Twisted Twenty-Six Read online

  * * *

  —

  I stripped in my kitchen, shoved my clothes into a trash bag, and closed the bag with a twisty tie. I apologized to Rex for the smell and padded into the bathroom. I showered and shampooed my hair . . . twice.

  You can tell the level of my insecurity by the amount of eye makeup I put on. I hide behind mascara. Today was a double application. No doubt compensating for my lack of magenta extensions. Not to mention that the clean clothes I put on were almost exact replicas of the clothes that were bagged in the kitchen.

  “Stephanie, Stephanie, Stephanie,” I said. “How did you get so boring?” I feared the answer was that I’d always been a little boring . . . and now I was moving into the loser category.

  I called Morelli and asked him if he thought I was a loser.

  “No,” he said. “Not yet.”

  “Not yet? What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know. I was distracted. I’m at a crime scene. Some guy got electrocuted and sort of exploded. We’re trying to find all the pieces. It would be great if you could walk Bob for me. This could take a while.”

  “Sure.”

  I disconnected and called Ranger. He’d been my mentor when I started working for Vinnie. He’s former Special Forces and has moved up the food chain from bounty hunter to owner of Rangeman, an elite security firm. He’s about the same height as Morelli, and Morelli is a smidgen over six feet tall. Morelli’s coloring is classic Mediterranean, and Ranger’s is Latino. There’s a little more bulk to Ranger’s muscle, but it’s hidden behind perfectly tailored clothes. The clothes are always black. It’s easy to lose Ranger in deep shadow.

  “Do you think I’m a loser?” I asked Ranger.

  “Babe,” Ranger said. And he hung up.

  Hard to tell exactly what Babe meant in this instance, but it didn’t do anything to elevate my mood. I grabbed a can of spray deodorizer from under my sink, added the clothes bag from the kitchen to my already full laundry basket, and headed out. I’d left the windows open on my car, hoping it would air. As an added precaution I sprayed the deodorizer around the entire inside. I put the laundry basket in the trunk, and let the spray settle for a couple minutes before I got behind the wheel.

  I drove with the windows open, and by the time I parked in front of my parents’ house, my shoulder-length hair had frizzed out into a giant puffball.

  I pulled my hair into a ponytail, secured it with an elastic scrunchy, and retrieved my laundry basket. Grandma met me at the front door.

  “How’s Mom feeling?” I asked. “Is her back any better?”

  “She’s in the kitchen. Says she feels fine. Just gets a twinge now and then.”

  My father was in front of the television in the living room, eating a sandwich off a tray table. He drives a cab part-time, but mostly I think he fibs about working and goes to his lodge to play cards and watch television.

  I skirted around my father, careful not to get between him and the television, and took my laundry to my mom.

  “I’m getting lunch together,” she said. “Can you stay?”

  “Sure.”

  “We’re a little late with lunch because I got delayed at the bakery,” Grandma said. “I went to get fresh rolls, and everyone wanted to talk about the viewing and how it’s a shame I was widowed so soon.” Grandma brought the rolls to the table. “I had no idea I’d be such a celebrity.”

  My mother was at the refrigerator, pulling out food for lunch. Egg salad, coleslaw, half a meatloaf. She looked over at me and cocked her head at Grandma. “She put on makeup and wore the queen’s dress to go shopping.”

  “I always try to look nice,” Grandma said. “And besides, I even got asked for my autograph.”

  My mother set the food on the table. “Marjorie Jean asked you to sign the receipt for the credit card.”

  “I saw how she was looking at it,” Grandma said. “Like she was thinking of getting a copy to keep for herself.”

  I set my basket and messenger bag on the floor. “If your back is still bothering you, I can do my own laundry,” I said.

  “I’m okay, and a deal is a deal,” she said. “I hope you have something to be ironed. I need to iron.”

  Ironing is my mom’s safe place. When Grandma and I burned down the funeral home my mom ironed the same shirt for four hours.

