Explosive Eighteen (Stephanie Plum 18)

Eye on the prize, I repeated to myself. Don’t go goofy and shoot her just for the fun of it. She’s right about the bloodstain on the rug. Blood is a bitch to get out.

“I usually watch the Cooking Channel,” I said.

“Jesus, that’s friggin’ domestic. Can you cook?”

“No. I like watching other people cook.”

“Kinky.”

I took the key out of my purse and gave it to Joyce. “What’s the key all about?”

“It’s the key to the treasure chest.”

Oh boy, the treasure chest. Best not to ask, I decided. I probably didn’t want to know.

“I looked all through your apartment,” Joyce said. “I couldn’t find any wine. For that matter, I couldn’t find much of anything. It looks to me like you’re one step away from making hamster stew. I don’t know how you tolerate this spartan existence.”

After I zap her and cuff her, I might shave her head, I thought. That would be fun. I could shave her eyebrows off, too.

“Gosh, I’m sure enjoying all this girl talk,” I said, “but I’m beat. I’m going to turn in.”

“I suppose I have to sleep on the couch,” Joyce said.

“Yeah, the Queen of England is using my guest suite.”

I brought Rex and my laptop into the bedroom with me. I wasn’t leaving them out there with the spawn of Satan. I threw a pillow and an extra quilt out to Joyce, and locked my bedroom door. I laid my cuffs, stun gun, and Glock out on my bureau. Mise en place. I learned that from the Cooking Channel. Everything in its place for efficiency of use.

I changed from my dressy funeral home skirt and sweater to T-shirt and sweatpants. I turned my lights down and brought my laptop to bed with me. It was still early, and like most rodents, Joyce was nocturnal. So my plan was to do some research on my computer and check on Joyce after midnight.

At midnight, I dragged myself out of bed, carefully opened my door, and peeked out. Joyce was watching a movie.

“What’s up?” she said.

“Not much. Everything okay out here?”

“As good as it could be, considering I’m in deprivation central.”

I closed and locked my door again. Damn. I couldn’t keep my eyes open. Especially the one that was black-and-blue and swollen. I set my alarm on low for four o’clock, turned my light out, and crawled under the covers.

SIXTEEN

IT WAS DARK when I woke up. The alarm hadn’t gone off. I had to pee. I stumbled out of bed, unlocked my door, and squinted out into the black apartment. Joyce had finally gone to sleep. Good deal. I could quietly pee, and then I could zap Joyce.

I tiptoed into the bathroom, where I’d left a dim nightlight burning. I felt my foot brush against something furry, and I jumped away. I ran back to my bedroom with my heart racing, got the Glock, and ran back to the bathroom door.

I saw the animal backed into the corner. Too big for Rex. Rat, I thought. Big rat! I could see its tail and hideous fat body. I drilled about ten holes into it. It wasn’t moving. I flipped the light on and looked at the carnage. It took a couple beats for me to figure it out. It was Joyce’s hairpiece.

“What the hell?” Joyce said, standing behind me. “You just killed my piece.”

“I thought it was a rat.”

“You ever see a redheaded rat? I paid big bucks for that piece. It was real hair.”

“I’m sorry. It was dark.”

“I don’t know why I’m living with you,” Joyce said. “You’re such a loser.”

“Be careful,” I told her. “I’ve still got the gun in my hand. And I’m caring less about my rug.”