"Frame him for the shooting," Lula said.

"Exactly. So they hustle over with the moving van Biggy always keeps in his yard, not knowing two people have already seen Sam in the abandoned house, load Sam onto the hand truck, park him and the van in a place with foot traffic and plant the gun in Biggy's closet. Or maybe they don't even have to plant the gun. Maybe Biggy took the gun home with him."

"I think this is all a load of c.o.c.kydoody," Lula said.

"I saw something like this in a movie," Grandma said. "On that Turner Cla.s.sics station. I'm pretty sure it was Abbott and Costello."

"I'll tell you when I got this brainstorm," I said. "It was when Grandma fired off that first shot at Biggy and got knocked off her seat. The first time I fired a forty-five I had it too close to my face and the kick mocked the barrel into my forehead. I still have the scar."

"That little white mark?" Lula took a closer look. "Uh-oh, right in the same spot as Lucille's goose egg."

"Yes! And I bet the police can find trace evidence over Lucille's den."

"You mean you think there might be some left after she shampooed her rug?" Lula asked.

I'd been so excited about my brilliant deduction I'd forgotten about the rug shampooer.

"No self-respecting burg housewife would leave brain gunk on her walls and floors," Grandma said. "We keep our houses clean. Not like in some of them other neighborhoods."

This was bizarre but true.

"You think we have to tell the cops about your Lucille idea?" Grandma asked.

"It would be the right thing to do," I said.

"Yeah," Lula said. "And we always do the right thing. On the other hand, Biggy Zaremba is a real jerk. I don't like men who beat up on women."

"And kids."

I could feel Lula stiffen next to me. "He beat on his kids?"

"That's what people tell me."

"A man like that should be locked up."

"You could be wrong about Lucille," Grandma said to me. "You don't have any proof."

That was true. I could be wrong. But I didn't think so. Biggy had gone unglued when he saw me in the alley. And he said things he should have kept to himself. Like, how he'd done someone a favor, and how I'd been the one to transfer Sam from the house to the van. Biggy wasn't clever enough to orchestrate a scene like that for his own benefit. Biggy wasn't the killer. Biggy was an accomplice.

"Not only that, but you go telling the cops this theory about Lucille it's gonna take all the fun out of it for them," Lula said. "Homicide won't get no satisfaction if you don't let them figure this for themselves."

Jeez, I wouldn't want to ruin it for homicide.

Grandma shuffled one foot to the other. "There's all kinds of justice, you know."

"f.u.c.kin' A," Lula said.

I thought justice looked like a real big gorilla. I wasn't in the business of determining justice. I was in the business of enforcing the law. But I had to admit, the thought of Biggy in jail sort of warmed by heart.

"Well, we could go to the police station and tell them Lucille's the one," Grandma said. "Or we could go back to the house and have some homemade chocolate cake."

This caught my attention. I'd forgotten about the cake.

"With vanilla ice cream," Grandma said. "The good kind with all them fat grams." She cut her eyes to me. "And hot fudge sauce to go on top."

Grandma wasn't above delivering a well-placed sucker-punch.

"Suppose homicide doesn't figure it out?" I asked Grandma and Lula.

Grandma took a moment to consider. "I guess if it would make you feel better, we could visit Biggy once in a while in the big house. Bring him some cookies."

"Yeah," Lula said, "or we could chip in for a TV. They let them lifers have TV sets."

"We can't just stand by and let a man spend the rest of his life in prison for a crime he didn't commit!"

"The h.e.l.l we can't," Lula said.

"And besides," Grandma said, "what about all the crimes he got away with? What about the stuff he stole and the people he beat up? What about evening the score?"

I pressed my lips together. "This isn't hockey."

We all shuffled our feet some more, and a drop of rain splattered on my bare arm. Then another. And another.

"It's a sign from G.o.d," Lula said, tilting her face heavenward, squinting into the rain. "G.o.d wants us to forget about all this s.h.i.t and go eat some cake."

Wonderful. Now G.o.d was in on it.

"G.o.d's no dummy," Lula said. "He knows chocolate cake helps clear a person's head for making important decisions."

I thought about the bruise on Kathy's face. And then I thought about the way the oldest Zaremba kid always looked scared. And then I thought Lula might be right... that I wouldn't want to make a decision without the benefit of chocolate cake. In fact, to ensure that I wasn't making a terrible mistake, it might take me a very, very, very long time to make any decision at all.

The End