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

Plum. I went to all this trouble just for you, so you could spend some time with a nice man. A man who could give you a future. A family. The least you can do is make an effort. I even made pineapple upside-down cake.”
    I was screwed. A major load of guilt plus pineapple upside-down cake.
    “And for goodness sakes,” my mother said, “wear something nice.
Please
don’t wear jeans and a T-shirt.”
    I pulled the T-shirt over my head and looked around. Lots of dirty clothes. Not many clean ones. The new red dress was hanging in the front of the closet. It was the easy choice.
    Grandma was waiting when I parked in the driveway behind my dad’s car. “Don’t you look pretty,” Grandma said. “I read somewhere that men like women who wear red. It’s supposed to be one of them things that gets a man in a state.”
    From my experience it didn’t take much to get a man in a state.
    “Dave might even propose when he sees you in this dress,” Grandma said. “This dress is a man catcher.”
    I didn’t want to catch any more men. I wanted to eat chicken Parm and go home and put the pillow over my head again. I watched a silver Honda Accord roll down the street and park behind my car, and I was relieved to be one step closer to dinner. Dave was driving. It looked like his dad was sitting alongside him, and his mom was in the back. Dave got out, ran around the car, and retrieved a party platter from the backseat.
    All the blood drained from my head and pooled in my feet. I put a hand out to steady myself and forced myself to breathe. Put a rubber Frankenstein mask and a padded coverall on Dave and you had Juki Beck’s killer. It was an instant gut reaction. There was something about Dave’s posture and the way he moved when he rounded the car that clicked in my brain. The next thing that clicked in my brain was disbelief. There was no way it could be Dave, right?
    “Omigosh,” Grandma said when she saw Dave. “What the heck happened to you?”
    His eyes were less swollen, but they were still pretty ugly. Black with tinges of green. And he still had the Band-Aid across his nose.
    “I took an elbow to the nose in a football game,” Dave said. “No big deal.”
    “You always were an athlete,” Grandma said, ushering everyone into the living room.
    Emma and Herb Brewer were in their late fifties. They were pleasant-looking people, tastefully dressed, seemingly happy. Hard to believe they’d spawn a killer. Hard to believe nudnik Dave would strangle someone.
    “What a lovely home,” Emma said.
    My father stood from his chair and nodded hello. He’d been coerced into abandoning his Tony Soprano–collared knit shirt in favor of a buttoned-down dress shirt. This signified a major social event. The buttoned-down dress shirt was usually reserved for Christmas, Easter, and funerals.
    Dave handed me the party platter, our eyes met for a long moment, and I had an irrational stab of fear that he knew I suspected him of murder. I placed the platter on the table and made an effort to pull myself together. There was no hard evidence that suggested Dave was the killer, I told myself. I usually had good intuition, but it was only intuition after all, and it wasn’t infallible. And in this case it felt ridiculous.
    “The antipasto looks great,” I said. “Did you put the platter together?”
    “We picked it up at Giovichinni’s.” Dave moved close beside me, his breath soft against my ear. “That’s a killer dress.”
    I felt my scalp prickle and my heart skipped a beat. “Killer? W-what do you mean by that?”
    “Think about it,” Dave said. And he winked at me.
    My mother brought the chicken Parmesan to the table,and I took my usual seat to my dad’s left. Dave chose the seat next to me.
    “Dave came over and made the most wonderful meal for us the other night,” Grandma said to Emma Brewer. “He even made chocolate cake.”
    “It’s always been his way to relax,” Emma said. “When he was a little boy he made up his own brownie recipe. The more stress he had, the more he needed to cook.”
    I wondered how much cooking it took to mitigate murdering five people.
    Grandma helped herself to spaghetti. “I’m surprised he don’t do all the cooking for you.”
    Emma rolled her eyes. “He makes too much of a mess. There’s dirty dishes everywhere.”
    “That’s a man for you,” Grandma said. “Always making a mess.”
    “Not always,” Dave said. “Sometimes we know how to
avoid
making a