Four to Score (Stephanie Plum 4)

“We need to celebrate,” I told Rex, trying to overlook the fact that I was actually very creeped out by the message on my door. “Pop-?Tarts for everyone.”

I looked in my cupboard, but there were no Pop-?Tarts. No cookies, no cereal, no cans of spaghetti, no soup, no extra jars of peanut butter. A piece of paper was taped to the cupboard door. It was

a shopping list. It said, “buy everything.”

I took the note down and shoved it into my bag so I wouldn't forget what I needed and slung the bag over my shoulder. I had my hand on the doorknob when the phone rang.

It was Kuntz. “So, about that drink?”

“No. No drink.”

“Your loss,” he said. “I saw you fingering the pie on the ground. You find another note?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And I'm working on it.”

“Looks to me like we're not making much progress with the note crappola. All we ever get are more notes.”

“There might be more. The manager at the Seven-?Eleven called and said she had something for me. I'm going to stop around later tonight.”

“Why later? Why don't you go now? Cripes, can't you move faster on this? I need those letters.”

“Maybe you should tell me what this is really about. I'm having a hard time believing you're in this much of a sweat about a couple of love letters.”

“I told you they could be embarrassing.”

“Yeah, right.”

* * * * *

I LOOKED in my shopping cart and wondered if I had everything. Ritz crackers and peanut butter for when I felt fancy and wanted to make hors d'oeuvres, Entenmann's coffee cake for PMS mornings, Pop-?Tarts for Rex, salsa so I could tell my mother I was eating vegetables, frosted flakes in case I had to go on a stakeout, corn chips for the salsa.

I was in the middle of my inventory when a cart crashed nose to nose into mine. I looked up and found Grandma Mazur driving and my mother one step behind.

My mother closed her eyes. “Why me?” she said.

“Dang,” Grandma Mazur said.

I was still in the wig and the little skirt. “I can explain.”

“Where did I go wrong?” my mother wanted to know.

“I'm in disguise.”

Mrs. Crandle rattled her cart down the aisle. “Hello, Stephanie, dear. How are you today?”

“I'm fine, Mrs. Crandle.”

“Some disguise,” my mother said. “Everybody knows you. And why do you have to be disguised as a tramp? Why can't you ever be disguised as a normal person?” She looked into my cart. “Jars of spaghetti sauce. The checkout clerk will think you don't cook.”

My left eye had started to twitch. “I have to go now.”

“I bet this is a good getup for meeting men,” Grandma said. “You look just like Marilyn Monroe. Is that a wig? Maybe I could borrow it sometime. I wouldn't mind meeting some men.”

“You loan her that wig and anything happens, I'm holding you responsible,” my mother said.