Eleven on Top (Stephanie Plum 11)

“Your mother.”

“I've been calling and calling you,” my mother said. “Why don't you answer your cell phone?”

“My phone was in my bag and my bag was in CluckinaBucket when it burned down.”

“Omigod, it's true! People have been calling night and day, and I thought they were joking. Since when do you work at Cluck-in-a-Bucket?”

“Actually, I don't work there anymore.”

“Where are you? You're with Joseph. Are you in jail?”

“No. I'm at the mall.”

“Four days to your sisters wedding and you're burning down the Burg. You have to stop exploding things and burning things. I need help. Someone has to check on the cake. Someone has to pick up the decorations for the cars. And the flowers for the church.”

“Albert is in charge of the flowers.”

“Have you seen Albert lately? Albert is drinking. Albert is locked away in his office having conversations with Walter Cronkite.”

“I'll talk to him.”

“No! No talking. It's better he's drunk. If he gets sober he might back out. And leave him in the office. The less time spent with Valerie the more likely he is to marry her.”

I could see Morelli losing patience. He wasn't much of a mall person. He was more a bedroom and bar and playingfootball-in-the-park person. My grandmother was yelling in the background. “I gotta go to a viewing tonight. Stiva's laying out Mama Mac. I need a ride.”

“Are you insane?” my mother said to my grandmother. “The place will be filled with Macaronis. They'll tear you to pieces.”

Morelli parked the SUV in front of my parents' house and looked over at me.

“Don't get any ideas about your powers of persuasion. I'm only doing this for the meatloaf.”

“And later you're going to play detective with me.”

“Maybe.”

“You promised.”

“The promise doesn't count. We were in bed. I would have promised anything.”

“Spiro's going to make an appearance, one way or another. I know it. He's going to have to see his handiwork. He's going to want to be part of the process.”

“He won't see any of his handiwork tonight. The lid will be nailed down. I know Stiva's good, but trust me, all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put Mama Macaroni together again.”

Morelli and I got out of the SUV and watched a car creep down the street toward us. It was a blue Honda Civic. It was Kloughn's car. Kloughn hit the curb and eased one tire over before coming to a complete stop. He looked through the windshield at us and waved with just the tips of his fingers.

“Snockered,” I said to Morelli.

“I should arrest him,” Morelli said.

“You can't arrest him. He's Valerie's cuddle umpkins.”

Morelli clo

sed the distance, opened the door for Kloughn, and Kloughn fell out of the car. Morelli dragged Kloughn to his feet and propped him against the Civic.

“You shouldn't be driving,” Morelli said to Kloughn.

“I know,” Kloughn said. “I tried walking, but I was too drunk. It's okay. I was driving very slooooowly and 'sponsibly.”