Plum Lovin' (Stephanie Plum 12.50)

I took my muffin out of the toaster and looked around Diesel's shoulder. He was reading about Charlene Klinger.

“I spoke to her,” I told Diesel. “She thinks Annie is a nut, and she doesn't want to get fixed up.”

Diesel flipped to Gary Martin.

“He wants our help bad,” I said. “Unfortunately, the love of his life is all wrong for him, and I really don't want to stick him with her. He deserves better.”

“We're not supposed to change the world,” Diesel said. “We're just supposed to set things up for Valentine's Day.”

“Valentine's Day isn't going to happen for Gary Martin and Loretta Flack. Flack has maxed out Martin's credit at Tiffany's and moved on to greener pastures.”

“That's cold,” Diesel said. He turned to Larry Burlew's file. “What about this one?”

“He's got a thing for the girl in the coffee shop across from his butcher shop. I arranged for them to get together, so with any luck he's off the list. I didn't get to the last two cases.”

Diesel paged through the rest of the files. “The fourth case is someone named Jeanine Chan. And all it says is she has a problem. Doesn't look like Annie visited her yet. No picture. No case history. And the fifth guy needs help getting married. His name is Albert Kloughn.”

I snatched the file out of Diesel's hand. “That's my sister's live-in boyfriend!”

“I remember now,” Diesel said. “Last time I was here she found out she was pregnant.”

“She had the baby and they had a big wedding planned, and Kloughn had a total panic attack. He broke out in a cold sweat and hyperventilated himself into oblivion. They bailed on the wedding and ran off to Disney World, but he's never been able to bring himself to marry Valerie.”

“How about we stun-gun him, and when he wakes up he's married?”

“You're such a romantic.”

“I have my moments,” Diesel said.

“Now what?”

“Now you put your boots and mittens on, and we go out and do our lame-ass cupid thing.”

I shoved my feet into my boots, gathered up my mittens and scarf, and took a moment to call Morelli. Lots of rings. No answer. His answering service came on-line. Morelli was underground, working a sting.

“It's me,” I said. “Just wanted to let you know Bob is fine.”

Charlene Klinger lived in a narrow single-family, two-story house in North Trenton. It had a postage-stamp yard and a driveway but no garage. A green soccer-mom van was parked in the driveway. A big orange cat sat hunkered down and slitty-eyed on the roof of the van.

Diesel parked my Escape at the curb, and we made our way to the front door. We rang the bell, and Charlene's youngest kid let us in and then instantly disa

ppeared, no questions asked. It was Saturday morning, and the Klinger household was in full chaos mode. The television was on in the living room, a couple of dogs were barking toward the back of the house, rap was blaring from an upstairs bedroom, and Charlene's voice carried from the kitchen.

“You absolutely cannot have ice cream for breakfast,” she said. “And don't you dare put it in your orange juice.”

I knocked on the doorjamb and looked in at Charlene. “Hi,” I said. “Remember me?”

Charlene looked at me open-mouthed. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?”

“A little boy with red hair and a blue shirt let us in,” I told her.

“I swear someday we're all gonna get killed in our sleep. He'll open the door to anyone.”

“I was hoping I could have just a few minutes to talk to you.”

“I've got nothing to say. I don't want a man in my life. I don't have time to talk to you. And—”

Charlene stopped midsentence, and her eyes widened a little when she saw Diesel.