Explosive Eighteen (Stephanie Plum 18)

I arrived at my parents’ house a little before six and parked behind Annie’s car. Lancer and Slasher parked half a block down. There was no other traffic on the street. The seniors were still at the diner, finishing up the early-bird specials. Kids were home from soccer practice and piano lessons. Working moms were in the kitchen scarfing down Cheetos and wine from Costco while they frantically pulled dinner together. The men on my parents’ street were zoned out in front of the television. No foreclosure signs on the front lawns. This was a neighborhood that was here for the long haul. Hardworking survivors who didn’t care if their house was underwater. Nobody frigging bailed on the Burg.

Grandma was at the front door, waiting for me.

“You left the wake too early,” she said. “The widow got snockered and passed out in the chicken salad and had to be carted upstairs. You don’t see that every day.”

“Where’s Annie?”

“She’s in the kitchen helping your mother.”

We went to the kitchen and I snitched a corn muffin out of the breadbasket.

“We have a problem,” I said to Annie. “Remember the little bottle of pink stuff you gave me?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Lula drank it, and now she needs an antidote.”

“Goodness. Did she have an allergic reaction?” Annie asked.

“No. She fell in love with a sandbag.”

“How unusual,” Annie said. “It was just a pocket-sized over-the-counter antacid. You were having digestive problems.”

“Do you have any more?”

“I have some,” Grandma said. “She gave some to me. I was saving it for when I saw my true love and needed it.”

“Do you have a true love?” Annie asked Grandma.

“I’m hot for George Clooney,” Grandma said, “but I think he mostly stays in Hollywood.”

“My idea is to give more of the pink stuff to Lula, and tell her it’s an antidote to the love potion she took,” I said.

“That’s a little deceptive,” Annie said. “I don’t feel comfortable with that. Suppose he really is her true love?”

“Yeah,” Grandma said. “It would be like those time-travelers when they aren’t supposed to mess around with history.”

“Yoohoo,” Lula called from the front door. “I’m here with my honey.”

Grandma, Annie, my mom, and I traipsed out to see the honey.

“This is my big stud muffin, Buggy,” Lula said, her arms partially wrapped around him.

“Yuh,” Buggy said.

My father was in the living room, watching television, reading the paper. He glanced over at Buggy, grimaced, and returned to the paper.

My mother and grandmother scurried off to the kitchen to get the food, and we all took our seats at the table.

“Have you and Buggy known each other long?” Annie asked Lula.

“About a week,” Lula said.

Annie turned to Buggy. “And what do you do?”

“I’m a purse snatcher,” Buggy said.

Lula looked over at Buggy. “He’s a good one, too. He’s real intimidating on account of he’s so big.”