Lean Mean Thirteen (Stephanie Plum 13)

Coglin lived in a redbrick single-family house with mustard trim. The paint was blistered and the wood around the windows had some rot. The front porch had been enclosed as an afterthought, and a small sign on the door advertised Coglin's taxidermy business.

“Don't look to me like taxidermy pays real well,” Lula said.

A scrawny little guy answered my knock, and I knew from the picture on file that it was Coglin. Hair the color and texture of steel wool. Wire-rimmed glasses.

“Carl Coglin?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“I represent Vincent Plum Bail Bonds. You missed your court date last week, and I'd like to help you reschedule.”

“That's nice of you,” Coglin said, “but I don't want to inconvenience you.”

“Its my job.”

“Oh,” Coglin said. “Well, what does this rescheduling involve?”

“You need to go to the courthouse and get rebonded.”

We were standing in Coglin's front-porch showroom, and it was hard not to notice the animals lining his walls.

“Where's the mooseheads?” Lula asked Coglin. “I thought you taxidermy guys stuffed lions and tigers and shit. All I see is cats and dogs and pigeons.”

“This is urban taxidermy,” Coglin said. “I restore pets and found objects.”

“What's a found object?” Lula wanted to know.

“Treasure found in nature. For instance, if you were walking through the park and you found a deceased pigeon, that would be a found object. And sometimes I make performance pieces. The performance pieces are mechanicals. There's a growing market for the mechanicals.”

Lula looked at a woodchuck posed on a piece of Astro-turf. Some of its fur had been worn away, and it had what appeared to be part of a tire track imprinted on its back. “You're a sick man,” Lula said.

“It's art,” Coglin said. “You don't understand art.”

“I understand roadkill,” Lula said.

“About that rescheduling,” I said to Coglin.

“Maybe I could reschedule next week,” Coglin said. “I can't leave now. I have to stay at the house. I have a fresh opossum on the table.”

“Oh boy,” Lula said.

“It's hard to get an opossum at this time of year,” Coglin said. “I was lucky to find it. And it won't be good when it defrosts.”

“This won't take long,” I told him.

“You're not going to leave without me, are you?” he asked.

“No.”

Coglin looked at his watch. “I suppose I could go with you if this doesn't take long. Let me get my coat and lock the back door. In the meantime, feel free to browse my showroom. All these items are for sale.”

“I'm glad to hear that,” Lula said. “I always wanted a stuffed dead dog.”

Coglin disappeared into the house, and I tried not to look too hard at the critters. “These animals are creeping me out,” I said to Lula. “It's like being in a whacked-out pet cemetery.”

“Yeah,” Lula said. “They've seen better days.” She picked up a stuffed squirrel. “This guy's got three eyes. He must have lived next to the nuclear power plant.”

I heard the back door slam and then a motor crank over.