Between the Plums Page 10

  “How close?”

  “Not that close.”

  Inside the house my parents and sister were dragging presents out from hiding places and arranging them under the tree. Angie and Mary Alice were sound asleep. Grandma was off somewhere, presumably with her studmuffin. And Diesel had been sent in search of batteries.

  “I have a present for you,” Morelli said, curling his fingers into my coat collar, pulling me to him.

  “Is it a big present?”

  “No. It’s a small present.”

  So that eliminated the first item on my Christmas wish list.

  Morelli gave me a little box, wrapped in red foil. I opened the box and found a ring. It was composed of slim intertwined gold and platinum bands. Set into the bands were three small deep blue sapphires. “It’s a friendship ring,” Morelli said. “We tried the engagement thing, and that didn’t work.”

  “Not yet, anyway,” I told him.

  “Yeah, not yet,” he said, sliding the ring onto my finger.

  Sound carried crystal clear on the cold air. I heard a car pull up to the curb. A door opened and closed. And then a second.

  “Aren’t you the one,” Grandma said.

  The deeper male voice didn’t carry back to us as clearly.

  “It’s Grandma and the studmuffin!” I whispered to Morelli.

  “Listen,” Morelli said, “I’d really like to stay but I’ve got this assignment . . .”

  I opened the kitchen door. “Forget it. You’re staying. I’m not facing the studmuffin alone.”

  “Look who I’ve got,” Grandma announced to everyone. “This here’s my friend John.”

  He was about five-foot-nine, with white hair, a ruddy complexion, and a slim build. He wore thick-lensed glasses and was dressed for the occasion in neatly pressed gray slacks, casual rubber-soled shoes, and a red blazer. Truth is, Grandma had dragged home a lot worse. If John had artificial parts, he was keeping them to himself. Fine by me.

  Grandma didn’t look nearly so well groomed. Her lipstick was smeared, and her hair was standing on end.

  “Yikes,” Morelli whispered to me.

  I extended my hand to the studmuffin. “I’m Stephanie,” I said.

  He shook my hand and my scalp tingled and a tiny spark passed between us. “I’m John Ring,” he said.

  Oh boy. So this is the connection. This is the reason Diesel was dropped into my kitchen.

  “He’s just full of static electricity tonight,” Grandma said. “We’re gonna have to rub him down with one of them fabric softener sheets.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t make dinner,” Ring said. “I had a stressful day.” He stepped closer, adjusted his glasses, and squinted at me. “Do I know you? You seem familiar, somehow.”

  “She’s a bounty hunter,” Grandma said. “She tracks down bad guys.”

  Zzzzzt. A series of sparks crackled off Ring’s head.

  “Isn’t that something the way he can do that?” Grandma said. “He’s been doing that all night.”

  My mother slyly made the sign of the cross and took a step backward. Morelli moved closer to me, pressing himself against my back, his hand at the nape of my neck.

  “Look at the hair on my arm,” Kloughn said. “It’s all standing up. Why do you suppose it’s doing that? Boy, I’m kind of creeped out. Do you suppose it means something? What do you suppose it means?”

  “The air’s real dry,” I said. “Sometimes hair doesn’t lie down when the air’s real dry.”

  Here I was, face to face with Ring, Diesel was off hunting batteries, and I hadn’t a clue what to do. My heart was skipping beats, and I was humming from head to toe. I could feel vibrations coming through the soles of my shoes.

  “I feel like a Slurpee,” I said to Grandma and Ring. “How about we all go to 7-Eleven and get a Slurpee?”

  “Now?” Grandma said. “We just got here.”

  “Yep. Now. I really need a Slurpee.”

  What I needed was to get Ring out of my parents’ house. I didn’t want him near Angie and Mary Alice. I didn’t want him near my mom and dad.

  “Maybe you could stay here and help wrap presents,” I said to Grandma. “And Mr. Ring could give me a ride to 7-Eleven. It would give us a chance to get acquainted.”

  Zzzzt. Zzzzzt. Mr. Ring didn’t seem to like that idea.

  “Just a suggestion,” I said.

  Morelli’s hand was steady at my neck, and Ring took a couple deep breaths.

