Game On: Tempting Twenty-Eight (Stephanie Plum #28)(12)

“Set the basket in the corner,” my mom said to me. “I’ll get to the laundry tomorrow. How was your day?”

“It was good,” I said. “I brought an FTA in.”

“Was it a big one?” Grandma asked. “Was it a murderer or a drug dealer?”

“No,” I said. “It was a mooner.”

My mom stopped mashing. “A mooner?”

“He’s a professional,” I said. “He takes jobs mooning people at birthday parties and baby showers.”

“What’s his name?” Grandma asked. “Was it Camden Krick?”

“Yes,” I said. “Do you know him?”

“He’s the best. I’ve been to a couple of his moonings. He mooned at Mary Kulicki’s seventy-fifth birthday party last year. Why was he arrested?”

“He mooned someone who didn’t want to be mooned and he got charged with indecent exposure.”

“That’s a shame,” Grandma said. “Personally, I think they should legalize mooning. I even thought about going into it. I have a pretty good behind for a woman my age and I could use some extra income.”

“Lula had the same thought,” I said to Grandma. “Maybe you should team up.”

My mother made the sign of the cross and cut a glance at the cabinet where she kept her liquor. “This is why I drink,” she said to no one in particular.

At six o’clock my father opened his eyes and took his place at the dining room table. Two minutes later Morelli walked in.

I’ve known Joe Morelli all my life. All through grade school he was the problem child of the neighborhood, and from ninth grade on, he was the heartthrob of half the women in the greater Trenton area. He enlisted in the navy out of high school, eventually got a college degree, and decided he wanted to be a cop. He’s now working plainclothes in crimes against persons, and he’s good at his job. He’s good at other things, too, which is why I’m wearing pretty undies.

He’s six foot tall with a lean, muscular build, lots of wavy black hair, and classic Italian movie star features. He has a big orange dog named Bob and a small house he inherited from his aunt Rose. A lot of people think Morelli and I should get married. Morelli doesn’t seem to be one of them. That’s okay with me. I tried being married and it was a disaster.

The food made its way around the table and the bottle of wine followed.

“Stephanie caught a mooner today,” Grandma said to Morelli.

Morelli draped his arm across the back of my chair and smiled at me. “A mooner?”

“Camden Krick,” I said. “Professional mooner.”

“I know about Camden,” Morelli said. “He’s famous. He’s my mother’s favorite mooner.”

“Mine, too,” Grandma said. “He has the best butt, and he’s a good wiggler.”

My father was working his way through the mound of food on his plate, oblivious to the conversation.

“There’s something different about the pot roast,” he said.

“It’s chuck roast,” my mother said. “They didn’t have any rump roast.”

“How could they not have rump roast?” my father said. “Benny knows we have rump roast every Friday.”

“Benny sold his butcher shop six months ago,” my mother said. “The new owner made it into a tattoo parlor. I get my meat at the supermarket now.”

My father shook his head. “This country’s going to heck in a handbasket.”

“I remember when Stephanie almost married a butcher,” Grandma said.

“I didn’t almost marry him,” I said. “I didn’t even nearly marry him.”

“Well, he was sweet on you, and we got some good pork roasts out of it,” Grandma said.

“I can’t compete with that,” Morelli said. “The best I can do is quash a parking ticket.”

“Gravy,” my father said. “Somebody pass the gravy, for crying out loud.”

Grandma passed the gravy and turned to Morelli. “How was your day?”

“Average,” he said. “I got caught up on paperwork this morning and spent the afternoon watching an autopsy.”

“Anyone we know?” Grandma asked.

Morelli shook his head. “An out-of-towner. We had information that he was carrying drugs, but he got knifed in an alley before we could get to him.”

“Did you find the drugs?” Grandma wanted to know.

Morelli helped himself to the wine. “Yep. Three balloons in his colon. The guy with the knife only looked in the victim’s stomach.”

“Amateur,” Grandma said. “I would have gone for the colon.”

“The chuck roast isn’t bad,” my father said. “It just needs more gravy than the rump roast.”

Everyone stopped eating and looked at my father.

“What?” he said. “Did I miss something?”

My dad has figured out how to get through the day and stay sane. He’s developed selective hearing. He tunes out whatever annoys him or doesn’t interest him. More to the point, he tunes out Grandma entirely. My mother manages with the help of whiskey straight up.

“I wouldn’t mind seeing an autopsy,” Grandma said. “Especially if it was someone who had balloons in their colon. Do you think mules need colonoscopies or do the balloons scrub off the polyps? That could be a real advantage to smuggling drugs.”