After I'd done an hour of worthless surveillance a cop car crept down the street and pulled up behind me. Great. I was about to get rousted out of the neighborhood. If someone caught me sitting in front of their house in the Burg, they'd send their dog out to take a leak on my car wheel. Backup action would be a string of profanities yelled at me to get the hell out of there. In Princeton they send a perfectly pressed, perfectly polite officer of the law to make an inquiry. Is this class, or what?
There didn't seem to be anything gained by stressing Officer Perfect so I got out of my car and walked back to him while he was checking my plate. I passed him my card and the bond contract stating my right to apprehend Eddie DeChooch. And I gave him the standard explanation of routine surveillance.
Then he explained to me that the good people in this neighborhood aren't used to being under surveillance, and probably it'd be best if I conducted my surveillance in a more discreet manner.
“Sure,” I said. And then I left. If a cop is your friend he's the best friend you'll ever have. On the other hand, if you're not on intimate terms with a cop it's smart not to annoy him.
Watching the Vincent house wasn't going to do me any good, anyway. If I wanted to talk to Dave Vincent better to see him at work. Be
sides, it wouldn't hurt to take a look at The Snake Pit. Not only would I get to talk to Vincent, I'd also get another shot at Mary Maggie Mason. She'd seemed like a nice enough person, but clearly there was more to the story.
I took Route 1 south and on a whim decided to take another look around at Mary Maggie's garage.
Stephanie Plum 7 - Seven Up
7
I CRUISED INTO the garage and rode around looking for the Cadillac. I went up and down every aisle, but I didn't have any luck. Good thing, too, because I didn't know what I'd do if I found Choochy. I didn't feel capable of bringing him in on my own. And the thought of agreeing to Ranger's deal gave me an orgasm on the spot, followed by a panic attack.
I mean, what if I spent the night with Ranger? What then? Suppose he was so amazing I got ruined for all other men. Suppose he was better in the sack than Joe. Not that Joe was a slouch in bed. It was just that Joe was mortal, and I wasn't sure about Ranger.
And what about my future? Was I going to marry Ranger? No. Ranger wasn't marriage material. Hell, Joe was barely marriage material.
And then there was the other side of it. Suppose I didn't measure up. I involuntarily squinched my eyes closed. Argh! It would be awful. Beyond embarrassing.
Suppose he didn't measure up! The fantasy would be ruined. What would I think about when it was just me and the shower massage?
I shook my head to clear my brain. I didn't want to contemplate a night with Ranger. It was too complicated.
IT WAS DINNERTIME when I got back to my parents'. Valerie was out of bed and at the table, wearing dark glasses. Angie and Mooner were eating peanut butter sandwiches in front of the television. Mary Alice was galloping around the house, pawing at the carpet and snorting. Grandma was dressed for the viewing. My father had his head down over his meat loaf. And my mother was at the head of the table, having a full-blown hot flash. Her face was flushed, her hair was damp on her forehead, and her eves darted feverishly around the room, daring anyone to imply she was in the throes of the change.
Grandma ignored my mother and passed me the applesauce. “I was hoping you'd show up for dinner. I could use a ride to the viewing.”
“Sure,” I said. “I was going, anyway.”
My mother gave me a pained expression.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“What?”
“It's your clothes. You go to the Ricci viewing dressed like that, and I'll be getting phone calls for a week. What will I say to people? They'll think you can't afford decent clothes.”
I looked down at my jeans and boots. They looked decent to me, but I wasn't about to argue with a menopausal woman.
“I have clothes you can wear,” Valerie said. “In fact, I'll go with you and Grandma. It'll be fun! Does Stiva still serve cookies?”
There must have been a mix-up at the hospital. Surely I don't have a sister who thinks funeral parlors are fun.
Valerie popped up out of her chair and pulled me upstairs by the hand. “I know just the outfit for you!”
There's nothing worse than wearing someone else's clothes. Well, maybe world famine or a typhoid epidemic, but aside from that, borrowed clothes never feel right. Valerie is an inch shorter than me and five pounds lighter. Our shoe sizes are identical, and our taste in clothes couldn't be more different. Wearing Valerie's clothes to the Ricci viewing equates to Halloween in hell.
Valerie whisked a skirt out of her closet. “Ta-dah!” she sang. “Isn't this wonderful? It's perfect. And I have the perfect top for it, too. And I have the perfect shoes. They're all coordinated.”
Valerie has always been coordinated. Her shoes and her handbags always match. Her skirts and shirts match, too. And Valerie can actually wear a scarf without looking like an idiot.