One for the Money (Stephanie Plum 1)

“You should wear a dress,” my mother said to me, bringing green beans and creamed pearl onions to the table. “Thirty years old and you're still dressing in those teeny-bopper outfits. How will you ever catch a nice man like that?”

“I don't want a man. I had one, and I didn't like it.”

“That's because your husband was a horse's behind,” Grandma Mazur said.

I agreed. My ex-husband had been a horse's behind. Especially when I'd caught him flagrante delicto on the dining room table with Joyce Barnhardt.

“I hear Loretta Buzick's boy is separated from his wife,” my mother said. “You remember him? Ronald Buzick?”

I knew where she was heading, and I didn't want to go there. “I'm not going out with Ronald Buzick,” I told her. “Don't even think about it.”

“So what's wrong with Ronald Buzick?”

Ronald Buzick was a butcher. He was balding, and he was fat, and I suppose I was being a snob about the whole thing, but I found it hard to think in romantic terms about a man who spent his days stuffing giblets up chicken butts.

My mother plunged on. “All right, then how about Bernie Kuntz? I saw Bernie Kuntz in the dry cleaners, and he made a point about asking for you. I think he's interested. I could invite him over for coffee and cake.”

With the way my luck was running, probably my mother had already invited Bernie, and at this very moment he was circling the block, popping Tic Tacs. “I don't want to talk about Bernie,” I said. “There's something I need to tell you. I have some bad news . . .”

I'd been dreading this and had put it off for as long as possible.

My mother clapped a hand to her mouth. “You found a lump in your breast!”

No one in our family had ever found a lump in their breast, but my mother was ever watchful. “My breast is fine. The problem is with my job.”

“What about your job?”

“I don't have one. I got laid off.”

“Laid off!” she said on a sharp inhale. “How could that happen? It was such a good job. You loved that job.”

I'd been a discount lingerie buyer for E.E. Martin, and I'd worked in Newark, which is not exactly the garden spot of the Garden State. In truth, it had been my mother who had loved the job, imagining it to be glamorous when in reality I'd mostly haggled over the cost of full-fashion nylon underpants. E.E. Martin wasn't exactly Victoria's Secret.

“I wouldn't worry,” my mother said. “There's always work for lingerie buyers.”

“There's no work for lingerie buyers.” Especially ones who worked for E.E. Martin. Having held a salaried position with E.E. Martin made me as appealing as a leper. E.E. Martin had skimped on the palm greasing this winter, and as a result its mob affiliations were made public. The C.E.O. was indicted for illegal business practices, E.E. Martin sold out to Baldicott, Inc., and, through no fault of my own, I was caught in the housecleaning sweep. “I've been out of work for six months.”

“Six months! And, I didn't know! Your own mother didn't know you were out on the streets?”

“I'm not out on the streets. I've been doing temporary jobs. Filing and stuff.” And steadily sliding downhill. I was registered with every search firm in the greater Trenton area, and I religiously read the want ads. I wasn't being all that choosy, drawing the line at telephone soliciting and kennel attendant, but my future didn't look great. I was overqualified for entry level, and I lacked experience in management.

My father forked another slab of pot roast onto his plate. He'd worked for the post office for thirty years and had opted for early retirement. Now he drove a cab part-time.

“I saw your cousin Vinnie yesterday,” he said. “He's looking for someone to do filing. You should give him a call.”

Just the career move I'd been hoping for—filing for Vinnie. Of all my relatives, Vinnie was my least favorite. Vinnie was a worm, a sexual lunatic, a dog turd. “What does he pay?” I asked.

My father shrugged. “Gotta be minimum wage.”

Wonderful. The perfect position for someone already in the depths of despair. Rotten boss, rotten job, rotten pay. The possibilities for feeling sorry for myself would be endless.

“And the best part is that it's close,” my mother said. “You can come home every day for lunch.”

I nodded numbly, thinking I'd sooner stick a needle in my eye.

* * * * *

SUNLIGHT SLANTED THROUGH THE CRACK in my bedroom curtains, the air-conditioning unit in the living room window droned ominously, predicting another scorcher of a morning, and the digital display on my clock radio flashed electric blue numbers, telling me it was nine o'clock. The day had started without me.