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

fresh vegetables and herbs. I have a loaf of French bread and cheese for you to grate.”
    “I don’t have a cheese grater. I buy cheese already grated. Actually I don’t do that either. I eat out when I want pasta. I only eat in when I want peanut butter.”
    “I bought you a cheese grater. It’s in the bag.”
    “Why do you have to cook? Did you have a bad day?”
    He rinsed tomatoes and set them on the counter. “I had a good day. Successful. I feel energized.” He looked over at me. “How was your day?”
    “Same ol’, same ol’. Dead guy in my car. Death threat at the funeral home. Stalker in my hall.”
    “I heard about the dead guy. Gordon Kulicki, right?”
    “That’s what they tell me.”
    He poured olive oil into my large fry pan and put heat under it. “That had to be what … scary?”
    I kicked my heels off. “Yeah. Scary.”
    He chopped onion and dumped it into the hot oil. “You don’t look scared.”
    “It’s been a long day.” I found my big pot, filled it with water, and set it on a burner. “And after a while I guess you get used to scary. Scary gets to be the new normal.”
    “That’s disappointing. I thought I’d be the big, strong guy coming here to comfort poor scared little you.”
    “Too late.” I looked at the sauce he was making. “How much longer until dinner?”
    “Half hour.”
    “I’m going to take a fast shower. I smell like funeral home.”
    I locked the bathroom door, got undressed, and stepped into the shower. After a lot of soap, shampoo, and hot water I emerged without so much as a hint of carnations. I wrapped a towel around myself and was about to dry my hair when there was some jiggling at the doorknob, the knob turned, and the Dave walked in totally naked.
    I shrieked and grabbed at my towel. “Get out!”
    “Don’t play coy,” he said. “We’re both adults.”
    He reached for me, and I hit him in the face with the hair dryer. His eyes glazed over, and he crashed to the floor. Out cold. Bleeding from the nose. His Mr. Hopeful looking less perky by the second.
    I grabbed his feet and dragged him through my apartment to the front door, being careful not to get blood on the carpet. I opened the door and dragged him into the hall. I ran to my bedroom, scooped up his clothes, ran back to the door, and threw his clothes out. Then I locked and bolted the door and looked at him through the peephole. If he didn’t come around in the next couple minutes I’d call 911.
    “Why me?” I said.
    After a moment Dave’s eyes fluttered open, and he moaned a little. He put his hand to his face and gingerly touched what used to be his nose. He lay there for a couple more beats, collecting himself, probably waiting for the cobwebs to clear. He pushed himself up to a sitting position and looked at my door, and I instinctively jumped back. I squelched a nervous whimper and did an internal eye roll. He couldn’t see me. The door was locked. Not like the bathroom that could be opened by sticking a straightened paper clip into the lock. This door had a security chain, two deadbolts, and a door lock.
    I returned to the peephole and saw Dave was getting dressed. The blood was still dripping from his nose onto the hall carpet, but it seemed to be slacking off. Great. No need for the EMTs. I padded back to my bedroom, pulled on shorts and a T-shirt, and took one last look at the peephole. No Dave. Hooray. I went to the kitchen and freshened my wine. The pasta was cooked and draining in a colander. The sauce was in the fry pan. No sense wasting it. I fixed a plate for myself, grated some cheese over it with my new grater, and ateit in front of the television. Isn’t it strange how sometimes bad things can turn out good. When you add everything up it was a pretty horrible day, but it ended with great pasta.
    • • •
     
    Sunday morning Dillon Ruddick, the building super, was in the hall with a steamer, getting the bloodstain out of the carpet. Dillon was my age and an all-around nice guy. Not rocket scientist material, but he could change a lightbulb with the best of them, and he was cute in a sloppy kind of way.
    I opened my door and handed Dillon a cup of coffee. “Sorry about the blood.”
    “What was it this time? No one reported gunfire.”
    “I hit a guy in the face with a hair dryer.”
    “Whoa,” Dillon said.
    “It wasn’t my fault,” I told him.
    “Maybe we should lay down some linoleum here. It would make things easier for clean