Plum 10 - Ten Big Ones Page 4

  I followed after her. "Ice cream," I said.

  She scooped half a tub of ice cream onto my plate. She stepped back and looked at me. "Blood," she said.

  "Not mine."

  She made the sign of the cross.

  "And I'm pretty sure Eddie's going to be okay."

  Another cross.

  There'd been places left at the table for Grandma and me. I took my place and shoveled in cake. Grandma brought an extra chair from the kitchen for Sally and bustled around filling plates. The rest of the family was silent at the dining room table. Only my father was active, head down, forking up chicken and mashed potatoes. Everyone else was frozen in their seats, mouths open, eyes wide, not sure what to make of me with the blood on my shirt . . . and Sally in his earrings.

  "You all remember Sally, don't you?" Grandma asked as introduction. "He's a famous musician, and he's a girl sometimes. He's got a whole bunch of pretty dresses and high heel shoes and makeup. He's even got one of them black leather bustier things with pointy ice cream cone breasts. You don't even hardly notice his chest hair when he's got that bustier thing on."

  THREE

  "How can he be a girl sometimes?" Mary Alice wanted to know.

  Mary Alice is in third grade and is two years younger than her sister, Angie. Mary Alice can ride a bike, play Monopoly if someone helps her read the Chance cards, and can recite the names of all of Santas reindeer. She's in the dark on gender crossing.

  "I just dress up like a girl," Sally said. "Its part of my on-stage persona."

  "I'd want to dress up like a horse," Mary Alice said.

  Angie looked at Sally's wrist. "Why are you wearing an elastic band?"

  "I'm trying to quit cussing," Sally said. "Every time I cuss I snap the elastic band. It's supposed to make me not want to cuss anymore."

  "You should just say a different word than the cuss word," Angie said. "Something that sounds like the cuss word."

  "I've got it!" Grandma said. "Fudge. That's what you should say."

  "Fudge," Sally repeated. "I don't know . . . I feel silly saying fudge."

  "What's the red stuff all over Aunt Stephanie?" Mary Alice wanted to know.

  "Blood," Grandma said. "We were in a shoot-out. None of us got hurt, but Stephanie was helping out Eddie Gazarra. He was shot twice, and he had blood spurting all over the place."

  "Eeeuw," Angie said.

  Valerie's live-in boyfriend, Albert Kloughn, was seated next to me. He looked down at my blood-spattered arm and fainted. Crash. Right off his chair.

  "He fucking fainted," Sally said. "Oh f-f-fudge." Snap.

  I was done with my cake, so I went to the kitchen and tried to clean up. Probably I should have cleaned up before coming to the table but I really needed the cake.

  When I got back to the table Albert was sitting in his seat. "I'm not squeamish or anything," he said. "I just slipped. It was one of those freak accidents."

  Albert Kloughn was about five foot seven, had sandy blond hair showing the beginnings of male pattern baldness, and the chubby face and body of a twelve-year-old. He was a lawyer, of sorts, and he was the father of Valerie's baby. He was a sweet guy, but he felt more like a pet than a future brother-in-law. His office was located next to a laundromat, and he dispensed more quarters than legal advice.

  There was a light rap on the front door, the door opened, and Joe walked in. My mother was immediately running for an extra plate, not sure where she was going to put it. Even with the leaf in, the table could only accommodate eight, and Joe made ten.

  "Here," Kloughn said, jumping to his feet, "you can have my place. I'm done eating. I don't mind. Honest."

  "Isn't he a cuddle umpkins?" Valerie said.

  Grandma hid behind her napkin and made a gagging gesture. Morelli held his response to a benign smile. My father kept eating. And it occurred to me that cuddle umpkins fit Kloughn perfectly. How awful is that?

  "Now that everyone's here, I have an announcement to make," Valerie said. "Albert and I have set a date to get married."

  This was an important announcement because when Valerie was pregnant she was thinking she might hold out for Ranger or Indiana Jones. This was a worrisome situation since it was unlikely either of those guys would be interested in marrying Valerie. Valerie's opinion of Albert Kloughn improved with the birth of the baby, but until this moment my mother harbored the fear that she'd be saddled with Valerie gossip for the rest of her life. Unwed mothers, horrific painful deaths, and cheating husbands were the favorite topics of the Burg gossip-mongers.