  I made a meatloaf sandwich and helped myself to coleslaw. “The clothes in the plastic bag might be a little smelly,” I said to my mom. “I had to stun a guy this morning, and he had an accident.”

  “What kind of accident?” Grandma asked. “Did he hurt himself?”

  “It was a bathroom accident,” I said. “Except without a bathroom.”

  My mother white knuckled her fork and instinctively glanced at the cabinet where she kept her whiskey stash.

  “You have an exciting life,” Grandma said to me. “I wish I had a job like you. The best I got is bingo tonight. It’s pretty good but it’s not like chasing down scumbags.”

  My mom sat up straight. “You’re not going to bingo tonight, are you?”

  “Sure, I’m going to bingo. It’s Thursday. I always go on Thursday. People are going to be expecting me to be there.”

  “That’s not a good idea,” my mother said. “Stephanie, tell your grandmother it isn’t a good idea. What if Jimmy’s sisters are there?”

  “Angie won’t be there,” Grandma said. “She can’t hold the bingo dauber with those big bandages on her hands.”

  “There are two other sisters,” my mother said. “And a daughter. And ex-wives.”

  “I haven’t got anything against them,” Grandma said.

  “They think you’re a gold digger,” my mom said. “They’re worried you’re going to get Jimmy’s money. There are rumors going around that there’s a contract out on you.”

  “Half the people in the Burg have contracts on them,” Grandma said. “Nothing ever happens because all the mob hit men are in their eighties and have macular degeneration and clogged-up arteries. It’s not a job for those millennials. Too much work. Too messy. And you gotta learn a lot of skills. I hear the big thing now for the young folks is having a marijuana farm or being one of those hedge funders.”

  There was the sound of glass breaking in the living room, followed by my father knocking over his tray table.

  “What the Sam Hill!” my father yelled.

  I ran into the room and saw that the front window was shattered, and there was a bottle rolling around on the living room rug. It had a burning rag stuck into the top. I snatched the bottle and threw it back out the broken window. The bottle hit the side of my car parked at the curb and exploded. In an instant the car was engulfed in flames, and black smoke billowed into the sky.

  My mom and grandmother had followed me into the living room and were standing next to my dad.

  “Molotov cocktail,” I said. “We were lucky the bottle didn’t break when it hit the floor.”

  “Quick thinking,” Grandma said. “You got a good arm. I couldn’t have reached the car.”

  It was a surprise to me too. I’d thrown the bottle in a blind panic. Hitting my car was just one more indication that my life was in the shitter.

  “What was that about?” my father asked. “I was eating my lunch and watching television and all of a sudden this bottle comes flying through the window.”

  I exchanged glances with my mother and Grandma. None of us wanted to tell my father about the contract on Grandma.

  “Mistaken identity,” I said.

  “Prank,” my mother said.

  “Damn aliens,” Grandma said.

  My mother set the tray table back upright and picked the plate and napkin up off the floor. “Good thing you were done with lunch,” she said to my father. “Would you like fruit or ice cream for dessert?”

  “Ice cream,” he said.
“Chocolate. And then I’m going out with the cab.”

  My mother went to the kitchen to get the ice cream, and Grandma and I went out to the front porch to watch the car burn. Two cop cars were the first to arrive. A couple fire trucks and an EMT truck were close behind.

  I got a call from Ranger. He decided a while ago that my safety was his responsibility, so he keeps tabs on me by installing tracking devices on my cars. Initially I was annoyed, but the truth is they come in handy every now and then. Obviously, he was just notified by his control room that his bug went dead.

  “Babe,” he said.

  “I sort of firebombed my car,” I said, “but no one was in it, so it’s all okay.”

  “Good to know,” he said. And he disconnected.

  Morelli called next.

  “I just heard from dispatch that there’s a fire at your parents’ house,” Morelli said.

