Plum Lovin' Page 4

  “She'll get help,” Diesel said. “She'll be okay.”

  I took another handful of chips, fed a couple to Bob, and turned my attention back to the game. A few minutes later, my doorbell rang. Diesel got the door and ushered Annie Hart into my living room. She was a little shorter than me, a little plumper, a little older. She had short, curly brown hair and lively brown eyes and a nice mouth. She smiled at Diesel and me, and the smile produced crinkle lines at the corners of her eyes. She was wearing a bright red hooded jacket, jeans, and boots, and she had her purse tucked into the crook of her arm.

  Diesel introduced us. “Annie Hart, this is Stephanie Plum. Stephanie, meet Annie Hart.”

  I stood and extended my hand. “It's a pleasure.”

  “Have you seen the files?” she asked me.

  “Yes.”

  “It's very important that you help these people have a good Valentine's Day. And it's so close. Today is Friday and Valentine's Day is Monday. Of course, the real goal is lifelong love, but truthfully, that's icing on the cake.” She flicked her eyes at Diesel. “We all love Diesel, but relationships aren't his strength. Diesel runs on pure testosterone, and relationships need a little estrogen.”

  “Pure testosterone… that would explain his wardrobe,” I said.

  Annie and I took a moment to assess the grungy thermal shirt, beat-up boots, and two-day beard.

  “Exactly,” Annie said. “Although, it seems to work for him.”

  “You have to go with what you've got,” Diesel said.

  “I have a good feeling about you,” Annie said to me. “You have a lovely aura. I hope you don't mind the intrusion, but I had to see for myself. I really feel much better now. Call me if you have problems. Any time of the day or night. I've made promises to these people, and I hate not to keep a promise. I've really tried hard with Charlene Klinger, but I've been terribly off the mark. She says she doesn't want a man in her life, but I know that's not true. She's a good person, and she deserves to have a loving helpmate.”

  “Can I get you something?” I asked. “Coffee? A drink?”

  “I'd love that, but I promised this would be short. Perhaps when everything is settled we can visit. I know you have some romance problems.”

  I shot a look at Diesel. “Blabbermouth.”

  “Oh dear, no,” Annie said. “Diesel didn't say anything. I just have a sense of these things. What are you doing on Valentine's Day?”

  “No plans so far. I guess Diesel and I will be finishing things up for you.”

  “My word, you're not going to spend Valentine's Day with Diesel, are you?”

  “I hadn't actually thought about it.”

  “Not a good idea,” Annie said. “He's a heartbreaker.”

  “We don't have that sort of relationship,” I told her.

  “If you spend enough time in his company, the pheromones will wear you down… and the dimples.”

  “Diesel has dimples?”

  “Just ignore them,” Annie said. “And don't worry about your issue with commitment. As soon as I get out of jail, we'll have a good sit-down, and I'll solve that problem for you. Goodness, the answer is obvious. Clearly you belong with—”

  And Annie was gone.

  “Did she just disappear?” I asked Diesel.

  Diesel was sunk into the couch. “I don't know. I wasn't watching. I've got hockey on, and the Rangers scored a goal.”

  “Jeez,” I said. “That was weird.”

  “Yeah, welcome to my world,” Diesel said, returning to the bag of chips. “Would you get me another beer?”

  I opened my eyes and looked up at Diesel. He was dressed but unshaven, holding a mug of coffee.

  “What time is it?” I asked. “And why are you in my bedroom?”

  “It's six o'clock. Rise and shine, cutie pie.”

  “Go away. I'm not ready to rise and shine.” Diesel shoved me over a couple inches, sat on the edge of the bed, and sipped his coffee. “We need to wrap this up before Annie gets restless again.”

  “What on earth are we going to do at six in the morning?”

  “I have plans.”

  I pushed myself up on my elbow. “You're a real pain in the behind.”

  “Yeah, people tell me that a lot. You look sexy with your hair all messed, and your eyes kind of sleepy. Maybe I should get under the covers with you.”

  “What about the early start?”

  “This wouldn't take long.”

  “Easy for you to say. Get out of my bedroom and put an English Muffin in the toaster for me. I'll be out in a minute. And it would help if you'd feed Bob and take him out for a walk.”

  I took a fast shower, blasted my hair with the hair dryer and pulled it back into a ponytail. I got dressed in a T-shirt and jeans and topped it off with a fleece hoodie.

  Diesel was going over Annie Hart's files when I got to the kitchen.