  "That's wonderful!" my mother said, clapping a hand to her mouth, her eyes filling with tears. "I'm so happy for you."

  "A wedding!" Grandma said. "I'll need a new dress. And we need a hall for the reception." She dabbed at her eyes. "Look at me . . . I'm all teary."

  Valerie was crying, too. She was laughing and sniffling back sobs. "I'm going to marry my snuggy wuggums," she said.

  Morelli paused, his fork halfway to the roast chicken platter. He slid his eyes to me and leaned close. "If you ever call me snuggy wuggums in public I'll lock you in the cellar and chain you to the furnace."

  Kloughn was standing at the end of the table with a glass of wine in his hand. "I have to make a toast," he said. "To the future Mrs. Kloughn!"

  My mother went still as stone. She hadn't totally thought through the consequences of Valerie's marriage to Albert. "Valerie Kloughn," she said, trying not to show her horror.

  "Holy crap," my father said.

  I leaned close to Morelli. "Now I'm not the only clown in the family," I whispered.

  Morelli raised his glass. "To Valerie Kloughn," he said.

  Kloughn drained his glass and refilled it. "And to me! Because I'm the luckiest man ever. I found my lovey pumpkin, my one true lovey dovey, my big fat sweetie pie."

  "Hey, wait a minute . . ." Valerie said. "Big fat sweetie pie?"

  Grandma refilled her wineglass. "Somebody stun-gun him," she said. "I can't take no more."

  Kloughn rushed on. His face was flushed, and he'd started to sweat. "I've even got a baby," he said. "I don't know how that happened. Well, I mean, I guess I know how it happened. I think it happened on the couch in there . . ."

  Everyone but Joe sucked in some air. Joe was smiling. "And to think, I almost missed this," he whispered to me.

  My mother looked like tomorrow she'd be shopping for a new couch. And my father was studying his butter knife . . . undoubtedly wondering how much damage he could do. Good thing the carving knife was in the kitchen.

  "It usually takes Kloughns years to get pregnant," Albert said. "Historically we have a low mobility. Our guys can't swim. That's what my father always said. He said, Albert, don't expect to be a father, because Kloughns can't swim. And look at this. My guys could swim! It's not like I was even trying. I just couldn't figure out how to get the thingy on. And then once I got it on, but I think it had a hole in it, because it seemed like it was leaking. Wouldn't it be something if that was the time? Wouldn't it be something if my guys could swim through the thingy? Like I had Superman guys!"

  Poor Snuggy Uggums was motoring down the road to doom, gaining momentum, out of control with no idea how to stop.

  "Do something," I said to Joe. "He's dying."

  Morelli was still wearing his gun. He took it off his hip and pointed it at Kloughn. "Albert," he said, very calmly. "Shut up."

  "Thank you," Kloughn said. And then he wiped the sweat off his forehead with his shirttail.

  "What about dessert?" my father wanted to know. "Isn't anyone going to serve dessert?"

  * * *

  It was close to nine when Morelli and I staggered through the front door to his town house. Bob-the-Dog came galloping from the kitchen to greet us, attempted a sliding stop on Morelli's polished wood floor, and slammed into Morelli. This was Bob's usual opening act, and Morelli had been braced for the hit. Bob was a big goofy orange-haired beast who ate everything that wasn't nailed down and had more enthusi
asm than brains. He shoved past us and bounced out the door, in a rush to tinkle on Morelli's minuscule front yard. This was always Bob's first choice of bathroom, and as a result the grass was scorched brown. Bob returned to the house, Morelli closed and locked the front door, and we stood there for a moment sucking in the silence.

  "This wasn't one of my better days," I said to Morelli. "My car was destroyed, I was involved in a shooting, and I just sat through the dinner from hell."

  Morelli slung an arm around me. "Dinner wasn't that bad."

  "My sister talked cuddle umpkins to Kloughn for two hours, my mother and grandmother cried every time someone mentioned the wedding, Mary Alice whinnied nonstop, and the baby threw up on you."

  "Yeah, but aside from that . . ."

  "Not to mention, Grandma got completely snookered and passed out at the table."

