Джанет Иванович - Twisted Twenty-Six

“It was a bathroom accident,” I said. “Except without a bathroom.”

My mother white knuckled her fork and instinctively glanced at the cabinet where she kept her whiskey stash.

“You have an exciting life,” Grandma said to me. “I wish I had a job like you. The best I got is bingo tonight. It’s pretty good but it’s not like chasing down scumbags.”

My mom sat up straight. “You’re not going to bingo tonight, are you?”

“Sure, I’m going to bingo. It’s Thursday. I always go on Thursday. People are going to be expecting me to be there.”

“That’s not a good idea,” my mother said. “Stephanie, tell your grandmother it isn’t a good idea. What if Jimmy’s sisters are there?”

“Angie won’t be there,” Grandma said. “She can’t hold the bingo dauber with those big bandages on her hands.”

“There are two other sisters,” my mother said. “And a daughter. And ex-wives.”

“I haven’t got anything against them,” Grandma said.

“They think you’re a gold digger,” my mom said. “They’re worried you’re going to get Jimmy’s money. There are rumors going around that there’s a contract out on you.”

“Half the people in the Burg have contracts on them,” Grandma said. “Nothing ever happens because all the mob hit men are in their eighties and have macular degeneration and clogged-up arteries. It’s not a job for those millennials. Too much work. Too messy. And you gotta learn a lot of skills. I hear the big thing now for the young folks is having a marijuana farm or being one of those hedge funders.”

There was the sound of glass breaking in the living room, followed by my father knocking over his tray table.

“What the Sam Hill!” my father yelled.

I ran into the room and saw that the front window was shattered, and there was a bottle rolling around on the living room rug. It had a burning rag stuck into the top. I snatched the bottle and threw it back out the broken window. The bottle hit the side of my car parked at the curb and exploded. In an instant the car was engulfed in flames, and black smoke billowed into the sky.

My mom and grandmother had followed me into the living room and were standing next to my dad.

“Molotov cocktail,” I said. “We were lucky the bottle didn’t break when it hit the floor.”

“Quick thinking,” Grandma said. “You got a good arm. I couldn’t have reached the car.”

It was a surprise to me too. I’d thrown the bottle in a blind panic. Hitting my car was just one more indication that my life was in the shitter.

“What was that about?” my father asked. “I was eating my lunch and watching television and all of a sudden this bottle comes flying through the window.”

I exchanged glances with my mother and Grandma. None of us wanted to tell my father about the contract on Grandma.

“Mistaken identity,” I said.

“Prank,” my mother said.

“Damn aliens,” Grandma said.

My mother set the tray table back upright and picked the plate and napkin up off the floor. “Good thing you were done with lunch,” she said to my father. “Would you like fruit or ice cream for dessert?”

“Ice cream,” he said. “Chocolate. And then I’m going out with the cab.”

My mother went to the kitchen to get the ice cream, and Grandma and I went out to the front porch to watch the car burn. Two cop cars were the first to arrive. A couple fire trucks and an EMT truck were close behind.

I got a call from Ranger. He decided a while ago that my safety was his responsibility, so he keeps tabs on me by installing tracking devices on my cars. Initially I was annoyed, but the truth is they come in handy every now and then. Obviously, he was just notified by his control room that his bug went dead.

“Babe,” he said.

“I sort of firebombed my car,” I said, “but no one was in it, so it’s all okay.”

“Good to know,” he said. And he disconnected.

Morelli called next.

“I just heard from dispatch that there’s a fire at your parents’ house,” Morelli said.

“Someone pitched a Molotov cocktail through the living room window. It didn’t break because it landed on the rug, and I was able to toss it back out the window before it exploded. Unfortunately, I accidentally pitched it at my car that was parked in front of the house.”

“Anyone hurt?”

“No. We’re all okay. The fire trucks are here.”

“I assume this was meant as a message to Grandma.”

“I assume you’re right. Are you still looking for body parts?”

“Yeah. I think I just found a nose.”

“Boy, you really know how to have fun.”

“Gotta go,” Morelli said. And he disconnected.

My phone rang again. It was Connie.

“There’s black smoke coming from the vicinity of your parents’ house,” Connie said.

“It’s my car.”

“Again?”

“Someone tossed a firebomb into my parents’ house, I tossed it back out, and it exploded my car.”

“Bummer.”

“You have any idea who might have done this?”

“It would be a long list,” Connie said.

Another fire truck pulled up with lights flashing and sirens screaming, and I ended the conversation with Connie.

“This is going to put a crimp in my plans,” Grandma yelled at me. “I was hoping you’d give me a ride to bingo. I usually go with Evelyn Malinowski, but she has hemorrhoids and doesn’t want to go to bingo with her whoopee cushion.”

“You should give up bingo tonight,” I said. “Someone just tried to firebomb you.”

“We don’t know that for sure,” Grandma said. “They could have been after you. You get firebombed all the time.”

“Not all the time.”

“Well, once in a while. Anyway, you get firebombed more than I do.”

No one was doing much for my car. Mostly everyone was standing around waiting for it to burn itself out.

“I hate to miss this bingo,” Grandma said. “It’s not every day I get to be a celebrity. Once Jimmy’s put in the ground my days of glory are going to be over.”

My great-uncle Sandor had bequeathed his ’53 powder blue and white Buick Roadmaster to Grandma. The car was kept in the garage and was available for anyone desperate enough to use it. And that would be me.

“I can borrow the Buick,” I said. “What about Mom? She’s not going to want you to go.”

“She’s inside nipping at the hooch,” Grandma said. “She’ll be nice and mellow by bingo time.”

—

It was close to four o’clock when I finished with the police report and arranged to have my car towed away. I backed Big Blue out of the garage and drove the short distance to Morelli’s house. I got Bob hooked up to his leash, and we followed his usual route. It was slow going since Bob did a lot of bush sniffing and leg lifting, but it was a pleasant walk, not counting the occasional whiff of cooked car carried on the wind.

“What would you think of magenta extensions?” I asked Bob. “It could be the start of my makeover program. Who knows what would follow. Maybe a new job. Or a new boyfriend. I might join a gym.”

Bob turned his head and looked at me.

“Yeah, you’re right,” I said. “I’m not going to join a gym. I mean, let’s not get stupid about this makeover.”

A black Cadillac sedan cruised by and pulled to the curb. The passenger door opened and a young guy with slicked-back black hair got out and walked over to me.

“Stephanie Plum?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Get in the car. Someone wants to talk to you.”

“Who?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Is he in the car?” I asked, looking into the car.

“No. We’re going to take you to him.”