Finger Lickin' Fifteen (Stephanie Plum 15)

“Bob is fine. His intestines are squeaky clean.”

“How are you?”

“I’m clean, too.”

And then I couldn’t help myself. The bitch part of me sneaked out. “How’s Joyce?”

“Joyce is Joyce,” Morelli said.

Lula hauled herself to her feet. “I’m in a bad mood,” she said. “I’m in a mood to get me some Marco the Maniac. I’ve had it with this shit. It’s one thing to kill me, but blowin’ up my Firebird is goin’ too far.” She looked at her watch. “We gotta get to the park. We gotta sign in.”

“We haven’t got a car. The Buick is parked at Rangeman.”

“I’ll call Connie. She can take us.”

SIXTEEN

CONNIE DROVE A silver Camry with rosary beads hanging from her rear view mirror and a Smith & Wesson stuck under the driver’s seat. No matter what went down, Connie was covered.

I was in the backseat with Grandma, and Lula was next to Connie. We were in the parking lot adjacent to the field where the cook-off was to be held, and we were watching competitors pull in, dragging everything from mobile professional kitchens to U-hauls carrying grills and worktables.

“I didn’t expect this,” Grandma said. “I figured we come with a jar of sauce, and they’d have some chicken for us.”

“We got a grill,” Lula said, getting out of the Camry. “We just didn’t bring it yet.”

“Did you get a set of rules when you registered?” Connie asked Lula.

“No. I did the express register, bein’ that the organizer was under some duress. And on top of that, I didn’t have to pay no registration fee, so he might have been trying to save on paper.”

A registration table had been set up at the edge of the lot. Competitors were signing in, taking a set of instructions, and leaving with a tray.

“What’s with the tray?” Lula asked the guy in line in front of us.

“It’s the official competition tray. You put the food that’s going to be judged on the tray.”

“Imagine that,” Grandma said. “Isn’t that something?”

We got our tray and our rules, and we stepped aside to read through the instructions.

“It says here that we can’t use a gas grill,” Connie said. “We need to cook on wood or charcoal. And we have to pick a category. Ribs, chicken, or brisket.”

“I’m thinking ribs,” Lula said. “Seems to me it’s harder to poison someone with ribs. I guess there’s always that trichinosis thing, but you don’t know about that for years. And I’m gonna have to get a different grill.”

“All these people got tents and tables and signs with their name on it,” Grandma said. “We need some of that stuff. We need a name.”

“How about Vincent Plum Bail Bondettes,” Connie said.

“I’m not being nothin’ associating me with Vincent Plum,” Lula said. “Bad enough I gotta work for the little pervert.”

“I want a sexy name,” Grandma said. “Like Hot Vagina.”

“Flamin’ Assholes would be better,” Lula said. “That’s what happens when you eat our sauce. Can you say Flamin’ Assholes on television?”

“This is big,” I said, looking out over the field. “There are ; ags with numbers on them all over the place. Every team is assigned a number.”

“We’re number twenty-seven,” Lula said. “That don’t sound like a good number to me.”

“What’s wrong with it?”