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

sure is cozy here in the kitchen,” Lula said. “I bet if I stayed here long enough I could forget all about Lou Dugan and his wormy hand.”
    My parents’ house is small and stuffed with comfortable, slightly worn furniture. The windows are draped in white sheers. The polished mahogany end tables hold lamps and candy dishes. An orange, brown, and cream hand-crocheted afghan is precisely folded and arranged over the back of the champagne-colored couch. My father’s favorite chair has maroon and gold stripes and an impression of his ass permanently imprinted in the seat cushion. The couch and the chair face a newly purchased flat-screen television, and the television fits into a newly purchased mahogany entertainment center. Coasters and magazines are neatly arranged on the narrow coffee table. A laundry basket filled with toys has been placed against the wall in the living room. The toys belong to my sister’s kids.
    The living room leads into the dining room. The dining room table seats six, but can be enlarged to accommodate more. My mother keeps the table covered with a tablecloth. Usually rose or gold. And she places a lace cloth over the colored cloth. It’s been this way for as long as I can remember.
    The dining room is separated from the kitchen by a door that’s always open. Just as my father lives in his maroon-striped chair, my mother and grandmother live in the kitchen. When dinner is being prepared and potatoes are boiling, the kitchen is hot and humid, smelling like gravy and apple pie.This morning the kitchen smelled like freshly ironed clothes and coffee. And Lula had added a hint of fried chicken scent.
    “I hear Dave Brewer just moved back to Trenton,” my mother said to me. “Do you remember Dave? You went to school with him.”
    Dave Brewer had been a big deal football player and entirely out of my league when I was in high school. He went on to college, married, and moved to Atlanta. Last I heard he was being investigated for illegal foreclosures in the state of Georgia.
    “I thought he was going to jail for swindling people out of their houses,” I said to my mother.
    “He beat that rap,” Grandma said. “But Marion Kolakowski said he got fired and lost his big house in Atlanta. And then his wife left him and took the dog and the Mercedes.”
    My mother ironed a nonexistent wrinkle out of my father’s slacks. “Dave’s mother was at mass yesterday. She said it was all a mistake—that Dave didn’t do anything wrong.”
    Lula took a third piece of coffee cake. “He must have done
something
wrong if his wife took the dog
and
the car. That’s harsh.”
    “He comes from a good family, and he was captain of the football team
and
an honor student,” my mother said.
    I was starting to get a bad feeling about the direction of the conversation. It had all the signs of my mother on a mission.
    “You should call him,” my mother said to me. “He would probably like to reconnect with his classmates.”
    “We weren’t friends,” I told her. “I’m sure he wouldn’t remember me.”
    “Of course he would remember you,” my mother said. “His mother was even asking about you.”
    And there it was. The fix up.
    “Mrs. Brewer is a nice lady,” I said. “And I’m sure her son is innocent, and I’m sorry his wife took the dog, but I’m
not
calling him.”
    “We could have him here for dinner,” my mother said.
    “No! Not interested.” I wrapped my piece of coffee cake in a napkin and stood. “Gotta go. Got work to do.”
    “I don’t suppose you took a picture of Lou Dugan,” Grandma said to Lula.
    “That would have been a good idea,” Lula said, “but I didn’t think of it.”
    I hustled out of the house with Lula not far behind. I jumped into the car and cranked the engine over.
    “Maybe you should call that Dave guy,” Lula said when we got to the corner. “He might be
the one.
”
    “I thought I found
the one
but he turned out to be a jerk so I divorced him. And now I have two guys who might be
the one
but I can’t decide between them. The last thing I need is a third
one.
”
    “But maybe you can’t decide because neither of them’s right. Maybe Dave Whatshisname is the right one. What then?”
    “I see your point, but I have an understanding with Morelli.”
    “Which is what?”
    Truth is, the understanding was vague. It was a lot like my status as a Catholic. I carried a decent amount of guilt and fear of eternal damnation but blind faith and