  “Someone pitched a Molotov cocktail through the living room window. It didn’t break because it landed on the rug, and I was able to toss it back out the window before it exploded. Unfortunately, I accidentally pitched it at my car that was parked in front of the house.”

  “Anyone hurt?”

  “No. We’re all okay. The fire trucks are here.”

  “I assume this was meant as a message to Grandma.”

  “I assume you’re right. Are you still looking for body parts?”

  “Yeah. I think I just found a nose.”

  “Boy, you really know how to have fun.”

  “Gotta go,” Morelli said. And he disconnected.

  My phone rang again. It was Connie.

  “There’s black smoke coming from the vicinity of your parents’ house,” Connie said.

  “It’s my car.”

  “Again?”

  “Someone tossed a firebomb into my parents’ house, I tossed it back out, and it exploded my car.”

  “Bummer.”

  “You have any idea who might have done this?”

  “It would be a long list,” Connie said.

  Another fire truck pulled up with lights flashing and sirens screaming, and I ended the conversation with Connie.

  “This is going to put a crimp in my plans,” Grandma yelled at me. “I was hoping you’d give me a ride to bingo. I usually go with Evelyn Malinowski, but she has hemorrhoids and doesn’t want to go to bingo with her whoopee cushion.”

  “You should give up bingo tonight,” I said. “Someone just tried to firebomb you.”

  “We don’t know that for sure,” Grandma said. “They could have been after you. You get firebombed all the time.”

  “Not all the time.”

  “Well, once in a while. Anyway, you get firebombed more than I do.”

  No one was doing much for my car. Mostly everyone was standing around waiting for it to burn itself out.

  “I hate to miss this bingo,” Grandma said. “It’s not every day I get to be a celebrity. Once Jimmy’s put in the ground my days of glory are going to be over.”

  My great-uncle Sandor had bequeathed his ’53 powder blue and white Buick Roadmaster to Grandma. The car was kept in the garage and was available for anyone desperate enough to use it. And that would be me.

  “I can borrow the Buick,” I said. “What about Mom? She’s not going to want you to go.”

  “She’s inside nipping at the hooch,” Grandma said. “She’ll be nice and mellow by bingo time.”

  * * *

  —

  It was close to four o’clock when I finished with the police report and arranged to have my car towed away. I backed Big Blue out of the garage and drove the short distance to Morelli’s house. I got Bob hooked up to his leash, and we followed his usual route. It was slow going since Bob did a lot of bush sniffing and leg lifting, but it was a pleasant walk, not counting the occasional whiff of cooked car carried on the wind.

  “What would you think of magenta extensions?” I asked Bob. “It could be the start of my makeover program. Who knows what would follow. Maybe a new job. Or a new boyfriend. I might join a gym.”

  Bob turned his head and looked at me.

  “Yeah, you’re right,” I said. “I’m not going to join a gym. I mean, let’s not get stupid about this makeover.”

  A black Cadillac sedan cruised by and pulled to the curb. The passenger door opened and a young guy with slicked-back black hair got out and walked over to me.

  “Stephanie Plum?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Get in the car. Someone wants to talk to you.”

  “Who?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “Is he in the car?” I asked, looking into the car.

  “No. We’re going to take you to him.”

  “I don’t think so. I’m walking Bob right now. Tell him to text me.”

  So this all sounds pretty tough on my part, but the truth is I was a little rattled. I’d seen this scene countless times in mob movies, and it never ended well.

  “Look, lady,” he said. “Just get in the car, okay?”

  I pressed the speed dial to Ranger. He picked up, and I told him I might have a problem.

  “Who are you calling?” the slick-haired guy asked.

  “Ranger.”

  “Oh jeez,” he said. “He’s the Rangeman dude, right? He threw my cousin out of a window once.”

  “Was your cousin okay?”

  “Eventually. Sort of. It was a third-floor window.”

  “What did your mystery boss want to talk to me about?”

