"I even got my nails done," Grandma said. I got them to match my hair, and I got a new lipstick too. Dolly said I couldn't wear red with my hair this color, so I got a lipstick named Orgasm. It's gotta be good with a name like that."

Morelli almost ran up on the curb at the thought of Grandma wearing a lipstick named Orgasm.

"Are you still looking for Diggery?" Grandma wanted to know.

"Yes."

"They buried Stanley Berg today, and I heard at the beauty parlor that he went in the ground wearing a diamond pinkie ring and a new Brooks Brothers suit that would fit Simon Diggery. And the weather is nice and mild. We're supposed to get some rain later, but I don't think a little rain would stop Diggery if he needed a new suit."

We dropped Grandma off, then went to Morelli's house to get Bob. Morelli parked in the alley behind his house, took the key out of the ignition, and dropped it into his pocket.

"Wait here," Morelli said. "I'll be right out."

I gave him a raised eyebrow. "You took the key?"

"You wouldn't be here when I came out if I left the key."

"I still might not be here."

"Yeah, but at least I'll have my car."

Morelli jogged to his back door, disappeared inside the house for a few seconds, and reappeared with Bob. Bob bounded out of the house, tethered to his leash, doing his happy dance, he tinkled on a small patch of dead grass, then rushed to I the back of I the SUV, anxious to go for a ride. Morelli loaded Bob into the car and got behind the wheel.

"Now what?" he asked.

"I was going to stop in at the office."

"Okay," he said, putting the SUV in gear. "To the office."

"This is ridiculous. Are you going to stick with me all day?"

"Like stink on a monkey, Cupcake."

CONNIE WAS PUTTING together files when I walked in.

"I have some new guys for you," she said. "Nothing big. Possession, domestic violence, and grand theft auto. All FTA." She put the paperwork in a folder and handed it to me. "How's Tank? I understand he was shot."

"He's going to be okay. I saw him when he came out of surgery."

"Lula flew out of here when she heard."

"We met her at the hospital. She decided to stay with Tank for a while. Make sure he behaves himself."

The front door banged open and Lula swung in. "They wouldn't let me stay. They said I was a disruptive influence. Do you believe that? Hell, I wasn't disrupting nothing."

"Imagine, someone thinking you're disruptive," Connie said.

"Yeah, they got a bunch of stick-up-their-ass nurses in that place," Lula said. "It was okay, anyways, because they gave Tank some happy juice in his IV and he fell asleep." She looked through the front window. "What's Morelli doing out there?"

"Waiting for me," I said.

"Why?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"He's babysitting you, isn't he?" Lula said. "It's got something to do with Tank getting shot, right?"

"Do you want the long version or the short version?" I asked them.

"I want the long version," Connie said. "I want all the details."

"Yeah," Lula said. "I don't want to miss nothing. I gotta feeling this is gonna be good."

It took a little over ten minutes for me to get through the long version, mostly because Lula went on a rant that Morelli didn't tell me about Dickie.

"What do you mean he didn't tell you?" Lula said. "After all you do for him?"

"Yeah," Connie said. She looked over at Lula. "What do you mean?"

"I'm talking about the nasty," Lula said.

We all thought about that for a moment.

"Okay, maybe that's not a good example," Lula said. "Everybody wants to do the nasty with Morelli."

"There must be other things you do," Connie said.

Connie and Lula waited to hear what I did for Morelli.

"Sometimes I baby-sit Bob," I said.

"See that," Lula said. "She baby-sits Bob. Right there he should have told her. He didn't tell me, and I'd slap him a good one."

"You'd slap Morelli?" Connie said. "Joe Morelli?"

"Okay, maybe not Morelli," Lula said. "But most men."

"Seems to me he was just doing his job," Connie said.

"Yeah, and it don't look like Stephanie does a whole lot for him," Lula said. "Maybe you should do more for Morelli," she said to me.

"Like what?"

"Well, we wouldn't expect you to cook or clean or anything, but you could pick his undies up off the floor and fold them. I bet he'd like that."

"I'll keep that in mind," I told Lula.

"Boy, you get into a lot of trouble," Lula said to me. "Trouble finds you. Good thing you got Morelli riding shotgun for you, even if it is sort of humiliating and demeaning."

"Yeah," I said. "Good thing."

I took the FTA folder from Connie, left the office, and got into Morelli's SUV.

"What's new?" he asked.

"I have some new FTAs. And Lula said I should pick your undies up off the floor and fold them. She said you'd like that."

"I'd hate that. I leave them on the floor so I can find them if I have to leave in a hurry."

Grandma Mazur called on my cell phone.

"You'll never guess," she said. "That nice Mr. Coglin just called to thank me again. And we got to talking, and one thing led to another, and he's coming for dinner."

"Get out."

"Good thing I got my hair and my nails done. I guess he's a little young for me, but I'm pretty sure I can handle it. I thought you and Joseph might want to come to dinner too."

I'd sooner poke myself in the eye with a sharp stick.

"Gee," I said. "I think we have plans."

"That's a shame. Your mother made lasagna. And she's got chocolate cake for dessert. And I was sort of hoping you could come in case your father don't like taxidermists. It's always good to have a police officer at the table in case things get cranky."

I looked at my watch. Almost five o'clock. Dinner would be at six. Morelli and I would have an hour to take Bob to the park for a walk.

GRANDMA WAS WAITING at the door when we got to the house.

"Mr. Coglin isn't here yet," she said.

Morelli let Bob off the leash, and Bob ran into the kitchen to say hello to my mother. I heard my mother shriek and then all was quiet.

"He must have eaten something," Grandma said. "I hope it wasn't the cake."

The house smelled good, like Italian spices in marinara sauce and garlic bread in the oven. The dining room was set for six. Two bottles of red wine on the table, a bowl of grated Parmigiano-Reggiano. My father was asleep in front of the television, and I could hear my mother working in the kitchen, talking to Bob.

"Be a good boy, and I'll give you a little lasagna," she said to Bob.

I followed Grandma into the kitchen and looked around for Bob damage. "What did he eat?" I asked my mother.

"It was almost the cake, but I caught him in time."

I went to the stove and stirred the extra sauce cooking in the pan. I love being in my mothers kitchen. It is always warm and steamy and filled with activity. In my mind, I have a kitchen like this. The cabinets are filled with dishes that actually get used. The pots sit out on the stove, waiting for the days sauces and soups and stews. The cookbook on the counter is dog-eared and splattered with grease and gravy and icing smudges.

This is a fantasy kitchen, of course. My actual kitchen has dishes, but I eat standing over the sink, paper towel in hand. I have a single pot that is only used to boil water for tea when I have a cold. And I don't own a cookbook.

Sometimes, I wanted to marry Morelli so I'd have a kitchen like my moms. Then, other times, I worried that I couldn't pull it off, and I'd have a husband and three kids, and we'd all be eating take-out standing over the sink. I guess there are worse things in the world than take-out, but in my mothers kitchen, take-out feels a little like failure.