  “Are you okay?” Grandma asked Ring. “You don’t look too good.”

  “I’m . . . excited,” he said. “M-m-meeting your family.” Zzzt.

  It looked to me like Ring was having a control problem. He was leaking electricity. And he seemed as uncomfortable with his position as I was.

  “Well,” he said, forcing a smile, “this is a typical fun family Christmas, isn’t it?” Zzzzt. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. Zzzt. Zzzt. “And this is your lovely Christmas tree.”

  “I paid fifteen bucks for it,” my father said.

  Zzzt.

  The tree had about twelve needles left on it and was tinder dry. My father diligently watered it every day, but this tree died in July.

  Ring reached out, tentatively touched the tree, and it burst into flames.

  “Holy shit,” Kloughn yelped. “Fire. Fire! Get the kids out of the house. Get the dog. Get the ham.”

  The fire spread to the cotton batting wrapped around the base of the tree and then to the presents. A streak of fire raced up a nearby curtain.

  “Call 911,” my mother said. “Call the fire company. Frank, get the fire extinguisher from the kitchen!”

  My dad turned to the kitchen, but Morelli already had the extinguisher in hand. Moments later, we all stood dazed, mouths agape, staring at the mess. The tree was gone. The presents were gone. The curtain was in tatters.

  John Ring was gone.

  And Diesel hadn’t returned.

  There was a loud series of explosions outside and through the window we saw the sky light up, bright as day. And then all was dark and quiet.

  “Cripes,” my dad said.

  Grandma looked around. “Where’s John? Where’s my studmuffin?”

  “You mean Sparky,” Kloughn said. “Get it? Sparky?”

  “Looks like he left,” I said.

  “Hunh, just like a man,” Grandma said. “Burn down your Christmas tree and then up and leave.”

  Morelli set the fire extinguisher aside and crooked his arm around my neck. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I didn’t see any of this,” Morelli said. “I didn’t see the sparks coming off his head. And I didn’t see him set the tree on fire.”

  “Me either,” I told him. “I didn’t see any of that stuff, either.”

  We all stood there for some more long moments with nothing to say. There were no words. Just shock. And maybe some denial.

  A small, sleepy voice broke the silence.

  “What happened?” Mary Alice asked.

  She was on the stairs in her jammies. Angie was behind her.

  “We had a fire,” my mom said.

  Mary Alice and Angie approached the tree. Mary Alice studied the charred boxes. She looked up at my mom. “Were these presents from the family?”

  “Yes.”

  Mary Alice was sober. Thinking. She looked at Angie. And she looked at Grandma.

  “That’s good,” she finally said, “because I’d hate to have Santa’s presents get burned.” Mary Alice climbed onto the couch and sat with her hands folded in her lap. “I’m going to wait for Santa,” she said.

  “I thought you didn’t believe in Santa,” Grandma said.

  “Diesel said it’s important to believe in things that make you happy. He was in my room just now, and he said he was going away, but Santa Claus would come to visit tonight.”

  “Did he have a horse with him?” Grandma asked. “Or a reindeer?”

&n
bsp; Mary Alice shook her head. “It was just Diesel.”

  Angie climbed next to Mary Alice. “I’ll wait, too.”

  “We should clean this mess up,” Grandma said.

  “Tomorrow,” my mother told her, taking a dining room chair into the living room, sitting across from Mary Alice and Angie. “I’m going to wait for Santa.”

  So we all sat and waited for Santa. We put the television on but we weren’t really watching. We were listening for footsteps on the roof. Hoping to catch a glimpse of reindeer flying past the window. Waiting for something magical to happen.

  The clock struck twelve and I heard cars drive up and doors open and close. And I heard voices, babbling in hushed excitement. There was a knock on the front door and we all jumped to our feet. I answered the door and wasn’t too surprised to see Sandy Claws. He was dressed in a snappy red suit with a red Christmas tie. He held a box, all wrapped up in shiny paper and tied with a golden bow. Behind him squirmed a legion of elves. (Who was I to say if they were fake or real?) All bearing presents. Randy Briggs was among them.

  “Diesel said you needed some help with Christmas,” Claws said to me.

