Explosive Eighteen: A Stephanie Plum Novel (Stephanie Plum Novels)

doughnut.”
    “What, like chicken? Fries? Maybe one of them giant two-pounder bacon burgers?”
    “I wasn’t talking about food,” I said to Lula. “You can’t solve all your problems with food.”
    “Since when?”
    “I’m thinking about taking a self-defense class. Maybe learn kickboxing.”
    “I don’t need no self-defense class,” Lula said. “I rely on my animal instincts to beat the bejeezus out of an offending moron.”
    That didn’t always work for me. I wasn’t all that great at beating the bejeezus out of people. My fight-or-flight instinct ran more toward flight.
    “Now that I’m up from my nap, I’m in a mood to go after the big one,” Lula said. “I want to bag Joyce. Where’s she living? Is she still in that hotel-size colonial by Vinnie?”
    “No. The bond agreement lists her address as Stiller Street in Hamilton Township.”
    So far as I know, Joyce is currently single. Although that might be yesterday’s news. It’s hard to keep up with Joyce. She’s a serial divorcée, working her way up the matrimonial ladder, kicking used-up husbands to the curb while negotiatinglucrative settlements. She left her last marriage with a net gain of an E-class Mercedes and half of a $1.5 million house. Rumor has it he got the guinea pig.
    Might as well have a look at Joyce’s house, I thought. Make a fast run out to Hamilton Township, and by the time I got back, hopefully, my car would be parked behind the bonds bus.
    Twenty minutes later, we were rolling down Stiller.
    “This clump of houses is brand new,” Lula said. “I didn’t even know this was here. This was a cornfield last week.”
    The clump of attached town houses was called Mercado Mews, and it looked not only brand new but expensive. Joyce lived in an end unit with a two-car garage. Everything looked fresh and spiffy. No activity anywhere. No cars parked on the street. No traffic. No one tending the azalea bushes. No one walking a dog or pushing a stroller.
    “Looks to me like lots of these houses aren’t sold yet,” Lula said. “They look empty. ’Course, Joyce’s house looks empty, too.”
    According to the file notes, Connie had been calling every day, twice a day, since Joyce went missing. She’d called the cell number and the home phone, and no one ever picked up.
    Lula pulled to the curb and we went to the door and rang the bell. No answer. She waded into the flowerbed and looked into the front window.
    “There’s furniture in here, but no Joyce that I can see,” Lulasaid. “Everything looks nice and neat. No dead bodies on the floor.”
    “Let’s snoop around back.”
    We skirted the house and discovered the backyard was sealed off with a seven-foot-high wooden privacy fence. I tried the fence door. Locked.
    “You’re gonna have to kick it in,” Lula said. “I’d do it, but I’m wearin’ my Via Spigas.”
    We’ve done this drill many, many times. Lula was always wearing the wrong shoes, and I was inept.
    “Go ahead,” Lula said. “Kick it.”
    I gave a halfhearted kick.
    “That’s a sissy kick,” Lula said. “Put something behind it.”
    I kicked it harder.
    “Hunh,” Lula said. “You don’t know much about kickin’ in doors.”
    No kidding. We went through this routine at least once a week, and it was getting old. Maybe I didn’t need kickboxing lessons. Maybe I needed a new job.
    “One of us is gonna have to alley-oop over the fence,” Lula said.
    I looked up at the fence. Seven feet. Neither of us was exactly Spider-Man.
    “Who’s going to alley, and who’s going to oop?” I asked her.
    “I’d do the lifting, but I just got a manicure. And I notice you don’t have a manicure at all. Only thing noticeable aboutyour hands is the missing tan on your ring finger that I don’t care about.”
    “Okay, great. I’ll do the lifting, but you’re going to have to ditch the Via Spigas. I don’t want to get gored by a stiletto.”
    Lula took her shoes off and threw them over the top of the fence into Joyce’s yard. “Okay, I’m ready. Give me a boost.”
    I tried boosting, but I couldn’t get her off the ground.
    “You’re going to have to climb onto my shoulders,” I said.
    Lula put her right foot on my thigh, hoisted herself up, and wrangled her left leg over my shoulder. Her spandex skirt was up to her waist, and her tiger-striped thong was lost in the deep, dark recesses of her voluptuousness.
    “Uh-oh,” she said.
    “What
uh-oh
? I don’t like to