Four to Score (Stephanie Plum 4)

“You believe Maxine? Suppose it's a bomb?”

“I don't think it's a bomb.”

“Yeah, but are you sure?”

“Well, no.”

“I tell you what. I'm staying o

n the front porch while you open that box. I don't want to be anywhere near that box.”

I walked around to the back of the house, and sure enough, there was the box, sitting on the stoop. The box was about a foot square. It was heavy cardboard, sealed up with tape, marked with a red X.

Kuntz was at the screen door. “Took you long enough.”

“You're lucky we came at all,” Lula said. “And if you don't change your attitude we're gonna leave. So what do you think of that?”

I crouched down and examined the box. Nothing ticking. Didn't smell like dog shit. No warning labels that said Dangerous Explosives. Truth is, anything could be in the box. Anything. Could be cooties left over from Desert Storm. “Looks okay to me,” I said to Kuntz. “Go ahead and open it.”

“You're sure it's safe?”

“Hey,” Lula said, “we're trained professionals. We know about these things. Right, Stephanie?”

“Right.”

Kuntz stared at the box. He cracked his knuckles and pulled his lips tight against his teeth. “Damn that Maxine.” He took a Swiss army knife out of his pocket and bent to the box.

Lula and I discreetly stepped away from the stoop.

“You're sure?” he asked again, knife poised.

“Oh yeah.” Another step backward.

Kuntz slit the tape, parted the flaps and peeked into the box. Nothing exploded, but Lula and I kept our distance all the same.

“What the hell?” Kuntz said, looking more closely. “What is this? Looks like a plastic bag sealed with one of those twisty tie things and filled with chocolate pudding.”

Lula and I exchanged glances.

“I suppose the clue's in the bag,” Kuntz said. He poked at the bag, his face contorted, and he uttered something that sound like “Ulk.”

“Something wrong?” Lula asked.

“This isn't pudding.”

“Well, look on the bright side,” Lula said. “It didn't explode, did it?”

“Gosh, look at the time,” I said, tapping my watch. “I'm going to have to run.”

“Yeah, me too,” Lula said. “I got things to do.”

The color had drained from Kuntz's face. “What about the clue?”

“You can call me later, or you can leave it on the machine. Just read the letters off to me.”

“But . . .”

Lula and I were gone. Around the side of the house. Into the Firebird. Down the street.