Smokin' Seventeen (Stephanie Plum 17)

I took Grandma by the elbow and helped steer her out of the viewing room. We made a fast detour to the cookie table, she wrapped three in a napkin and put them in her purse, and we hustled to the car.

“What did you do this time?” I asked her when we were on the way home.

“I didn’t do anything. I was a perfect lady.”

“You must have done something.”

“I might have tried t

o get the lid up, but it was nailed closed, and then I sort of knocked over a vase of flowers onto the dearly departed’s wife, and she got a little wet.”

“A little wet?”

“She got real wet. It was a big vase. She looked like she’d been left out in the rain all day. And it would never have happened if they hadn’t nailed the lid down.”

“The man was nothing but rotted bones.”

“Yeah, but you got to see him. I don’t know why I couldn’t get to see him. I wanted to see what his rotted bones looked like.”

I dropped Grandma off and made sure she got into the house, and then I drove to the end of the block and turned out of the Burg, into Morelli’s neighborhood. I drove to his house and idled. His SUV wasn’t there. No lights on. I could call him, but I was half afraid he’d be on a date. The very thought gave me a knot in my stomach. But then lately almost everything in my life gave me a knot.

I continued on home, parked, and took the elevator to the second floor. I stepped out of the elevator and saw Dave. He was sitting on the floor, his back to my door.

“Hi,” he said, standing, retrieving his wine and grocery bag.

“What the heck are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you?”

“Why?”

“I feel like cooking.”

I blew out a sigh and opened my door. “Does the word ‘stalker’ mean anything to you?”

“Do you have a stalker?”

“You! You’re turning into a stalker.”

He unpacked his groceries and hunted for the corkscrew. “I’m not a stalker. Stalkers don’t cook dinner.”

I poured myself a glass of wine. “What are we having?”

“Pasta. I’m going to make a light sauce with fresh vegetables and herbs. I have a loaf of French bread and cheese for you to grate.”

“I don’t have a cheese grater. I buy cheese already grated. Actually I don’t do that either. I eat out when I want pasta. I only eat in when I want peanut butter.”

“I bought you a cheese grater. It’s in the bag.”

“Why do you have to cook? Did you have a bad day?”

He rinsed tomatoes and set them on the counter. “I had a good day. Successful. I feel energized.” He looked over at me. “How was your day?”

“Same ol’, same ol’. Dead guy in my car. Death threat at the funeral home. Stalker in my hall.”

“I heard about the dead guy. Gordon Kulicki, right?”

“That’s what they tell me.”