  “I fed Bob, and I walked him,” Diesel said.

  “Did you remember to take a plastic bag for his poop?”

  “Sweetheart, I don't do the poop-in-a-bag thing. It's impossible to look like a tough guy when you're carrying a bag of poop. And you might want to think about feeding him less, because apparently whatever goes into a dog comes out of a dog, and it isn't good.”

  I took my muffin out of the toaster and looked around Diesel's shoulder. He was reading about Charlene Klinger.

  “I spoke to her,” I told Diesel. “She thinks Annie is a nut, and she doesn't want to get fixed up.”

  Diesel flipped to Gary Martin.

  “He wants our help bad,” I said. “Unfortunately, the love of his life is all wrong for him, and I really don't want to stick him with her. He deserves better.”

  “We're not supposed to change the world,” Diesel said. “We're just supposed to set things up for Valentine's Day.”

  “Valentine's Day isn't going to happen for Gary Martin and Loretta Flack. Flack has maxed out Martin's credit at Tiffany's and moved on to greener pastures.”

  “That's cold,” Diesel said. He turned to Larry Burlew's file. “What about this one?”

  “He's got a thing for the girl in the coffee shop across from his butcher shop. I arranged for them to get together, so with any luck he's off the list. I didn't get to the last two cases.”

  Diesel paged through the rest of the files. “The fourth case is someone named Jeanine Chan. And all it says is she has a problem. Doesn't look like Annie visited her yet. No picture. No case history. And the fifth guy needs help getting married. His name is Albert Kloughn.”

  I snatched the file out of Diesel's hand. “That's my sister's live-in boyfriend!”

  “I remember now,” Diesel said. “Last time I was here she found out she was pregnant.”

  “She had the baby and they had a big wedding planned, and Kloughn had a total panic attack. He broke out in a cold sweat and hyperventilated himself into oblivion. They bailed on the wedding and ran off to Disney World, but he's never been able to bring himself to marry Valerie.”

  “How about we stun-gun him, and when he wakes up he's married?”

  “You're such a romantic.”

  “I have my moments,” Diesel said.

  “Now what?”

  “Now you put your boots and mittens on, and we go out and do our lame-ass cupid thing.”

  I shoved my feet into my boots, gathered up my mittens and scarf, and took a moment to call Morelli. Lots of rings. No answer. His answering service came on-line. Morelli was underground, working a sting.

  “It's me,” I said. “Just wanted to let you know Bob is fine.”

  Charlene Klinger lived in a narrow single-family, two-story house in North Trenton. It had a postage-stamp yard and a driveway but no garage. A green soccer-mom van was parked in the driveway. A big orange cat sat hunkered down and slitty-eyed on the roof of the van.

  Diesel parked my Escape at the curb, and we made our way to the front door. We rang the bell, and Charlene's youngest kid let us in and then instantly disa
ppeared, no questions asked. It was Saturday morning, and the Klinger household was in full chaos mode. The television was on in the living room, a couple of dogs were barking toward the back of the house, rap was blaring from an upstairs bedroom, and Charlene's voice carried from the kitchen.

  “You absolutely cannot have ice cream for breakfast,” she said. “And don't you dare put it in your orange juice.”

  I knocked on the doorjamb and looked in at Charlene. “Hi,” I said. “Remember me?”

  Charlene looked at me open-mouthed. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?”

  “A little boy with red hair and a blue shirt let us in,” I told her.

  “I swear someday we're all gonna get killed in our sleep. He'll open the door to anyone.”

  “I was hoping I could have just a few minutes to talk to you.”

  “I've got nothing to say. I don't want a man in my life. I don't have time to talk to you. And—”

  Charlene stopped midsentence, and her eyes widened a little when she saw Diesel.

  “This is Diesel,” I told Charlene. “He's part of the relationship team. He's our, um, man specialist. Are you sure you don't want a man in your life? They can come in handy sometimes… taking out the garbage, scaring away burglars, fixing the plumbing.”

  “I guess,” Charlene said. “Is he available?”

  “Are you?” I asked Diesel.

  “Not even a little,” Diesel said.

  “You wouldn't want him anyway,” I told Charlene. “He's got limitations. I mean, we wouldn't expect Diesel to put a new float in a toilet, right? Plus, 111 bet you'd like a man who could cook sometimes. And Diesel doesn't do that either.”

  Diesel slid a look at me… like maybe he could cook if there was incentive.

  “Jeez,” Charlene said.

