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.”

THE 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 sure it was deliberate. But now she’s feeling uncomfortable because she’s made herself even more of a misfit. A compliment would go a long way here.”

“That’s shockingly sensitive.”

“That’s me,” Diesel said. “Mr. Sensitivity.”

I crossed the room to Gail Scanlon. “That’s a beautiful tunic,” I said. “Is it handmade?”

Scanlon looked surprised, obviously astonished that someone would speak to her, much less compliment her clothes.

“There’s a woman in the Barrens who makes these,” she said, smoothing a wrinkle away. “I think they have positive energy.”

“Do you live in the Barrens?”

“Yes. Usually. Sometimes I travel.”

“I haven’t spent much time in the Barrens. People tell me they’re interesting.”

“They’re wonderful. My life work is in the Barrens.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a soul guardian.”

That caught me off guard. A soul guardian. I liked it, but I didn’t know what it meant. It sounded a little wacko.

“I protect endangered trees and animals,” Gail said.

“Someone has to speak for those who have no voice.”

“Like a tree.”

She smiled. “Exactly.”

And then it slipped out. The required statement I didn’t really want to make. “Sorry about your brother.”

“You’re in the minority” Gail said. “He was a miserable human being.”

Whoa. I hadn’t seen that coming. “Excuse me?”

“You probably are shocked, but you didn’t know Eugene. He was a self-centered troublemaker all his life. Even when I was a kid. I know I shouldn’t speak bad of the dead, but that’s how I feel.” She stuffed her arms into a heavy knit sweater she’d been carry ing. “What I know is that Eugene caused his own death. He did something bad one time too many, and it caught up with him. He was a real smart man, but he wasn’t a nice man.”

“I should introduce myself,” I said. And I handed her my card.

Gail checked her watch. “Roberta said she spoke to you. Unfortunately, I have to get home. I have a lot of mouths to feed.”

“Where’s home?”

“I’ve got a patch of land in the Barrens.”

“Do you know Martin Munch?” I asked her. “Do you know a man called Wulf?”

“No,” she said. “I have to go. I can’t talk anymore.”

“One more thing,” I said, but she waved me off and hurried away.

Diesel moved next to me. “Well?”

“Nothing. She said she had to get home.”

Diesel and I went to the door and watched Gail get into an old Army surplus Jeep and ease into traffic.

Diesel grabbed my hand and pulled me to the Escalade. “Let’s see where she goes.” He took the wheel and jumped from the curb. “She’s going to be easy to follow in that Jeep. She hasn’t looked in her mirror once to see if she has a tail.”

“She’s anxious to get home.”

“And home would be where?” Diesel asked.

“Down a dirt road.”

“Good to know. In case by some freak chance I lose her, all I have to do is look for a dirt road.”

“Hey, don’t blame me. That’s all she said.”

“Nothing else?”

“She said her brother was a miserable person. And had always been a miserable person. And that he probably deserved what he got.”

Diesel shook his head. “Man, that’s severe. Imagine what she would have said if it wasn’t his memorial ser vice.”

Gail hit the 95 and went south to the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge. We were a couple car lengths back, rolling at the speed limit. Gail wasn’t a rule breaker on the highway. Diesel was relaxed at the wheel. I was thinking about the doughnut I didn’t get at the ser vice, wishing I’d been quicker at the buffet.

I was raised in the Burg, where death is more a social opportunity than a tragic event. Viewings and wakes hold the potential for a decent food spread and free-flowing alcohol. It’s one of the few occasions when throwing back whiskey at ten in the morning is in good form. It’s guaranteed that on occasion grief won’t be easily set aside by a plateful of meatballs, but no reason to let that unhappy thought ruin a perfectly good time at the viewing for a distant acquaintance. Personally I’d rather be at a mall.

“What do you think about death?” I asked Diesel.

“I like the buffet. After that, it’s not my favorite thing.” He looked over at me. “What do you think about death?”