  “Is he okay?”

  “He’s fine. Diesel is always fine. He’s returning Ring to the Home.”

  “How can he do that? How can he get around the electricity stuff?”

  “Diesel has ways.”

  “I bet you get harassed, right?” Kloughn said to a couple of the elves. “I bet you could use a good lawyer. Let me give you my card.”

  My mother rushed to the kitchen and returned with platters of cookies and fruitcake. My father cracked out some beer. Grandma eyed Claws.

  “He’s a cutie,” she said to me. “Do you know if he’s taken?”

  The party lasted until all the presents were opened, the last cookie was eaten, the last beer swilled. The elves said their good-byes and packed off in their cars. Sandy Claws and Briggs remained with one last box. It was the box with the golden bow, and Claws gave the box to Mary Alice.

  “I made this myself,” he said. “Just for you. Keep it always. It’s a special present for a very special person.”

  Mary Alice opened the box and looked inside. “It’s beautiful,” she said.

  It was a horse. Carved from curly cherry wood.

  Mary Alice held it in her hand. “It’s warm,” she said.

  I felt the horse. It was cool to my touch. I raised eyebrows in question to Sandor.

  “A special present for a special person,” he said to me.

  “A special person with special abilities?”

  He smiled. “There are signs.”

  I smiled back at him.

  “See you in court,” he said.

  I awoke at dawn and gently slid away from Morelli. I padded through my dark apartment to the kitchen. The mall tree was lit with tiny twinkle lights, and Diesel was leaning against the counter.

  “Is this good-bye?” I asked him.

  “Until next time.” He took my hand and kissed my palm. “It was a good Christmas,” he said. “See you around, sunshine.”

  “See you around,” I said, but he was already gone.

  And he was dead-on right, I thought. It was a very good Christmas.

  PLUM LOVIN’

  I’d like to acknowledge the invaluable assistance of

  Alex Evanovich, Peter Evanovich, and my

  St. Martin’s Press editor and friend,

  SuperJen Enderlin.

  1

  Men are like shoes. Some fit better than others. And sometimes you go out shopping and there’s nothing you like. And then, as luck would have it, the next week you find two that are perfect, but you don’t have the money to buy both. I was currently in just such a position . . . not with shoes, but with men. And this morning it got worse.

  A while ago, a guy named Diesel showed up in my kitchen. Poof, he was there. Like magic. And then days later, poof, he was gone. Now, without warning, he was once again standing in front of me.

  “Surprise,” he said. “I’m back.”

  He was imposing at just over six feet. Built solid with broad shoulders and deep-set, assessing brown eyes. He looked like he could seriously kick ass and not break a sweat. He had a lot of wavy, sandy blond hair cut short and fierce blond eyebrows. I placed his age at late twenties, early thirties. I knew very little about his background. Clearly he’d been lucky with the gene pool. He was a nice-looking guy, with perfect white teeth and a smile that made a woman get all warm inside.

  It was a cold February morning, and he’d dropped into my apartment wearing a multicolored scarf wrapped around his neck, a black wool peacoat, a washed-out three-button thermal knit shirt, faded jeans, beat-up boots, and his usual bad attitude. I knew that a muscular, athletic body was under the coat. I wasn’t sure if there was anything good buried under the attitude.

  My name is Stephanie Plum. I’m average height and average weight and have an average vocabulary for someone living in Jersey. I have shoulder-length brown hair that is curly or wavy, depending on the humidity. My eyes are blue. My heritage is Hungarian and Italian. My family is dysfunctional in a normal sort of way. There are a bunch of things I’d like to do with my life, but right now I’m happy to put one foot in front of the other and button my jeans without having a roll of fat hang over the waistband.

  I work as a bond enforcement agent for my cousin Vinnie, and my success at the job has more to do with luck and tenacity than with skill. I live in a budget apartment on the outskirts of Trenton, and my only roommate is a hamster named Rex. So I felt understandably threatened by having this big guy suddenly appear in my kitchen.

  “I hate when you just show up in front of me,” I said. “Can’t you ring my doorbell like a normal person?”