  "She was the smart one," Morelli said.

  "You were the hero."

  "I wouldn't actually have shot him," Morelli said. "Not to kill, anyway."

  "My family is a disaster!"

  Morelli grinned. "I've called you Cupcake for as long as I can remember, but I'm rethinking it after listening to the two hours of cuddle umpkins."

  "Just exactly what is a human-type cupcake?"

  "It's like a cream puff but not as squishy. It's dessert. It's soft and sweet . . . and it's good to eat."

  The eating part gave me a rush that went straight to my doodah.

  Morelli kissed me just below my earlobe and told me a few things about the right way to eat a cupcake. When he got to the part about licking the icing off the top, my nipples shrunk to the size and hardness of steel ball bearings.

  "Boy, I'm really tired," I said. "Maybe we should be thinking about going to bed."

  "Good idea, Cupcake."

  * * *

  I've been living with Morelli for several months now, and its been surprisingly easy. We still like each other, and the magic hasn't gone out of the sex. Hard to imagine it ever would with Morelli. He's nice to my hamster, Rex. He doesn't expect me to make him breakfast. He's neat without being freaky about it. And he remembers to close the lid on the toilet . . . most of the time. What more can you ask from a man?

  Morelli lives on a quiet street in a small, pleasant house he inherited from his Aunt Rose. The house mirrors my parents' house and every other house on Morelli's street. When I look out his bedroom window I see neatly parked cars and two-story redbrick attached town houses with clean windows. There are small trees and small shrubs in small yards. And behind the front doors are frequently large people. Food is good in Trenton.

  The bedroom window in my apartment looks out at a blacktop parking lot. The apartment building was constructed in the seventies and is totally lacking in charm and amenities. My interior decorating style is one step away from college dorm. Decorating takes time and money. And I have neither.

  So it's a mystery why I would miss my apartment, but the truth is, sometimes I felt homesick for the depressing mustard and olive green bathroom, the hook in the entrance area where I hang my jacket, the cooking smells and television noise from the neighboring apartments.

  It was nine in the morning and Morelli was off, ridding the city of bad guys, protecting the populace. I rinsed my coffee cup and set it in the dish drain. I tapped on Rex's cage and told him I'd be back. I hugged Bob and told him to be good and not eat any chairs. After I hugged Bob I had to use the lint roller on my jeans. I was rollering my jeans when the doorbell bonged.

  "Howdy," Grandma Mazur said when I answered the door. "I was out for a walk, and I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I'd stop by for a cup of coffee."

  "That's a long walk."

  "Your sister came over first thing with her laundry, and the house got real crowded."

  "I was just going out," I told Grandma. "I have some people to pick up this morning."

  "I could help! I could be your assistant. I'd be good at it. I can be real scary when I try."

  I grabbed my shoulder bag and denim jacket. "I don't actually need anybody scary, but you can ride along if you want. My plan is to stop at the office to say hello. And then I'm going to get Sally so he can reschedule."

  Grandma followed me out the front door, to the curb. "This sure is a pip of a car," Grandma said, taking the Buick in. "I feel like one of them old-time gangsters when I ride in this car."

  I feel poor when I ride in the car, since I'm the one buying the gas. No car in the history of the world guzzled gas better than the Buick.

  * * *

  Lula was at the door when I parked in front of the bonds office. "Don't bother trying to get that boat docked just right," she said. "We got an emergency call. Remember the chip lady? Well, she's having some kind of a breakdown. Connie just got off the phone with the chip lady's sister, and Connie said we should go over there and see what's happening."

  Sometimes part of my job falls under the category of preventive care. If you know something's going wrong in a bondee's life it's best to check in with him from time to time rather than wait for him to flee.

  "Hell-o," Lula said, peeking in the car window. "We got Grandma on board."

  "I'm helping Stephanie this morning," Grandma said. "What's a chip lady?"

  "It's some woman held up a Frito-Lay truck," Lola said.

  "And then she ate the chips."

  "Good for her," Grandma said. "I've always wanted to do that."

  Lula climbed into the backseat. "Me, too. You read those adult magazines and they're always talking about sex fantasies, but I say chip fantasies are where it's at."

