Smokin' Seventeen: A Stephanie Plum Novel (Stephanie Plum Novels)

doesn’t work you’re just going to have to deal with the screaming.”
    “Deal,” Lula said, “but I’m not watching him shrivel up and turn into a cat turd. Soon as he starts to smoke I’m outta there.”
    We dropped Ziggy into the casket, and I closed and locked the lid. I rolled the gurney over, we hefted the casket onto it, and we rolled the whole deal to the front of the garage.
    “I’ll wait here,” Lula said. “You back the Jeep up to the door.”
    I ran to the Jeep and collapsed the backseat so there was more room for the casket. I backed the SUV up to the door, Lula powered the door up, and we loaded the casket in.
    “It don’t fit,” Lula said.
    The rear end of the casket was hanging a couple feet overthe bumper, but I didn’t care. I’d come this far. I was taking Ziggy in. I’d leave the cargo door open and drive slow.
    I took Liberty to Broad and drove toward the center of the city. The car behind me was keeping his distance.
    “Maybe you should have hung a red flag on Ziggy’s doom box,” Lula said.
    “Maybe I should have blindfolded him, so he couldn’t tell it was day or night and chucked him into the backseat.”
    I cruised through Hamilton and stopped for a light, focusing on the traffic ahead. I heard some scraping sounds and then a shriek. I turned and saw Ziggy jump out of the Jeep and run down a side street, waving his arms and screaming.
    “What the hell?” Lula said. “I saw you lock the lid.”
    “It must have had a release on the inside.”
    I took a right and drove toward the screams. We had our windows down, listening, and the screams stopped.
    “Uh oh,” Lula said. “Cat turd.”
    “He probably went inside a building.”
    “Sure,” Lula said. “That’s probably it. Do you want to get out and search for him?”
    “No. Do you?”
    “No.” She swiveled and looked behind her. “What are we gonna do with his casket?”
    “I guess I’ll return it to the funeral home.”
    “You notice how people are staring at us? It’s like they never seen a casket hanging out of a Jeep before.”
    I retraced my route down Broad to Liberty. I drove pastthe funeral home and backed into the driveway leading to the garage. The casket carrier was missing and the garage doors were closed.
    “Now what?” Lula asked.
    “Now we remove the casket from Ranger’s Jeep with as much dignity as we can manage, and then we get the heck out of here.”
    “What if someone sees us and wants to know what we’re doing?”
    “We’ll say Ziggy wanted to go for a ride, but decided to walk home.”
    “That’s good,” Lula said. “That sounds like it’s true.”
    “It’s
sort
of true.”
    “Fuckin’ A.”
    We hauled the casket out of the Jeep, set it down in front of a garage door, scurried back into the SUV, and took off.

TWENTY-NINE
     
    I WAS TRYING to get Lula back to the bonds office, but I was inching along Hamilton, caught in the traffic jam created by the bad boys bus. I dropped her a block early, and I cut into the Burg, circled around, and came back to Hamilton on the other side of the gridlock. This had the additional benefit of saving me another pass by the seven-foot, double D cup Stephanie.
    Ten minutes later I stepped out of the elevator in my apartment building and spotted Dave sitting in front of my door. There were two grocery bags on the floor next to him, and he was holding flowers.
    He stood when he saw me. “I brought you flowers.”
    I looked down at the bags. “And groceries?”
    “Yeah. I thought I’d take a chance on you coming homehungry. I got off work, and I drove past the supermarket and felt inspired.”
    I took the flowers and unlocked my door. “What’s on the menu?”
    “Salad, scalloped potatoes, and lamb chops. You’re going to be in charge of the scalloped potatoes.”
    “I’m not wearing the apron.”
    “Too bad.” He unpacked the bags and set everything out on the counter. “You’re not living up to the fantasy.”
    “I’m afraid to ask.”
    “Twirlers had reputations,” Dave said.
    “What kind of reputations?”
    “Good with a baton.”
    Oh God, I could just feel the rhino hanging over me.
    “Here’s the deal,” I told him. “I have two men in my life who carry guns. You don’t want to make them angry. You can cook but you can’t flirt. No double entendres. No more staring at my chest. No twirler fantasies.”
    “I’m not giving up the twirler fantasies,” Dave said, “but I’ll substitute Alberta Zaremba