  “First off, I’m not exactly normal. And second, you should be happy I didn’t walk into your bathroom when you were wet and naked.” He flashed me the killer smile. “Although I wouldn’t have minded finding you wet and naked.”

  “In your dreams.”

  “Yeah,” Diesel said. “It’s happened.”

  He stuck his head in my refrigerator and rooted around. Not a lot in there, but he found one last bottle of beer and some slices of American cheese. He ate the cheese and chugged the beer. “Are you still seeing that cop?”

  “Joe Morelli. Yep.”

  “What about the guy behind door number two?”

  “Ranger? Yeah, I’m still working with Ranger.” Ranger was my bounty hunter mentor and more. Problem was, the more part wasn’t clearly defined.

  I heard a snort and a questioning woof from the vicinity of my bedroom.

  “What’s that?” Diesel asked.

  “Morelli’s working double shifts, and I’m taking care of his dog, Bob.”

  There was the sound of dog feet running, and Bob rounded a corner and slid to a stop on the kitchen linoleum. He was a big-footed, shaggy, orange-haired beast with floppy ears and happy brown eyes. Probably golden retriever, but he’d never win best of breed. He sat his ass down on Diesel’s boot and wagged his tail at him.

  Diesel absently fondled Bob’s head, and Bob drooled a little on Diesel’s pant leg, hoping for a scrap of cheese.

  “Is this visit social or professional?” I asked Diesel.

  “Professional. I’m looking for a guy named Bernie Beaner. I need to shut him down.”

  If I’m to believe Diesel, there are people on this planet who have abilities that go beyond what would be considered normal human limitations. These people aren’t exactly superheroes. It’s more that they’re ordinary souls with the freakish ability to levitate a cow or slow-pitch a lightning bolt. Some are good and some are bad. Diesel tracks the bad. The alternative explanation for Diesel is that he’s a wacko.

  “What’s Beaner’s problem?” I asked.

  Diesel dropped a small leftover chunk of cheese into Rex’s cage and gave another chunk to Bob. “Gone off the edge. His marriage went into the shitter, and he blamed it on another Unme
ntionable. Now he’s out to get her.”

  “Unmentionable?”

  “That’s what we call ourselves. It sounds better than freak of nature.”

  Only marginally.

  Bob was pushing against Diesel, trying to get him to give up more cheese. Bob was about ninety pounds of rangy dog, and Diesel was two hundred of hard muscle. It would take a lot more than Bob to bulldoze Diesel around my kitchen.

  “And you’re in my apartment, why?” I asked Diesel.

  “I need help.”

  “No. No, no, no, no, no.”

  “You have no choice, sweetie pie. The woman Beaner’s looking for is on your most-wanted list. And she’s in my custody. If you want your big-ticket bond, you have to help me.”

  “That’s horrible. That’s blackmail or bribery or something.”

  “Yeah. Deal with it.”

  “Who’s the woman?” I asked Diesel.

  “Annie Hart.”

  “You’ve gotta be kidding. Vinnie’s on a rant over her. I spent all day yesterday looking for her. She’s wanted for armed robbery and assault with a deadly weapon.”

  “It’s all bogus . . . not that either of us gives a rat’s ass.” Diesel was systematically going through my cupboards looking for food, and Bob was sticking close. “Anyway, bottom line is I’ve got her tucked away until I can sort things out with crazy Bernie.”

  “Bernie is the . . . um, Unmentionable who’s after Annie?”

  “Yeah. Problem is, Annie’s one of those crusader types. Takes her job real serious. Says it’s her calling. So, the only way I could get Annie to stay hidden was to promise her I’d take over her caseload. I suck at the kind of stuff she does, so I’m passing it off to you.”

  “And what do I get out of this?”

  “You get Annie. As soon as I take care of Bernie, I’ll turn Annie over to you.”

  “I don’t see where this is a big favor to me. If I don’t help you, Annie will come out of hiding, I’ll snag her, and my job will be done.”

  Diesel had his thumbs hooked into his jeans pockets; his eyes were locked onto mine, his expression was serious. “What’ll it take? I need help with this, and everyone has a price. What’s yours? How about twenty bucks when you close a case?”