  Diesel crossed the kitchen, poured himself a mug of coffee, and slouched against a counter. “There were a bunch of rejected men in your file,” he said to Charlene. “Why did you reject them?”

  “They rejected me. Too many cats. Too many kids. Too old. Too boring.”

  “So we need to find someone who likes kids,” Diesel said. His attention wandered to a cat sleeping on the counter in front of the toaster. “And animals.”

  “Beyond that, what kind of man do you want?” I asked Charlene.

  “Rich?”

  “Would you settle for mildly successful?”

  “Here's the thing,” Charlene said. “I don't want to settle at all. I was serious yesterday when I said I don't have the time or energy for a man right now. I have soup stock cooking on the stove and a week's worth of laundry sitting in the basement next to the washing machine. I have two kids upstairs, listening to rap and figuring out how they can bypass the parental controls on the television. I have a pregnant cat that I know is in the house somewhere but haven't been able to find for two days. My deadbeat ex-husband is learning to surf and living on the beach in Santa Barbara and hasn't sent child support in over a year, so I'm working at the DMV instead of staying home and keeping my kids from turning into juvenile delinquents. I don't need a man. I need a housewife.”

  “We're counting down to Valentine's Day,” I told Char-lene. “Let's get the man taken care of first, and then maybe we can work on the housewife.”

  Charlene turned the flame up under the stockpot. “What would it take to make you go away?”

  “A date,” Diesel said. “We find you a man, you go out with him, and we leave.”

  “Is that a promise?” Charlene asked.

  “Maybe,” Diesel said.

  “You have to give us some guidelines,” I said to Charlene. “Be honest. What are you really looking for in a man?”

  Charlene took a moment. “A good man,” she said. “Someone who fits with me. Someone comfortable.”

  The cat got up, stretched on the counter, turned, and attempted to settle itself next to the stove. Its tail flicked into the open flame under the soup stock and instantly caught fire. The cat let out a yowl and jumped from the stove to the table. The black Lab that had been sleeping under the table lunged to its feet and went after the flaming cat.

  We were all jumping around, trying to catch the cat, trying to avoid the flaming tail. The Lab slid into a table leg and yelped, Diesel grabbed the cat and dumped a quart of orange juice on him, and I slapped out a burning placemat.

  “Hard to believe someone would think you were boring,” Diesel said to Charlene.

  “Somethings wrong with Blackie,” the red-haired kid said, looking under the table at the Lab. “He's making whiny sounds and holding his leg funny.”

  We all looked at Blackie. He was for sure holding his leg funny.

  “How bad is the cat?” I asked Diesel.

  “Could be worse,” Diesel said. “He barbecued the tip of his tail, but the rest of him looks okay. Hard to tell, being that he's soaked in orange juice.”

  Charlene wrapped a towel around the cat. “Poor kitty.”

  The twelve-year-old and ten-year-old ran into the kitchen.

  “What's happening?” the twelve-year-old asked.

  “Kitty set hisself on fire, and Blackie broke his leg,” the red-haired kid said.

  “Bummer,” the twelve-year-old said. And he and his brother turned and went back upstairs. As if this happened every day.

  “Where am I going to find a vet at this hour on a Saturday?” Charlene said. “I'm going to have to go to the emergency clinic. It's going to cost me a fortune.”

  “I know someone who'll help us,” I told her. “I have his number in my car.”

  Charlene cradled the cat close to her and grabbed her purse off the counter. “Get your coat and hat,” she said to the red-haired kid. “And round up your brothers. Everyone out to the van.”

  Diesel scooped the Lab off the floor and carried him to the door. “Think Blackie could stand to lay off the chow,” Diesel said. “This dog weighs a ton.”

  “He could use a bigger yard,” Charlene said. “He never gets to run. He appeared on our front porch in the middle of a snowstorm two years ago and just never left.”

  The four kids trooped out and got into the van, and I ran to my car for Gary Martin's folder. Diesel locked the house and eased himself into the van with Blackie on his lap, front leg dangling loose. Charlene was in the passenger seat with Kitty still wrapped in the towel. I slid behind the wheel and called Gary Martin on my cell.

  “I have an emergency,” I told him. “A cat with a barbecued tail and a dog with a broken leg. And I talked to Loretta, but that's a whole other story.”

  “Is it a sad story?”

  “Yeah. The story isn't good.”

  “My office doesn't open until ten today,” Martin said, “but I can come in early. I'll be there in a half hour.”