“Who?” I asked her.
“I don’t know,” Grandma said. “Who do you think?”
“I don’t know who it is, either. Maybe someone who thinks he’s got the tray of stolen diamonds.”
“Plover?” Grandma asked.
“I guess that’s one possibility, but I can’t see him skulking around under cover of darkness, planting a bomb.”
“He could have hired someone.”
“Or there could be undiscovered people involved.”
“I suppose you want me to help you unravel this mystery,” Grandma said.
“Keep your ear to the ground,” I told her.
CHAPTER TEN
Bob and I rumbled out of my parents’ garage in the Buick. I drove past Morelli’s house to make sure it hadn’t burned down. I drove past the Manley house to make sure Nutsy’s Yamaha SR400 wasn’t in the driveway. I drove past the office to see if the Jeep had been picked up. Morelli’s house looked fine. No motorcycle in the Manley driveway. My Jeep was still in front of the bail bonds office.
“I have a problem,” I said to Bob. “It’s meat loaf night at the Manleys’， and I’d like to hang out to see if Nutsy shows up. Rule number one on a stakeout is to be inconspicuous, and a ’53 powder-blue-and-white Buick isn’t inconspicuous. Lula’s fire-engine-red Firebird isn’t inconspicuous either. I could borrow a car from Ranger but that could get complicated.”
Bob looked like he was paying attention, but since he couldn’t speak human, he wasn’t able to make a contribution. I turned back into the Burg and drove to my parents’ house. My mother was home from shopping and her car was parked in the driveway. It was a very inconspicuous silver Camry.
“All I have to do is talk her into letting me borrow the Camry,” I said to Bob. “Easy, right?”
Bob’s mind was elsewhere. He was looking at the house with big bright eyes, remembering hugs and dog treats. I parked at the curb and kept a tight grip on Bob’s leash in case he remembered the treats with too much enthusiasm. Grandma was in the kitchen with my mom when Bob and I walked in.
“Back so soon?” Grandma asked. “We’re deciding on dinner. We don’t have to make such a big deal out of it with your father in AC. We were thinking we might get takeout.”
“You and Bob are welcome to have takeout with us,” my mom said. “Or we could heat up some leftover pot roast and gravy.”
“I’m going to pass on dinner. I need to be someplace at five thirty. I was hoping I could borrow the Camry for an hour or two.”
“Your grandmother said you came for the Buick,” my mom said. “Is there something wrong with it? It hasn’t been serviced in ages.”
“The Buick is fine, but I need a car that blends in. I’m still looking for Nutsy, and I think he might show up at his parents’ house for dinner tonight. The Buick is too recognizable. He might spot it and get scared away.”
“Good thinking,” Grandma said. “Do you have inside information that he’s going to be sneaking home?”
“I talked to his mother, and she said that she’s making his favorite meal tonight. Meat loaf.”
“That’s worth a stakeout,” Grandma said. “And it works out perfect. We can pick up some pizza at Pino’s and head for the Manleys’。 We should wear hoodies, so no one recognizes us. This is going to be good. I don’t even care if I miss Jeopardy!”
“No one is going on a stakeout,” my mother said. “We’ll get pizza delivered. The Manleys just got their car blown up. They don’t need people parked across the street spying on them. This isn’t a television show, and we aren’t the police.”
“Stephanie’s almost the police,” Grandma said. “Besides, we’re trying to help the Manleys. We think someone is after Nutsy and they’re trying to flush him out by terrorizing his family.”
My mother stopped unpacking groceries and looked at me. “Is that true?”
“It might be,” I said. “I don’t want to involve you and Grandma. I thought Bob and I would sort of casually hang out and watch the house. I don’t have authority to make an apprehension. I just want to see where Nutsy goes. Maybe get a chance to talk to him. I’ve been trying to get in touch but he’s avoiding me.”
“I don’t like this,” my mom said. “Celia is a good person. And Nutsy has always been odd, but I’ve never heard that he was mean or dishonest. I don’t like hearing about this.”
“That’s why we should do something,” Grandma said. “We need to do some investigating. And we could have pizza. It would be like a picnic.”
“Good Lord, it’s not a picnic. You’re investigating a lunatic who blew up a car,” my mother said.
“Okay, there’s a little danger and possibly insanity involved,” Grandma said, “but it’s not like a zombie apocalypse or Armageddon.”
My mother went hands on hips. “Someone blew up a car.”
“People are blowing up Stephanie’s cars all the time,” Grandma said.
“Not all the time,” I said.
“The important thing is that Stephanie needs to talk to Nutsy,” Grandma said.
“If you’re going to do this and you need the Camry, I’m driving,” my mom said to me. “I don’t know if you’re still covered under our insurance policy.”
* * *
At five thirty my mom, Grandma, Bob, and I were parked half a block away from the Manley house. We had three large Pino’s pizzas. One with the works. One with barbecued chicken. One with sausage and no onions for Bob. We didn’t get drinks because we couldn’t pee in a jelly jar like guys do on stakeouts.
“I’ve got a good feeling about this,” Grandma said. “I think Nutsy’s going to show up. He knows it’s meat loaf night and he’s probably under a lot of stress, and there’s nothing better for stress than meat loaf. It’s comfort food. There would be less of a problem with drugs in this country if people ate more meat loaf.”
At five forty-five a Nissan Sentra stopped in front of the house and Harry Manley, Nutsy’s father, got out. He thanked the driver, walked to the front door, and let himself in.
At six thirty we were stuffed full of pizza, slouched back, and on the lookout for Nutsy. Grandma was in the front, next to my mom. Bob and I were in the back. Bob was stretched out on the seat with his head in my lap. Grandma was nodding off and snorting herself awake. My mom was steely eyed and vigilant. The sun had set but it was still light enough to clearly see down the street.
I heard the bike before I saw it. Not the whine of a crotch rocket. Not the deep-throated rumble of a hog. My cousin Paul had a Yamaha SR400, and he called it a sputter putt.
The 400 approached from the opposite direction. It rolled into the Manleys’ driveway and came to a stop. The driver didn’t remove his helmet. It had a full-face mirrored visor, but I knew it was Nutsy. He was lanky and a little too tall for the 400. He let himself in through the front door, being careful not to let any cats escape.
“That’s Nutsy,” I said to my mom and grandma.