Free Explosive Eighteen: A Stephanie Plum Novel (Stephanie Plum Novels) by Janet Evanovich

to her as a person of interest. You know what that means. The kiss of death. The person of interest is always the killer.”
    I hated to think that was true, since I might be the person of interest.
    My grandmother joined us. “Are you talking about the garbage can killer? I heard the dead guy was a doctor in the army, and he might have been a spy when he was over there in Afghanistan.” She sucked on her dentures. “That spying catches up to you. One minute you’re a spy, and next thing, you’re dead in a garbage can. Unless you’re James Bond. Nothing stops him. He’s balls to the wall.”
    My father hunkered deeper into his chair and turned the volume up on the television.
    “Shut the television off!” my mother yelled from the dining room. “It’s too loud, and dinner’s ready.”
    I took my seat at the table, and my phone rang.
    “I’m at the junkyard,” Morelli said. “The dog found a body,but we haven’t been able to view it. We haven’t got a big enough can opener.”
    “Only one body?”
    “So far. The dog’s still working. Where are you?”
    “I’m having dinner at my parents’ house. My mom made fried chicken.”
    “Oh man, that’s cruel. I love your mom’s fried chicken.”
    “I’ll bring some back to my apartment for you.”
    “This could take a while,” Morelli said.
    “Whatever.”
    “Who was that?” Grandma asked when I hung up. “Was that Ranger?”
    “No. It was Morelli.”
    “It’s hard to keep up with it all,” Grandma said. “I don’t know how you do it. You’re married, and then you’re not married, and then you’re saving chicken for Morelli.”
    I couldn’t keep up with it, either. I didn’t know what the heck I was doing.
    “You need Annie to help you,” Grandma said. “She’s real smart. She’s fixing up everyone at bowling. She even had a man in mind for me, but I told her he was too old. I don’t want some flabby, wrinkled codger to take care of. I want a young stud with a nice firm behind.”
    My mother refilled her wineglass and my father put his fork down and hit his head on the table.
BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG
.
    “Go for it,” I said to Grandma.
    “I’m not so old,” Grandma said. “There’s parts of me don’t sit as high as they used to, but I’ve got some miles left.”
    My father pantomimed stabbing himself in the eye with his fork.
    Okay, so my family’s a little dysfunctional. It’s not like they’re dangerous. At least we all sit down and have dinner together. Plus, by Jersey standards, we’re pretty much normal.

NINE
     
    MY FATHER WAS SETTLED IN, watching sitcom reruns, when I left. My mother and grandmother were at the small kitchen table enjoying a ritual glass of port, celebrating the return of order and cleanliness in the kitchen. And I departed in the powder blue and white ’53 Buick that was kept in the garage for emergencies. Sitting on the seat beside me was a doggy bag that included fried chicken, soft little dinner rolls from the bakery, a jar of pickled beets, half a homemade apple pie, and a bottle of red table wine. The wine had been sent along, I’m sure, with the hopes that I might have a romantic evening with Morelli and make a grandchild. So much the better if I got married first.
    I drove past the Bugkowski house out of morbid curiosity to see if my car was there. Not only wasn’t the car parked atthe curb, but the house was dark. No one home. Probably, Big Buggy took his parents for a drive in his new RAV4.
    Twenty minutes later, I rolled into the lot to my apartment building and did another car check. No RAV4. No black Lincoln Town Car. No green SUV that belonged to Morelli. No megabucks shiny black Ranger car. I found a space close to the building’s back door, parked, and locked up. I took the elevator to the second floor, walked down the hall, and listened at my door. All was quiet. I let myself in, kicked the door closed, and a swarthy guy with lots of curly black hair jumped out of the kitchen at