  “I don’t know. I just ride around with Lou. We go for coffee, and we snatch people sometimes.”

  “Bob is getting impatient,” I said. “I need to move on.”

  “Sure,” he said. “Have a real nice day.”

  Bob and I walked to the corner, and a Rangeman SUV pulled up.

  “Everything’s okay,” I told them.

  “Ranger would like us to escort you home. Would you like to ride, or would you rather walk?”

  “We’ll take the ride,” I said. “Bob has already pooped. We have nothing important left to do.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  RANGEMAN DROPPED ME at Morelli’s house and waited until I was safely inside. I closed and locked the door and looked out the window. They were still at the curb.

  “Whatever,” I said to Bob.

  I poured his dinner kibble into his bowl, gave him fresh water and a hug, and told him Morelli would be home soon. Maybe. I left the house, got into my borrowed Buick, and chugged away. The Rangeman SUV followed me. Okay by me. As far as I was concerned, they could follow me for the rest of my life. Or at least until my life improved.

  I parked in my apartment building lot, gave the Rangeman SUV a friendly wave, and took the stairs to my apartment. Rex was asleep in his soup can when I walked into the kitchen. I tapped on his cage and some hamster bedding moved, but Rex stayed snug in his nest. I lifted the lid on my brown bear cookie jar, looked in at my gun, and thought maybe I should put bullets in it. Just in case. I searched my junk drawer. No bullets. I could go out to buy bullets, but I wasn’t sure where one went to do this. Dick’s Sporting Goods, maybe. Dick’s had everything. I went to the window. The Rangeman SUV was still there. They’d follow me to Dick’s. And then they might follow me inside and see me wandering around, trying to figure out where to buy bullets. It would be embarrassing. I’d look like a moron.

  I put the lid back on the cookie jar. At this time of the day the traffic would be horrible getting to Dick’s. And did I really want to shoot someone? No. So, what was the point in getting bullets? If I felt like I needed bullets tomorrow, I’d have Lula get some for me. They sold ammo at her hair salon.

  * * *

  —

  Bingo doesn’t start until seven o’clock, but Grandma likes to get there ear
ly so she can get her lucky seat. I rolled to a stop in front of my parents’ house at six-thirty and Grandma was waiting on the porch. She had her big patent leather purse hung in the crook of her arm. This meant she was carrying. It was the only purse that could accommodate her .45 long-barrel.

  “How’d you get out of the house with that purse?” I asked her when she climbed in.

  “I waited until your mother went to the bathroom and then I sneaked out.”

  A glass repair truck was parked in the driveway, and two men were on the porch fixing the broken window.

  “Fast service,” I said.

  “The guy with the ball cap is in the same lodge as your father. They stick together.”

  Five minutes later I pulled up to the fire station.

  “Evelyn isn’t going to be here tonight,” Grandma said, “so there’ll be an extra seat next to me if you want to play. It’s going to be a good night. Marvina is calling, and they got a grand prize donated by Dittman’s Meat Market.”

  I imagined my mother whispering in my ear. “Do not leave your grandmother’s side. I’m holding you responsible. Do not let her break any more fingers or shoot anyone.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I’ll play. Hold the seat for me while I park the car.”

  I dropped Grandma off and circled around to the lot behind the firehouse. Rangeman followed. I parked and walked up to their SUV.

  “I’m going to be a couple hours,” I told them. “I’m making sure Grandma doesn’t shoot anyone at bingo.”

  There was a moment of silence while they digested this.

  “Seriously?” the driver asked.

  “Instructions from my mother,” I said.

  I went into the bingo hall and took my position next to Grandma. She was the center of attention, accepting condolences and sharing wake details. Marvina was at the front table, checking out the basket holding the bingo balls. Women were beginning to take their seats and lay out their cards. The door opened and Tootie and Rose walked in. A hush fell over the room, and everyone but me took a step back from Grandma.