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

your true love.”
    “Well, Buggy got a lot of Shrekness to him.”
    “Now we’re getting somewhere,” I said to Lula. “Maybe it’s actually
Shrek
that’s your true love.”
    “Something to think about,” Lula said.
    “I need to go to Atlantic City to do some research tonight,” I said to Lula. “Are you on board?”
    “Damn skippy. I love Atlantic City. Me and Buggy’ll research the heck out of it.”
    “I’ll meet you at my parents’ house at six o’clock. We’ll have dinner and head south.”
• • •
    Jeans and a T-shirt are perfectly okay gear for an Atlantic City casino, unless you want to get information out of a man. If information, free drinks, or dinner is on the agenda, it doesn’t hurt to show some cleavage.
    I went home, changed into skinny designer jeans, a stretchy red sweater with a low scoop neck, and strappy heels. I added dangly earrings and a couple more swipes of mascara. I transferred my stun gun, Glock, cuffs, and all my normal girl stuff into a dressier handbag, and I was ready to go to work.
    I arrived at my parents’ house a little before six and parked behind Annie’s car. Lancer and Slasher parked half a block down. There was no other traffic on the street. The seniors were still at the diner, finishing up the early-bird specials. Kids were home from soccer practice and piano lessons. Working moms were in the kitchen scarfing down Cheetos and wine from Costco while they frantically pulled dinner together. The men on my parents’ street were zoned out in front of the television. No foreclosure signs on the front lawns. This was a neighborhood that was here for the long haul. Hardworking survivorswho didn’t care if their house was underwater. Nobody frigging bailed on the Burg.
    Grandma was at the front door, waiting for me.
    “You left the wake too early,” she said. “The widow got snockered and passed out in the chicken salad and had to be carted upstairs. You don’t see that every day.”
    “Where’s Annie?”
    “She’s in the kitchen helping your mother.”
    We went to the kitchen and I snitched a corn muffin out of the breadbasket.
    “We have a problem,” I said to Annie. “Remember the little bottle of pink stuff you gave me?”
    “Yes, of course.”
    “Lula drank it, and now she needs an antidote.”
    “Goodness. Did she have an allergic reaction?” Annie asked.
    “No. She fell in love with a sandbag.”
    “How unusual,” Annie said. “It was just a pocket-sized over-the-counter antacid. You were having digestive problems.”
    “Do you have any more?”
    “I have some,” Grandma said. “She gave some to me. I was saving it for when I saw my true love and needed it.”
    “Do you have a true love?” Annie asked Grandma.
    “I’m hot for George Clooney,” Grandma said, “but I think he mostly stays in Hollywood.”
    “My idea is to give more of the pink stuff to Lula, and tell her it’s an antidote to the love potion she took,” I said.
    “That’s a little deceptive,” Annie said. “I don’t feel comfortable with that. Suppose he really is her true love?”
    “Yeah,” Grandma said. “It would be like those time-travelers when they aren’t supposed to mess around with history.”
    “Yoohoo,” Lula called from the front door. “I’m here with my honey.”
    Grandma, Annie, my mom, and I traipsed out to see the honey.
    “This is my big stud muffin, Buggy,” Lula said, her arms partially wrapped around him.
    “Yuh,” Buggy said.
    My father was in the living room, watching television, reading the paper. He glanced over at Buggy, grimaced, and returned to the paper.
    My mother and grandmother scurried off to the kitchen to get the food, and we all took our seats at the table.
    “Have you and Buggy known each other long?” Annie asked Lula.
    “About a week,” Lula said.
    Annie turned to Buggy. “And what do you do?”
    “I’m a purse snatcher,” Buggy said.
    Lula looked over at Buggy. “He’s a good one, too. He’s real intimidating on account of he’s so big.”
    My mother set a full rump roast in front of my father, and my grandmother came in with a cauldron of mashed potatoes. My father carved up the roast, and my mother and grandmotherbrought green beans, gravy, and applesauce to the table.
    Buggy’s eyes were darting from dish to dish. He was sitting next to my father, and he had a good grip on his fork, waiting for a signal that he could dig in, keeping close watch on my father, who still held the