  "I wouldn't mind combining them," Grandma said. "Suppose you had some good-looking naked man feeding you the chips."

  "No way," Lula said. "I don't want to be distracted by no man when I'm eating chips. I'd rather have dip. Just get out of my way when I see the chips and dip."

  "It's good you have priorities," Grandma said.

  "Know thyself," Lula replied. "Someone famous said that. I don't remember who."

  I took Hamilton to Klockner, passed the high school in Hamilton Township, and turned into Cantell's neighborhood. A woman was standing on Cantell's front porch. She took a startled step back when she saw the three of us emerge from Big Blue.

  "Guess she's never seen a '53 Buick before," Grandma said.

  "Yeah," Lula said, hitching up her fuchsia and black animal print spandex pants. "I'm sure that's it."

  I approached the porch and handed the woman my business card. "Stephanie Plum."

  "I remember you," the woman said. "You had your picture in the paper when you burned the funeral home down."

  "It wasn't my fault."

  "It wasn't my fault either," Grandma said.

  "I'm Cindy, Carol's sister. I know she's been having a hard time so I called her this morning. Just checking in, you know? And as soon as I heard her I knew something was wrong. She didn't want to talk on the phone, and she was real secretive. So I came over here. I only live two blocks away. She wouldn't answer her door when I knocked, so I went around back and that door was locked, too. And the shades are all drawn. You can't see into the house at all."

  "Maybe she just wants to be alone," Lula said. "Maybe she thinks you're nosey."

  "Put your ear to the window," Cindy said.

  Lula put her ear to the front window.

  "Listen real close. What do you hear?"

  "Uh oh," Lula said. "I hear the crinkle of a chip bag. I hear crunching."

  "I'm afraid she's held up another truck!" Cindy said. "I didn't want to call the police. And I didn't want to call her ex-husband. He's a real jerk. If I'd been married to him, I'd be a little nutty, too. Anyway, I remembered Carol saying how nice you all were, so I thought maybe you could help."

  I rapped on the front door. "Carol. It's Stephanie Plum. Open the door."

  "Go away."

  "I need to talk to you."

  "I'm busy."

  "She's going to jail," Cindy wailed. "She's a habitual offender. Th
ey're going to lock her up and throw away the key. She's a chip junky. My sister's an addict!"

  "We don't want to get carried away with this," Lula said. "Last I looked, Fritos weren't on the list of controlled substances."

  "Maybe we should shoot the lock off the door," Grandma said.

  "Hey, Carol," I yelled through the door. "Did you rob another Frito-Lay truck?"

  "Don't worry," Cindy called out. "We'll get you a good lawyer. Maybe you can plead insanity."

  The door flew open and Carol stood in the doorway, holding a bag of Cheez Doodles. Her hair was smudged with orange doodle dust and stood out from her scalp like an explosion had gone off inside her head. Her mascara was smudged, her lipstick eaten off, replaced with orange doodle stain. She was dressed in a nightgown, sneakers, and a warm-up jacket. Doodle crumbs stuck to the jacket and sparkled in the morning sunlight.

  "Whoa," Lula said. "It's fright night."

  "What is it with you people?" Carol screeched. "Don't you have lives? Go away. Can't you see I'm having breakfast?"

  "What should we do?" Cindy asked. "Should we call 911?"

  "Forget 911," Lula said. "Call an exorcist."

  "What's the deal with the Cheez Doodles?" I asked Carol.

  "I slipped. I fell off the wagon."

  "You didn't rob another truck, did you?"

  "No."

  "A store?"

  "Absolutely not. I paid for these. Okay, maybe a couple bags got stuck in my jacket, but I don't know how that happened. I don't have any memory of it, I swear."

  "You're a nut," Lula said, prowling through the house, gathering up stashed bags of chips. "You got no self-control. You need Chips Anonymous." Lula opened a bag of Doritos and scarfed a few.

  Grandma held out a grocery bag. "I found this in the kitchen. We can put the chips in it and take them with us so she isn't tempted to eat any more."

  "Put the chips in the bag and give them to Cindy," I told Grandma.

  "I thought it might be a good idea if we took them," Grandma said.

  "Yeah," Lula said. "That's a much better idea than making poor Cindy cart them off."