Plum Lovin' (Stephanie Plum 12.50)

“What's happening?” the twelve-year-old asked.

“Kitty set hisself on fire, and Blackie broke his leg,” the red-haired kid said.

“Bummer,” the twelve-year-old said. And he and his brother turned and went back upstairs. As if this happened every day.

“Where am I going to find a vet at this hour on a Saturday?” Charlene said. “I'm going to have to go to the emergency clinic. It's going to cost me a fortune.”

“I know someone who'll help us,” I told her. “I have his number in my car.”

Charlene cradled the cat close to her and grabbed her purse off the counter. “Get your coat and hat,” she said to the red-haired kid. “And round up your brothers. Everyone out to the van.”

Diesel scooped the Lab off the floor and carried him to the door. “Think Blackie could stand to lay off the chow,” Diesel said. “This dog weighs a ton.”

“He could use a bigger yard,” Charlene said. “He never gets to run. He appeared on our front porch in the middle of a snowstorm two years ago and just never left.”

The four kids trooped out and got into the van, and I ran to my car for Gary Martin's folder. Diesel locked the house and eased himself into the van with Blackie on his lap, front leg dangling loose. Charlene was in the passenger seat with Kitty still wrapped in the towel. I slid behind the wheel and called Gary Martin on my cell.

“I have an emergency,” I told him. “A cat with a barbecued tail and a dog with a broken leg. And I talked to Loretta, but that's a whole other story.”

“Is it a sad story?”

“Yeah. The story isn't good.”

“My office doesn't open until ten today,” Martin said, “but I can come in early. I'll be there in a half hour.”

I transferred Bob from the Escape to the rear seat in the soccer-mom van, introduced him to everyone, and took my place behind the wheel.

“Who's the big guy holding Blackie?” the youngest kid asked at the first light.

“His name is Diesel,” Charlene said. “Be polite.”

“Diesel,” the kid repeated. “I never heard of anyone named Diesel.”

“Diesel's a train,” one of the other kids said.

I adjusted the rearview mirror so I could check Diesel out. Our eyes met and caught for a moment. I couldn't see his mouth, but the little crinkle lines around his eyes told me he was smiling. The Klingers were amusing him.

Lights were on in the clinic when I pulled into the lot. Sary Martin had arrived just in front of us. He still had his coat and hat on when we all swooped in.

“This is Charlene Klinger,” I said to Martin. “She's mom to Kitty and Blackie and the four kids.”

Charlene introduced the kids. “Junior, Ralph, Ernie, Russell.”

Martin looked at Diesel.

“He's with me,” I said. “He's the dog-toter.”

“I should probably run some film of Blackie's leg, but I don't have an assistant until ten,” Martin said.

“I can help,” Charlene said. “I've got four kids, three cats, two dogs, a rabbit, and twelve hamsters. I've taped up split lips, delivered kittens, breast-fed four boys, and once we raised chickens from eggs for Ernie's science project.”

“The chickens pooped all over the house,” Ralph said.

Martin unwrapped the cat enough to look at its tail. “The tail doesn't look too bad,” he said. “Mostly he's lost hair, and he's singed the tip. Why is he so sticky?”

“Diesel put the fire out with orange juice,” Ralph told him. “It was awesome.”

“I need someone to take the cat to the big sink in the hack room and very gently wash the orange juice off him,” Martin said. “And I need someone to hold Blackie while I run film.”