I dialed Morelli and did some anti-hyperventilation exercises while I waited for him to pick up.

“What?” Morelli said.

“Did you tell Lula she couldn’t replace her door?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s stupid. She has to replace her door. How can she live in her apartment without a door?”

“It’s a crime scene that’s part of an ongoing murder investigation, and we couldn’t schedule evidence collection today. I’ll have a guy out there tomorrow, and then she can replace her door.”

“You don’t understand. She’s camped out in my apartment.”

“And?”

“I can’t live with her! She rumbles around. She takes up space. Lots of space! And she snores!!”

“Listen,” Morelli said. “I have my own problems.”

“Such as?”

“You don’t want to know.”

A woman’s voice called out in the background. “Get off the phone. I need help with my zipper.”

My heart felt like it had stopped dead in my chest. “Is that who I think it is?” I asked Morelli.

“Yeah, and I can’t get rid of her. Thank God her zipper’s stuck. I’m moving in with my brother.”

For a moment, my entire field of vision went red. Undoubtedly due to a sudden, violent rise in blood pressure once my heart started beating again. It was Joyce Barnhardt. I hated Joyce Barnhardt. She was a sneaky, mean little kid when we were in school together. She spread rumors, stole boyfriends, alienated girlfriends, cheated on tests, and looked under stall doors in the girls’ bathroom. And now that she was all grown up, she wasn’t much different. She stole husbands, boyfriends, and jobs, cheating in any way possible. Her very presence in Morelli’s house sent me into the irrationally enraged nutso zone.

I sucked in some air and pretended I was calm. “You’re a big strong guy,” I said, my voice mostly steady, well below the screaming level. “You could get rid of her if you wanted.”

“It’s not that easy. She walked right into my house. I’m going to have to start locking my doors. And she came in with a tray of lasagna. I’m afraid to touch it. She’s probably got it laced with roofies.”

Okay, get a grip here. She walked into Morelli’s house. She wasn’t invited. It could be worse, right?

“Why is she suddenly bringing you food?” I asked him.

“She’s been up my ass ever since you broke up with me.”

“Hey, stud,” Joyce yelled to Morelli. “Get over here.”

“Shit,” Morelli said. “Maybe I should just shoot her and get it done with.”

I had a bunch of bitchy comments rolling through my head, but I clamped my mouth shut to keep the comments from spewing out into the phone. I mean, honestly, how hard is it to shove a woman out your back door? What am I supposed to be thinking here?

“I have to go,” Morelli said. “I don’t like the way she’s looking at my olive oil.”

I made a sticking-my-finger-down-my-throat gagging motion and hung up.

“What was that about?” Connie wanted to know.

“Barnhardt is trying to feed her lasagna to Morelli.”

“She’s fungus,” Connie said.

“I’m not too happy with Morelli, either.”

Last visited: Page 40 of Finger Lickin' Fifteen (Stephanie Plum 15)

Finger Lickin' Fifteen (Stephanie Plum 15) - Page 40