Eleven on Top (Stephanie Plum 11)

“You'd think someone would have seen Spiro if he was back. The Burg's not good at keeping a secret.”

“Maybe he's hiding.”

My mother called on my cell phone. "People are saying you blew up Mama

Macaroni."

“She was in my car, and she accidentally blew herself up. I did not blow her up.”

“How can someone accidentally blow themself up? Are you okay?”

“I'm fine. I'm going home with Joe.”

It was early morning, and I was sitting on the side of the bed, watching Morelli get dressed. He was wearing black jeans, cool black shoes with a thick Vibram sole, and a long-sleeved blue button-down shirt. He looked like a movie star playing an Italian cop.

“Very sexy,” I said to Morelli.

He strapped his watch on and looked over at me. “Say it again and the clothes come off.”

“You'll be late.”

Morelli's eyes darkened, and I knew he was weighing pleasure against responsibility. There was a time in Morelli's life when pleasure would have won, no contest. I'd been attracted to that Morelli, but I hadn't especially liked him. The moment passed and Morelli's eyes regained focus. The guy part was under control. Not to give him more credit than he deserved, I suspected this was made possible by the two orgasms he'd had last night and the one he'd had about a half hour ago.

“I can't be late today. I have an early meeting, and I'm way behind on my paperwork.” He kissed the top of my head. "Will you be here when I come home

tonight?"

“No. I'm working the three-to-eleven shift at CluckinaBucket.”

“You're kidding.”

“It was one of those impulse things.”

Morelli grinned down at me. “You must need money real bad.”

“Bad enough.”

I followed him down the stairs and closed the door after him. “Just you and me,” I said to Bob.

Bob had already eaten his breakfast and gone for a walk so Bob was feeling mellow. He wandered away, into the living room where bars of sunshine were slanting through the window onto the carpet. Bob turned three times and flopped down onto the sunspot.

I shuffled out to the kitchen, got a mug of coffee, and took it upstairs to Morelli's office. The room was small and cluttered with boxes of income tax files, a red plastic milk carton filled with old tennis balls collected during dog walks in the park, a baseball bat, a stack of phone books, gloves and wraps for a speed bag, a giant blue denim dog bed, a well-oiled baseball glove, a power screwdriver, roles of duct tape, a dead plant in a clay pot, and a plastic watering can that had obviously never been used. He had a computer and a desktop printer on a big wood desk that had been bought used.

And he had a phone.

I sat at the desk, and I took a pen and a yellow legal pad from the top drawer. I had the morning free, and I was going to use it to do some sleuthing.

Someone wanted me dead, and I didn't feel comfortable sitting around doing nothing, waiting for it to happen.

First on my list was a call to Kloughn.

“She wouldn't let me in the house,” he said. "I had to sleep here in the office. It wasn't so bad since I have a couch, and the Laundromat is next door.

I got up early and did some laundry. What should I do? Should I call? Should I go over there? I had this terrible nightmare last night. Valerie was floating over top of me in the wedding gown except she was a whale. I bet it was because she kept saying how she was a whale in the wedding gown. Anyway, there she was in my dream ... a big huge whale all dressed up in the white wedding gown. And then all of a sudden she dropped out of the sky, and I was squashed under her, and I couldn't breathe. Good thing I woke up, hunh?"

“Good thing. I need to know your client's name,” I told him. “The one with the missing husband.”

“Terry Runion. Her husband's name is Jimmy Runion.”