Twisted Twenty-Six (Stephanie Plum 26)

I’d torn the knee out of my jeans and scraped my elbow when I tackled Cross. By the time we got things sorted out and security released him into my custody, I was already scabbing over.

“You’re a fast healer,” Lula said to me. “I don’t know why you’re so opposed to being a bounty hunter. You got all the qualifications for it. You don’t want to underestimate good clotting time.”

We dropped Cross off at the police station, made a stop at Cluck-in-a-Bucket for a large bucket of fried chicken and a quart of macaroni salad, and went to the office to eat lunch.

Connie was all smiles when we rolled in. “That was amazing,” she said. “Ranger couldn’t have done it better. If we’d lost that bond, we might have been looking at bankruptcy.”

“You should have seen Stephanie doing a hundred miles an hour on the way to the airport,” Lula said. “And then she tackled Cross when he had a gun in his hand and took him down. It was like she was Bruce Willis in one of those Die Hard movies.” Lula set the chicken and macaroni on Connie’s desk and pulled a bottle of champagne out of her boho bag. “Compliments of Steven Cross, who, by the way, is a horrible human being.”

I ate two pieces of chicken, had a mug of champagne, and called Grandma.

“We got cookies all over the place,” Grandma said. “I’m all baked out. It’ll be nice to get out of the house and go to bingo tonight.”

Bingo. Groan.

“I’ll pick you up at six forty-five,” I said.

“Do you think I should give new cookies to the sisters?”

“No. I think you should avoid the sisters.”

“We haven’t heard anything about them dying, so that’s a good sign,” Grandma said.

I hung up and thought about having another mug of champagne, but I had to drive home, so I passed.

“Gotta go,” I said. “Big night at bingo. I need to patch myself up.” I looked down and saw a shiny blue extension lying on the floor. No problem. I still had lots left.

* * *

—

My elbow was scraped, and my knee was scraped. Fortunately, I had some big Band-Aids left over from my gunshot wound. The jeans were unsalvageable.

I went to my office, which was better known as the dining room table, and reread my information on the La-Z-Boys and Sylvester Lucca. I knew there had to be a connection. I knew I was missing som

ething.

I fell asleep facedown on the table halfway through the Miracle membership list, and I woke up a little before six o’clock. Another extension had fallen out and was lying on the table. I used it as a gossamer-thin bookmark, went to the kitchen, and looked in my freezer. I had all sorts of food, but it all involved defrosting and heating. As it turns out, defrosting and heating aren’t in my current skill set. My current skill set includes peanut butter spreading. I’m good at it. Practice, practice, practice. If I spent as much time on the rifle range as I spend with my knife in the peanut butter jar, I’d be a crack shot. So, I made a peanut butter sandwich and washed it down with chocolate milk . . . because I also know how to squeeze chocolate sauce into a glass of milk.

I got dressed in boyfriend jeans that were comfortably loose over my newly bloodied knee. And I coupled them with a long-sleeved jersey that eliminated the need to explain the Band-Aid on my elbow.

I drove to my parents’ house to get Grandma, and I could smell the cookies when I got out of the Macan. Chocolate chip. By the time I reached the porch the chocolate chip aroma was mingled with gingerbread. My father was asleep in his chair, in front of the television. No doubt in a post-cookie stupor. Grandma was in the kitchen packing a grocery bag with cookie tins.

“These are for you,” Grandma said. “There’s some of each kind.”

“Where’s Mom?”

“Next door. She went over with cookies. I kind of got carried away with the baking. Now we gotta get rid of some before your father eats them all and explodes.”

I helped myself to a sugar cookie from the glass cookie jar, and I took my grocery bag. Grandma shrugged into a sweater and hung her big patent leather purse in the crook of her arm.

“I’m ready,” she said. “And I have an extra bingo dauber for you.”

“I’m surprised you have room for daubers in your purse.”

“I hear you,” Grandma said. “From time to time I think about getting something more compact. Maybe a semiautomatic. I like the idea of having more ammo available in case I’m in a shootout, but I’m used to this big boy.” She patted her purse. “It’s been with me for a long time.”

I know I’m supposed to be protecting Grandma, but I’m not sure she needs me. I suspect she’s better equipped to do the job than I am.