Eleven on Top (Stephanie Plum 11)

Mary Lou took a sip of coffee and waggled her eyebrows at me. “Was it worth it?”

I took a moment to consider. “Yeah.”

Mary Lou gave her head a small shake. “He's been making trouble worthwhile for you since you were five years old. I don't know why you don't marry him.”

My reasoning was sort of vague on that one, too.

It was late morning when I left Mary Lou. I cut over two blocks to High Street and parked in front of my parents' house. It was a small house on a small lot. It had three bedrooms and bath up and a living room, dining room, kitchen down. It shared a common wall with a mirror image owned by Mabel Markowitz. Mabel was old beyond imagining. Her husband had passed on and her kids were off on their own, so she lived alone in the house, baking coffee cakes and watching television. Her half of the house is painted lime green because the paint had been on clearance when she'd needed it. My parents' house is painted Gulden mustard yellow and dark brown. I'm not sure which house is worse. In the fall my mom puts pumpkins on the front porch and it all seems to work. In the spring the paint scheme is depressing as hell.

Since it was the end of September, the pumpkins were on display and a cardboard witch on a broomstick was stuck to the front door. Halloween was just four weeks away, and the Burg is big on holidays.

Grandma Mazur was at the front door when I set foot on the porch. Grandma moved in with my parents when my Grandpa Mazur got a hot pass to heaven compliments of more than a half century of bacon fat and butter cookies.

“We heard you quit your job,” Grandma said. “We've been calling and calling, but you haven't been answering your phone. I need to know the details. I got a beauty parlor appointment this afternoon and I gotta get the story straight.”

“Not much of a story,” I said, following Grandma into the hallway foyer. “I just thought it was time for a change.”

“That's it? Time for a change? I can't tell people that story. It's boring. I need something better. How about we tell them you're pregnant? Or maybe we could say you got a rare blood disease. Or there was a big contract put on your head unless you gave up being a bounty hunter.”

“Sorry,” I said. “None of those things are true.”

“Yeah, but that don't matter. Everybody knows you can't believe everything you hear.”

My mother was at the dining room table with a bunch of round pieces of paper spread out in front of her. My sister, Valerie, was getting married in a week, and my mother was still working on the seating arrangements.

“I can't make this work,” my mother said. “These round tables don't hold the right number of people. I'm going to have to seat the Krugers at two different tables. And no one gets along with old Mrs. Kruger.”

“You should do away with the seating chart,” Grandma said. “Just open the doors to the hall and let them fight for their seats.”

I love my sister, but I'd deport her to Bosnia if I thought I could get away with it and it'd get me out of her wedding. I'm supposed to be her maid of honor and somehow through my lack of participation and a fabric swatch inaccuracy I've been ordered a gown that makes me look like a giant eggplant.

“We heard you quit your job,” my mother said to me. “Thank goodness. I can finally sleep at night knowing you're not running around the worst parts of town chasing after criminals. And I understand you have a wonderful job at the button factory. Marjorie Kuzak called yesterday and told us all about it. Her daughter works in the employment office.”

“Actually, I sort of got fired from that job,” I said.

“Already? How could you possibly get fired on your first day?”

“It's complicated. I don't suppose you know anybody who's hiring?”

“What kind of job are you looking for?” Grandma asked.

“Professional. Something with career advancement potential.”

“I saw a sign up at the cleaners,” Grandma said. “I don't know about career advancement, but they do a lot of professional pressing. I see a lot of people taking their business suits there.”

“I was hoping for something a little more challenging.”

“Dry cleaning's challenging,” Grandma said. “It's not easy getting all them spots out. And you gotta have people skills. I heard them talking behind the counter about how hard it was to find someone with people skills.”

“And no one would shoot at you,” my mother said. “No one ever robs a dry cleaner.”

I had to admit, that part appealed to me. It would be nice not to have to worry about getting shot. Maybe working at the dry cleaners would be an okay temporary job until the right thing came along.

I got myself a cup of coffee and poked through the refrigerator, searching for food. I settled on a piece of apple pie and carted the coffee and pie back to the dining room, where my mom was still arranging the paper tables.

“What's going on in the Burg?” I asked her.

“Harry Farstein died yesterday. Heart attack. He's at Stiva's.”