Two for the Dough (Stephanie Plum 2)

“It was an accident,” I told her. “I was chasing after Kenny, and you got in my way.”

“This is the cosmetics department,” Joyce shouted. “You can't just go around being a lunatic, chasing people through the cosmetics department.”

“I was not being a lunatic. I was doing my job.”

“Of course you were being a lunatic,” Joyce said. “You're a dented can. You and your gra

ndmother are screwy tunes.”

“Well, at least I'm not a slut.”

Joyce's eyes got as big as golf balls. “Who are you calling a slut?”

“You.” I leaned forward in my purple pumps. “I'm calling you a slut.”

“If I'm a slut, then you're a tramp.”

“You're a liar and a sneak.”

“Bitch.”

“Whore.”

“So what do you think?” Mary Lou said to me. “Are you going to get these shoes, or what?”

By the time I got home I wasn't so sure I'd done the right thing with the shoes. I shifted the box under my arm while I unlocked my door. True, they were gorgeous shoes, but they were purple. What was I going to do with purple shoes? I'd have to buy a purple dress. And what about makeup? A person couldn't wear just any old makeup with a purple dress. I'd have to buy new lipstick and eye liner.

I flipped the light switch and closed the door behind me. I dumped my pocketbook and new shoes on the kitchen counter and jumped back with a yelp when the phone rang. Too much excitement for one day, I told myself. I was on overload.

“How about now?” the caller said. “Are you scared now? Have I got you thinking?”

My heart missed a beat. “Kenny?”

“Did you get my message?”

“What message are you talking about?”

“I left a message for you in your jacket pocket. It's for you and your new buddy, Spiro.”

“Where are you?”

The disconnect clicked in my ear.

Shit.

I plunged my hand into my jacket pocket and started pulling stuff out . . . used Kleenex, lipstick, a quarter, a Snickers wrapper, a dead finger. “YOW!”

I dropped everything on the floor and ran out of the room. “Shit, damn, shit!” I stumbled into the bathroom and stuck my head into the toilet to throw up. After a few minutes I decided I wasn't going to throw up (which was kind of too bad since it'd be good to get rid of the hot fudge sundae I'd had with Mary Lou).

I washed my hands with a lot of soap and hot water and crept back to the kitchen. The finger was lying in the middle of the floor. It looked very embalmed. I snatched at the phone, staying as far away from the finger as was humanly possible, and dialed Morelli.

“Get over here,” I said.

“Something wrong?”

“JUST GET OVER HERE!”

Ten minutes later the elevator doors opened and Morelli stepped out.