Lean Mean Thirteen (Stephanie Plum 13)

Lula and I dragged the beaver out of the back of the Cayenne and lugged it to Joyce's front porch. We set the beaver down, I rang the bell, and Lula and I ran for cover. We hunkered down behind the red Jeep and gulped air.

The front door opened, and Joyce said, 'What on earth?"

I pushed the button to make the eyes glow, and I peeked around the car. Joyce was bent over looking at the beaver.

A man came up behind her. Not Dickie. A younger, chunkier guy in jeans and a thermal Tshirt. 'What is it?" he asked.

“It s a beaver.”

“Well, bring it inside,” he said. “I like beaver.”

Joyce pushed and pulled the beaver inside and' closed the door. Lula and I scurried to a window on the side of the house where curtai

ns hadn't been drawn and looked in at Joyce and the Jeep guy. The two of them were examining the beaver, patting it on the head, smiling at it.

“Think they've had a few drinkiepoos,” Lula said. “Anyone in their right mind wouldn't bring the beaver from hell into their house.”

After a minute or two, Joyce and the Jeep guy got tired of the beaver and walked away. I waited until they were a safe distance, and then I pushed the bang! button. There was a moments lag, and then BLAM! Beaver fur and beaver stuffing as far as the eye could see.

The fur and glop hung from couches, chairs, tables, and table lamps. It was in Joyce s hair and was stuck to the back of her shirt. Joyce froze for a beat, turned, and looked around with her eyes bugged out.

“Fuck!” Joyce shrieked. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

“Holy crap,” Lula said.

We sprang from the window and ran through the neighbor s yard to where we'd parked the car. We jumped in, and I laid rubber out of there.

“Guess it wasn't a singing beaver after all,” I said.

“Yeah, darn,” Lula said. “I was looking forward to hearing some singing.”

I was smiling so wide my cheeks ached. “It was worth my last eight dollars.”

“That was awesome,” Lula said. “That Coglin is a freakin' genius.”

Lula had her Firebird parked in the small lot behind the office. I dropped her off at her car and motored home to my apartment.

Morelli was watching television when I came in.

“You look happy,” he said. “You must have had a productive day.”

“It started off slow, but it ended okay.”

“There's a casserole in the refrigerator. Its from my mom. It has vegetables in it and everything. And I could use another beer. The game's coming on.”

Hours later, we were still in front of the television when Morelli s cell phone rang.

“I'm not answering it,” Morelli said. “The guy who invented the cell phone should rot in hell.”

The ringing stopped and a minute later, it started again.

Morelli shut the phone off.

We had three minutes of silence, and my phone rang in the kitchen.

“Persistent bastard,” Morelli said.

The ringing didn't stop, and finally Morelli went to the kitchen and answered the phone. He was smiling when he came back.