Hardcore Twenty-Four (Stephanie Plum #24)(9)

Stiva’s funeral parlor is a social center for Grandma and her lady friends. It’s free entertainment. It’s available seven days a week. And you can count on cookies being served in the lobby.

In the past, Grandma has been known to pry open a closed casket, unlocking it with her nail file, so she could take a peek. On these occasions my mother bypasses prayer and goes straight for the Jim Beam.

“Let me get this straight,” I said to Grandma. “Someone severed two heads at Stiva’s, and the heads haven’t been found?”

“Yep,” Grandma said. “Pass the pickles to me.”

“How could that happen?”

“I guess it happened at night,” Grandma said. “They came in first thing in the morning to do the embalming, pulled out the trays, and no heads.”

“Wasn’t everything locked up? Doesn’t Stiva’s have a security system? Didn’t an alarm go off?”

“Yes. Yes. And no,” Grandma said. “People are thinking it must be an inside job, but I’ve got another theory. I think it was the zombies. There’s rumors going around that there’ve been zombie sightings. And you know how they like to eat brains. Well, you put two and two together and it makes sense.”

My mother very carefully spread mustard across a slice of bread and precisely placed olive loaf and Swiss cheese onto the mustard. I suspected she was making an effort to stay calm when what she really wanted to do was shake Grandma until her false teeth flew out of her mouth and she stopped rambling on about zombies.

Grandma forked up some macaroni, and I spotted a ring on her finger.

“Is that a new ring?” I asked her.

“It’s a friendship ring,” Grandma said. “I got a boyfriend. He’s a pip.”

My mother gave up a sigh and cut her sandwich into halves.

“Do I know him?” I asked.

“I met him on one of those Internet sites,” Grandma said. “He lives in Florida. By Key West. I might go down there to visit him. He’s a real hottie.”

I sneaked a look at my mom, but she wasn’t making eye contact. She was staring at her sandwich.

“What does he do?” I asked Grandma.

“Mostly he fishes. He was a dockworker in Newark, but he’s retired now.”

“Not married?”

“His wife died a while back. He has kids but they’re in Jersey.”

“You have to be careful about Internet connections,” I said. “You never really know who you’re talking to.”

“He could be a serial killer,” my mother said. “He could be a terrorist. He could be some pervert sex fiend.”

“He might be too old to be a sex fiend,” Grandma said, “but I guess he could be a killer.”

“Why me?” my mother asked.

“Don’t send him any money,” I said to Grandma. “And don’t go to Florida.”

“He could be the one,” Grandma said, pulling up a photo on her phone, handing the phone over to me.

“This is George Hamilton,” I said.

Grandma took the phone back and studied the photo. “He does look a little like George Hamilton, but my honey’s name is Roger Murf. Him and George are handsome devils, aren’t they?”

From the corner of my eye I saw my mom shaking her head and making the sign of the cross. Next stop would be a trip to the liquor cabinet over the sink.

“Did you send him a picture of you?” I asked Grandma.

“Sort of,” Grandma said. “I didn’t have a real good picture, so I sent him one of your mother. We look alike except for the hair, and I’m thinking about going brown anyway.”

My mother sucked in some air and her eyes went wide. “You didn’t! Tell me you didn’t!”

“It was a nice picture,” Grandma said. “It was the one where you’re on the beach at Seaside.”

My mother did the sign of the cross again. “Holy Mother,” she said.

I had a second helping of macaroni, finished my sandwich, ate a bunch of Italian cookies, and pushed my chair back from the table.

“Gotta go,” I said. “Things to do.”

“Are you hunting down bad guys?” Grandma asked.

“Eventually.”

I gave hugs to Grandma and my mom, thanked them for lunch, and escaped to my car. I stopped at the supermarket on the way home and got a couple more packages of hot dogs for Ethel, Pop-Tarts for my hamster Rex and me, bread, cereal, bananas, and assorted frozen dinner–type foods.





FOUR


IT WAS CLOSE to three o’clock when I lugged my groceries into my apartment building and down the hall to my place. I put the key in the lock, pushed the door open, and yelped. There was a man in my place.

He was over six feet tall, broad shouldered, slim hipped, and nicely muscled. He was beach-bum tan with thick, unruly blond hair cut short, and dark eyebrows and eyelashes that I would kill to have. He was wearing jeans with a rip in the knee, a T-shirt that advertised tequila, and black-and-white sneaker-type shoes. He was drop-dead handsome with perfect white teeth and a lot of attitude. I know about the attitude because I know the man. His name is Diesel. That’s it. Just Diesel.

He dropped into my life for the first time several years ago at Christmas, scaring the heck out of me when he suddenly appeared in my kitchen. When I’d asked him how he’d gotten into my apartment and my life, he said, “Sweetcakes, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” Nothing much has changed since then.