. “We’ll have doughnuts after the ser vice.”
    I felt Diesel smile behind me.
    “Have you heard from your sister?” I asked Roberta.
    Roberta motioned to the inside of the church. “Third pew from the altar on the left. She’s the woman with the pink streaks in her hair.”
    We sat three rows behind Gail Scanlon, and her sister sat next to her for the short eulogy. I counted thirteen other people present. All but two were women. All were Roberta’s age. Eugene Scanlon was not in attendance. He was in Trenton awaiting his autopsy.
    After the ser vice, the Scanlon sisters stood and filed out to the vestibule, where the buffet had been set. They were both stoic. Roberta was in a shapeless black dress. Gail was wearing a bright rainbow-colored tunic top and flowing ankle-length skirt. Neither touched the food. Roberta spoke to the few mourners who approached her, and Gail quietly stood to the side.
    Gail looked at her watch and twisted the tunic hem in her fingers.
    “She’s getting ready to bolt,” Diesel said, pushing me forward. “Talk to her.”
    “I don’t know her, and this is so private. What will I say?”
    “Tell her the blouse she’s wearing is pretty.”
    “What?”
    “Look at her,” Diesel said. “She’s chosen to wear something colorful. I’m