Eleven on Top (Stephanie Plum 11)

“Okay,” I said, “the sweats are good enough.” I took a closer look. Pizza sauce on the long leg. Not good enough. I ran upstairs and rummaged through Morelli's closet. Nothing I could use. I rifled his drawers. Nothing there. I went through the dirty clothes basket, found a pair of khaki shorts, and ran downstairs with the shorts.

“Ta-dah!” I announced. “Shorts. And they're almost clean.” I had Morelli out of his sweatpants in one fast swoop. I tugged the shorts up and zipped them.

“Jeez,” Morelli said. “I can zip my own shorts.”

“You weren't fast enough!” I looked at my watch. It was almost six o'clock! Yikes. “Put your foot on the coffee table, and I'll get shoes on you.”

Morelli put his foot on the coffee table, and I stared up his shorts at Mr. Happy.

“Omigod,” I said. “You're wearing boxers. I can see up your shorts.”

“Do you like what you see?”

“Yes, but I don't want the world seeing it!”

“Don't worry about it,” Morelli said. “I'll be careful.”

I pulled a sock on Morelli's casted foot, and I laced a sneaker on the other. I raced upstairs, and I changed into a skirt and short-sleeved sweater.

I threw my jean jacket over the sweater, grabbed my bag, got Morelli up on his crutches, and maneuvered him to the kitchen door.

“I hate to bring this up,” Morelli said. “But aren't you supposed to take the cello?”

The cello. I squinched my eyes closed, and I rapped my head on the wall. Thunk, thunk, thunk. I took a second to breathe. I can do this, I told myself.

Probably I can play a little something. How hard can it be? You just do the bowing thing back and forth and sounds come out. I might even turn out to be

good at it. Heck, maybe I should take some lessons. Maybe I'm a natural talent and I don't even need lessons. The more I thought about it, the more logical it sounded. Maybe I was always meant to play the cello, and I'd just gotten sidetracked, and this was God's way of turning me in the direction of my true calling.

“Wait here,” I said to Morelli. “I'll put the cello in the car, and I'll come back to get you.”

I ran into the living room and hefted the cello. I carted it into the kitchen, past Morelli, out the door, and crossed the yard with it. I opened the garage door, rammed the cello into the back of the SUV, dropped my purse onto the driver's seat, and returned to the kitchen for Morelli. I realized he was just wearing a cotton shirt. No sweater on him. No jacket. And it was cold out. I ran upstairs and got a jacket. I helped him into the jacket, stuffed the crutches back under his arms, and helped him navigate through the back door and down the stairs.

We started to cross the yard, and the garage exploded with enough force to rattle the windows in Morelli's house.

The garage was wood with an asbestos-shingle roof. It hadn't been in the best of shape, and Morelli seldom used it. I'd been using it to keep the SUV bomb-free, but I now saw the flaw in the plan. It was an old garage without an automatic door opener. So to make things easier, I'd left the garage open when not in use. Easy to pull in and park. Also easy to sneak in and plant a bomb.

Morelli and I stood there, dumbstruck. His garage had gone up like fireworks and had come down like confetti. Splintered boards, shingles, and assorted car parts fell out of the sky into Morelli's yard. It was Mama Mac all over again. Almost nothing was left of the garage. Morelli's SUV was a fireball.

His yard was littered with smoldering junk.

“Omigod!” I said. “The cello was in your SUV.” I pumped my fist into the air and did a little dance. “Yes! Way to go! Woohoo! There is a God and He loves me. It's good-bye cello.”

Morelli gave his head a shake. “You're a very strange woman.”

“You're just trying to flatter me.”

“Honey, my garage just blew up, and I don't think it was insured. We're supposed to be upset.”

“Sorry. I'll try to look serious now.”

Morelli glanced over at me. “You're still smiling.”

“I can't help it. I'm trying to be scared and depressed, but it's just not working. I'm just so frigging relieved to be rid of that cello.”

There were sirens screaming from all directions, and the first of the cop cars parked in the alley behind Morelli's house. I borrowed Morelli's cell phone and called my mother.

“Bad news,” I said. “We're going to be late. We're having car trouble.”