Fortune and Glory (Stephanie Plum, #27)(62)

“Understood,” I said.

I called Potts and asked if he was in front of my door.

“Yes,” he said. “Are you coming home soon?”

“I’m not staying in my apartment tonight. How did you get there?”

“The Rangeman guy dropped me off.”

“Come out the front door and I’ll give you a ride home,” I said. “Do not go out the back door that goes to the parking lot.”



* * *




My father was in his favorite chair in front of the television, sleeping off dinner. I found my mom and Grandma tidying up the kitchen.

“Look who’s here!” my mom said. “We just finished dinner, but there’s lots of leftovers.”

I dropped my messenger bag on the floor by the kitchen table. “Leftovers sound wonderful. Don’t fuss. I can help myself.”

“It’s no fuss,” she said. “We had pot roast and mashed potatoes, and everything is still warm. I’ll just heat up the gravy.”

I fixed a plate for myself and took it to the table. “I thought I would stay here tonight, if that’s okay,” I said. “The pest control guy sprayed my apartment building today and it smells like insecticide.”

Better to fib than to tell my mom about the two hit men waiting to kidnap me.

My mother brought the hot gravy, and I poured it over everything.

“When you were a little girl you used to pour gravy on your dessert,” Grandma said. “Cupcakes, ice cream, apple pie.”

“I was a strange child,” I said.

“I liked to think of you as uniquely creative,” Grandma said. “For a while there, you were convinced you could fly. And you always wanted to be a superhero. If we couldn’t find a bath towel, we knew you were probably wearing it as a cape.”

“And here I am today,” I said. “Normal, boring Stephanie.”

“For goodness’ sakes, Stephanie, you’re a bounty hunter. You track down killers and other horrible people. That’s not normal. Normal daughters work in banks and button factories. They get married. They have children. They don’t destroy cars once a week. They don’t get their apartments and their parents’ house firebombed. They don’t go on crazy treasure hunts. They go on vacations down the shore.”

“She’s right,” Grandma said to me. “You aren’t normal.”

Another piece has been fitted into the puzzle. I’m not normal.

“On the subject of the treasure hunt, have you thought any more about the clues?” I asked Grandma.

“ACE it, 50, Philadelphia, pink. And clues number five and six are missing,” Grandma said. “I think about them all the time and I can’t come up with anything. I’ve looked at maps of Philadelphia and I can’t figure it out. I’m not sure the last two clues would even help.”

I had the same thought, but I wasn’t going to say it out loud. And I was worried about the last clue. This was Jimmy’s clue, and we didn’t have much hope of finding it. If Benny was right and Jimmy’s clue was the safe combination, that was a game changer. Either we abandoned the treasure or else a safe specialist was going to risk their life trying to open the safe.

I finished eating and I took my place on the couch. Grandma sat beside me with a glass of sherry. My mother sat beside Grandma and worked on her Jack Daniel’s big gulp. My father woke up and clicked the television on to a rerun of Jeopardy! We watched a couple of game shows, an hour of the shopping network, and we all went to bed.

There are three small bedrooms and a communal bathroom upstairs. Grandma has taken over my sister Valerie’s room, but my room is still untouched. It’s precisely as I left it when I graduated from college and moved out of the house. T-shirts from high school and college are still in my bureau drawers. Some underwear. Some socks. A couple of pairs of jeans. Clothes I didn’t want at the time and still don’t want. The bed was made, and the room was spotlessly clean. My mom and Grandma couldn’t have it any other way.

I found pajamas with red hearts and was about to get ready for bed when Grandma came in and closed the door behind her.

“I think I might have figured something out,” she said. “I didn’t want to tell you in front of your mother. She’s all in a dither about this treasure hunt. And she probably would think I’m being silly and jumping to conclusions.”

“What is it?”

“When your husband passes, one of the customs is to move your wedding band from your left hand to your right hand. I got two dead husbands, so I’m wearing both rings. Truth is, it doesn’t feel right to have them so close together on my finger. It’s not like they even knew each other. Anyway, I was washing my hands this afternoon, and I took my rings off. And I was looking at the rings on the counter by the sink and wondering what I should do about them, and this idea hit me.”

“And?”

“And I never said anything about this before, but the date on the inside of my band is wrong. I’ve been keeping Jimmy’s band in a box in my underwear drawer next to the keys and his band has the wrong date, too. It’s not even the same as mine.”

“Didn’t you get the rings together?”

“No. It was so sudden. I thought we were going to the Bahamas to have a couple of nights of sin, but when we got there, he had it arranged to get married.”