Twisted Twenty-Six (Stephanie Plum 26)

“It’s a whole-

wheat waffle,” I said. “And I didn’t add syrup.”

Ranger smiled. I amused him. “Keep in touch,” he said. And he left.

Morelli watched me drink my coffee. “He calls you ‘Babe’?”

“I think he calls everyone ‘Babe.’”

“He doesn’t call me ‘Babe.’”

“Because you would punch him.”

“I wouldn’t mind punching him anyway.”

Morelli and Ranger tolerate each other. Their professional paths frequently cross, and there are times when it’s advantageous to share information and skills. Like now. In an odd way I was the link between the two men, and I was also the wedge that drove them apart. Morelli thought Ranger was a loose cannon and not to be entirely trusted. I have no idea what Ranger thought of Morelli.

Morelli gave me a kiss on the top of my head and told me to be careful. He said he’d call me later in the day, and he left.

“Just you and me,” I said to Bob.

It was too early to go to the office, so I hooked Bob up to his leash and took him for a walk. It was almost eight o’clock when we got home. I gave him a doggie treat and told him he was a good boy. I pocketed Grandma’s necklace, hung my messenger bag on my shoulder, and drove to my parents’ house.

My father was in his chair, watching the news with the baseball bat at his feet.

“What’s up?” I said.

“I’m not watching the news anymore. It’s damn depressing. What’s with these nutcases who go around shooting strangers? It used to be people shot each other one at a time. It was personal. You could figure out why they did it.” He shook his head. “I don’t get this other stuff.”

Grandma was standing to one side. “They have cracked souls,” she said. “You know how some people are born with physical defects? Like those sweet Down syndrome babies. I think some people are born with souls that aren’t all there. Or maybe their souls got a crack somewhere along the line. Like a broken leg, only it’s a soul.” She looked over at me. “Did you have breakfast yet? We got oatmeal in the kitchen. I was just going to have some.”

I followed Grandma into the kitchen. “I don’t want oatmeal,” I said, “but I’ll have coffee.”

I helped myself to coffee and brought it to the little kitchen table. I’d eaten baby food at that table, and I’d done my homework at it too. I couldn’t imagine the table not being there. The refrigerator and the stove got changed out, but the table remained. It was the heart of the kitchen, and the kitchen was the heart of the house. Even after the attempted kidnapping, the kitchen still felt safe. Even with my mother nipping at the whiskey and my grandmother reading the obits for entertainment, the kitchen felt sane. Going with Grandma’s theory, I was pretty confident that all our souls were intact, and that the kitchen was partly responsible for keeping them that way.

Grandma brought her bowl of oatmeal to the table. “That’s a pretty necklace you’re wearing,” she said. “Is it new?”

“Yep,” I said. “Ranger gave it to me.” I pulled Grandma’s necklace out of my pocket and handed it to her. “He gave me one for you, too.”

My mother was at the sink, washing out the oatmeal pot. She stopped scrubbing and looked over at Grandma and me.

“It’s to help keep us safe until we get the key issue sorted out,” I said. “It’s a panic button. If you squeeze it, Ranger will send someone to find you. He’ll know where you are as long as you’re wearing the necklace. You should put it on and not take it off. It’s waterproof. You can wear it in the shower.”

Grandma put the necklace on. “I feel safer already,” she said.

My mother rinsed the pot and set it in the dish rack. “I noticed the Rangeman car was gone this morning.”

“Ranger’s replaced it with the necklace and some surveillance equipment,” I said.

“It would be good if we’ve seen the end of it,” she said. “Hopefully those two thugs won’t return.”

I could guarantee it.

“I have to go to work,” I said. “Text me if anything changes here.”

I rinsed my coffee cup and noticed the ironing board had been put away, but the iron remained on the kitchen counter.

* * *