Morelli looked at me speculatively. "You expecting someone?"
"It's probably old Mrs. Bestler from the third floor. Sometimes she forgets where she lives." I put my eye to the security peephole. "Nope. Not Mrs. Bestler." Mrs. Bestler didn't have big red hair like Little Orphan Annie. Mrs. Bestler didn't wear skin-tight black leather. Mrs. Bestler's breasts weren't in the shape of icecream cones.
I turned back to Morelli. "I don't suppose I could get you to wait in the bedroom for a moment or two . . ."
"Not on your life," Morelli said. "I wouldn't miss this for anything."
I threw the bolt and opened the door.
"I don't know why I'm doing this," Sally said. "I'm like sucked into this bounty hunter trip."
"The excitement of the chase," I said.
"Yeah. That's it. It's the fucking chase." He held a jar out to me. "I went back and got the clue. Borrowed one of those longhandled duster things. I decoded the note, but I don't know what it means."
"Weren't there people around, wondering what you were doing?"
"When you look like this nobody asks. They're all happy as shit I'm not close-dancing on their front lawn with Uncle Fred." He lifted his chin a fraction of an inch and gave Joe the once-over. "Who's this?"
"This is Joe Morelli. He was just leaving."
"No I wasn't," Morelli said.
Sally stepped forward. "If she says you're leaving then I think you're leaving."
Morelli rocked back on his heels and grinned. "You gonna make me?"
"You think I can't?"
"I think somebody should help you pick out a bra. This year the rounded look is in."
Sally looked down at his ice-cream cones. "They're my trademark. I'm making a fucking fortune off these babies." He looked up and sucker-punched Morelli in the gut.
"Oof," Morelli said. Then he narrowed his eyes and lunged at Sally.
"No!" I yelped, jumping between them.
There was some close-in scuffling. I got clipped on the chin and went down like a sack of sand. Both men stooped to pick me up.
"Back off," I yelled, slapping them away. "Don't either of you touch me. I don't need help from you two infantile morons."
"He insulted my breasts," Sally said.
"That's what happens when you have breasts," I shouted. "People insult them. Get used to it."
Joe glared at Sally. "Who are you? And what's with this jar?"
Sally extended his hand. "Sally Sweet."
Joe took the offered hand. "Joe Morelli."
They stood like that for a moment or two, and I saw a red flush begin to creep into Sally's cheeks. The cords in Morelli's neck grew prominent. Their hands remained clasped and their bodies jerked in rigid struggle. The morons were arm wrestling.
"That does it," I said. "I'm getting my gun. And I'm going to shoot the winner."
Eyes slid in my direction.
"Actually, I've gotta run," Sally said. "I've got a gig at the shore tonight, and Sugar's waiting in the car."
"He's a musician," I told Morelli.
Morelli took a step backward. "It's always a treat to meet Stephanie's friends."
"Yeah," Sally said, "my fucking pleasure."
Morelli was grinning when I closed and locked the door. "You never disappoint me," he said.
"What was that wrestling match about?"
"We were playing." He glanced down at the jar. "Tell me about this."
"Maxine Nowicki has been leaving clues for Eddie Kuntz. Sort of a revenge-driven scavenger hunt. The clues are always in code. That's where Sally comes in. He's good at cracking codes." I opened the jar, removed the paper and read the message. " 'Our spot. Wednesday at three.' "
"They have a spot," Morelli said. "Makes me feel all romantic again. Maybe I should make a fast run to the drugstore."
"Suppose you went to the drugstore. How many would you buy? Would you buy one? Would you buy a month's worth? Would you buy a whole case?"
"Oh boy," Morelli said. "This is about curtains, isn't it?"
"Just want to get the rules straight."
"How about we live one day at a time."
"One day at a time is okay," I said. I suppose.
"So if I go to the drugstore you'll let me back in?"
"No. I'm not in the mood." In fact, I was suddenly feeling damn cranky. And for some unknown reason the image of Terry Gilman kept popping up in my mind.
Morelli ran a playful finger along my jawbone. "Bet I could change your mood."
I crossed my arms over my chest and looked at him slitty eyed. "I don't think so."
"Hmmm," Morelli said, "maybe not." He stretched, and then he sauntered into the kitchen and retrieved his pager from the refrigerator. "You're in a bad mood because