Sizzling Sixteen (Stephanie Plum 16)

“I made an effort to come here today, and what good is it if I can’t even see the deceased?” Grandma said. “Next time, I’m going to Morton’s Mortuary. They never have closed caskets.”

Shepherd looked like he’d pay Grandma to go to Morton’s. He glanced my way and almost collapsed with relief.

“Stephanie!” he said. “How nice to see you.”

“Well, for goodness sakes,” Grandma said. “Look who’s here. Did your mother send you after me?”

“No. I heard you were creating a disturbance, and I came on my own.”

“Just in time to give me a ride home,” Grandma said. “No reason to stay here any longer, since Mr. Party Pooper won’t open the lid for me.”

I escorted Grandma out of the funeral home and she stopped short when she saw the Jeep.

“Isn’t this a cute little thing,” she said. “This is a pip of a car. I always wanted to ride in one of these. How the heck do I get into it?”

Lula climbed into the backseat and reached a hand down to Grandma. I got my hand under Grandma’s behind, and we alley-ooped her into the passenger seat.

“Good thing you came when you did,” Grandma said. “By the time I walked home, I’d be late for dinner, and we’re having pot roast tonight. It wouldn’t be right to be late for pot roast.”

“I love pot roast,” Lula said. “I bet you’re having mashed potatoes and gravy with it, too. I love mashed potatoes and pot roast gravy.”

“You should stay for dinner,” Grandma said. “We always got extra.”

“If you’re sure it’s no trouble,” Lula said. “I wouldn’t want to impose. And I won’t eat much on account of I’m on this new diet where I only eat one thing. Like, I only eat one piece of pot roast and one glob of mashed potatoes and one green bean.”

“Have you lost weight?” Grandma asked.

“Not yet, but I only just started. I’m still getting the hang of it. Like, what happens when you eat salad? Does it mean you eat one salad? Or does it mean you eat one piece of lettuce and one piece of tomato? It don’t matter a lot, since I don’t understand the whole salad obsession anyway. Lettuce don’t look like a food to me. And if you’re gonna eat a tomato, I say put it on a burger.”

My parents live in a two-family house. They share a common wall with Mrs. Markowitz, and both halves of the house are identical in construction. Living room, dining room, kitchen downstairs. Three small bedrooms and one bath upstairs. Mrs. Markowitz has lived next door to my parents for as long as I can remember. Her husband died years ago, and she lives alone now, making coffee cake and watching television. She’s painted her half of the house lime green. My parents have always had their house brown on the bottom half and mustard yellow on the top. I don’t know why. I expect it’s a Trenton thing.

The house hasn’t changed much over the years. A new appliance when needed. New curtains. Mostly, it’s overcrowded with comfortable non descript furniture, cooking smells, and good memories.

My mom has always been a homemaker. She’s a younger, more filled-out version of my grandma Mazur, and I think I’m cut from some of the same cloth. I have their good metabolism, oval-shaped face, and blue eyes.

My dad is retired from the post office, and now he drives a cab part-time. I get my unruly hair from his side of the family. And also my perverted cousin Vinnie.

The table was set for three when we walked in. My mom quickly added two more place settings, and in minutes, my father had his head bent over his plate, forking in meat and potatoes, and my mother was at the other end, trying not to stare at Lula’s fire-engine red hair and tiny leopard-print top that showed about a quarter of a mile of cleavage.

“Isn’t this nice,” Grandma said, looking around the table. “I love when we have guests. It’s like a party. What were you two doing in the neighborhood?” she asked me. “Were you looking for dangerous criminals?”

“We were looking for Dirk McCurdle,” I told her.

“Wasn’t that a scandal?” Grandma said. “Imagine having four wives. No one even suspected. He was such a pleasant man. I would see him at the funeral parlor when the Knights of Columbus would have a ceremony.”

“Do you have any ideas where he might be hiding?”

“Did you try all his wives?” Grandma asked. “One of them might still have a soft spot for him.”

“I have one left.”

“If that don’t work, you could try Pip’s bottle,” Grandma said.

My mother blew out a si

gh, and my father murmured something that sounded like crazy old bat.

“Is that the red bottle you’re talking about?” Lula said. “The one looks like a beer bottle?”