I was speechless.
“And have you heard if they found the mole yet?” Mrs. Krepler asked.
I paid for my groceries and hurried out of the store. The cello-playing thing was going through the Burg like wildfire. You'd think with something as good as Mama Macaroni getting blown to bits there wouldn't be time to care about my cello playing. I swear, I can't catch a break here.
I drove home and docked the boat in a spot close to the back door. I figured the closer to the door, the less chance of a bomb getting planted. I wasn't sure the theory held water, but it made me feel better. I took the stairs and opened the door to my apartment cautiously. I stuck my head in and listened.
Just the sound of Rex running on his wheel in his cage in the kitchen. I locked and bolted the door behind me and retrieved my gun from the cookie jar.
The gun wasn't loaded because I'd forgotten to buy bullets, but I crept through the apartment, looking in closets and under the bed with the gun drawn anyway. I couldn't shoot anyone, but at least I looked like I could kick ass.
I took a shower and got dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. I didn't spend a lot of time on my hair since I'd be wearing the dorky Cluck hat. I lined my eyes and slathered on mascara to make up for the hair. I gave Rex a couple beans, and I made myself a ham and cheese sandwich. I glanced at my gun while I ate my sandwich. The gun was loaded. I went to the cookie jar and looked inside. There was a Rangeman business card in the bottom of the jar. A single word was handwritten on the card, babe!
I had a momentary hot flash and briefly considered checking out my underwear drawer for more business cards. “He's trying to protect me,” I said to Rex.
“He does that a lot.”
I got the tub of ice cream from the freezer and took it to the dining room table, along with a pad. I sat at the table and ate the ice cream and made notes for myself. I had four guys who were all about the same age. They all had a small business at one time or another. Two bought new cars. They all disappeared on the same day at about the same time. None of their cars were ever retrieved. That was all I knew.
My hunch about Anthony and Spiro didn't really amount to much. Probably I
was trying to make a connection where none existed. One thing was certain.
/> Someone was stalking me, trying to scare me. And now it looked like that person was trying to kill me. Not a happy thought.
I'd eaten about a third of the tub of ice cream. I put the lid on the tub and walked it back to the freezer. I put all the food away and wiped down the countertop. I wasn't much of a housekeeper, but I didn't want to be killed and have my mother discover my kitchen was a mess.
Stephanie Plum 11 - Eleven On Top
SEVEN
I left my apartment at two-thirty and gingerly circled the Buick, looking for signs of tampering. I looked in the window. I crouched down and looked under the car. Finally I put the key in the lock, squinched my eyes closed, and opened the door. No explosion. I slid behind the wheel, took a deep breath, and turned the engine over. No explosion. I thought this was good news and bad news. If it had exploded I'd be dead, and that would be bad. On the other hand, I wouldn't have to wear the awful Cluck hat, and that would be very good.
Twenty minutes later, I was standing in front of Milton Mann, receiving instructions.
“We're going to start you off at the register,” he said. “It's all computerized so it's super simple. You just punch in the order and the computer sends the order to the crew in the back and tells you how much to charge the customer. You have to be real friendly and polite. And when you give the customer their change you say, 'Thank you for visiting Cluck-in-a-Bucket. Have a clucky day.' And always remember to wear your hat. It's our special trademark.”
The hat was egg-yolk yellow and rooster-comb red. It had a bill like a ball cap, except the bill was shaped like a beak, and the rest of the hat was a huge chicken head, topped off with the big floppy red comb. Red chicken legs with red chicken toes hung from either side of the bottom of the hat. The rest of the uniform consisted of an egg-yolk yellow short-sleeve shirt and elastic-waist pants that had the Cluck-in-a-Bucket chicken logo imprinted everywhere in red. The shirt and pants looked like pajamas designed for the criminally insane.
“You'll do a two-hour shift at the register and then we'll rotate you to the chicken fryer,” Mann said.
If it was in the cards that the bomber was going to succeed in killing me, I prayed that it happened before I got to the chicken fryer.
It turns out the three-to-five shift at the register is light. Some after-school traffic and some construction workers.
A woman and her kid stepped up to the counter.
“Tell the chicken what you want,” the woman said.
“It's not a chicken,” the kid said. “It's a girl in a stupid chicken hat.”
“Yes, but she can cluck like a chicken,” the woman said. “Go ahead,” she said to me. “Cluck like a chicken for Emily.”
I looked at the woman.
“Last time we were here the chicken clucked,” the woman said.
I looked down at Emily. “Cluck.”