Finger Lickin' Fifteen (Stephanie Plum 15)

“Seems like a waste,” Grandma said. “You could just put the head in a hatbox.”

AN HOUR LATER, Grandma waved good-bye to Larry and Pecker and closed the front door. “That went well,” she said. “We need to have company to dinner more often.”

I was holding my laundry basket of clean clothes and the keys to my Uncle Sandor’s baby blue and white ’53 Buick. He’d bequeathed it to Grandma Mazur when he went into the nursing home, but Grandma Mazur didn’t drive it. Grandma didn’t have a license. So I got to borrow the gas-guzzling behemoth when I had a transportation emergency. The car was a lot like my apartment bathroom, not nearly what I would choose but utterly indestructible.

“What’s the deal with your apartment?” I asked Lula. “Is your door fixed?”

“Yeah, and I’m moving back in. I just have to stop at your place to get my clothes. I’ll be over in a little while. I gotta get some groceries first.”

I carted my laundry out to the Buick and slumped a little when confronted with the reality of my life. I would have preferred a new Porsche Turbo, but my car budget was old borrowed Buick. And the truth is, I was lucky to have anything at all. I put the basket in the trunk, slid onto the couch-like bench seat, gripped the wheel, and turned the key in the ignition. The engine rumbled in front of me. Testosterone shot out the exhaust pipe. Big, wide-eyed headlights blinked on.

I slowly backed out of the garage and chugged down the street. Without thinking too much about it, I turned down Adams Street and after a couple blocks found myself in Morelli’s neighborhood. On nights like this, after suffering through dinner with a guy dressed up like Julia Child and a guy who looked like an ad for erectile disfunction remedies, I found myself missing Morelli. He wasn’t perfect, but at least he didn’t look like a penis.

FOURTEEN

I THOUGHT I would quietly cruise by Morelli’s house unnoticed, but it turned out Morelli was standing in his small front yard and spotted me half a block away. Hard to miss me in the Buick. I pulled to the curb and he walked over to me.

“What’s going on?” I asked. As if I didn’t know. Bob was hunched on the lawn, head down, tail up.

“Bob’s got problems,” Morelli said.

“Must have eaten something that disagreed with him.”

“Yeah, I’ve got the same problem,” Morelli said. “Mooch and Anthony came over to watch the game and I think we got some bad food.”

“Bummer.”

“I thought you were driving Ranger’s Cayenne.”

“It sort of burned up.”

“Sort of?”

“Totally.”

Morelli gave a bark of laughter. “That’s the first thing I’ve had to smile about all day. No one was hurt?”

“No. Ernie Dell stole it and torched it.”

“I bet that went over big with Ranger.”

“He went after Ernie and rooted him out like a rat in his nest.”

“I don’t always like Ranger, but I have to admit he gets the job done.”

Bob had taken to dragging his butt on the ground, going in circles around the yard.

“Maybe he needs to go to the vet,” I said to Morelli.

“This is nothing,” Morelli said. “Remember when he ate your red thong? And the time he ate my sock?”

“That was my favorite thong.”

“Mine, too,” Morelli said. His face broke out in a cold sweat, and he bent at the waist. “Oh man, my intestines are in a knot. I have to go inside and lie down in the bathroom.”

“Do you need help? Do you want me to get you Pepto-Bismol or something?”

“No, but thanks for the offer.” Morelli waved me away, collected Bob, and they shuffled into the house.