Janet Evanovich - Finger Lickin’ Fifteen

My stomach got queasy, and I felt my skin crawl at the back of my neck. “What’s out there that I can’t see?” I asked. “Spiders? Snakes?”

“It’s Joyce Barnhardt,” Grandma said.

I turned around, and sure enough, it was Barnhardt. Her red hair was piled high on her head, her mouth was high-gloss vermilion. Her breasts were barely contained in a red leather bustier that matched skintight red leather pants and spike-heeled red leather boots.

“Who’s the hot dog?” Joyce wanted to know.

“It’s Stephanie,” Grandma said.

“Figures. I suppose you wanted her to be the hot dog so it would have a nice straight line. Nothing worse than a hot dog with boobs, right?”

I gave Joyce the finger. “Boobs this, Joyce.”

“What are you doing here?” Grandma asked Joyce. “Are you in the barbecue competition?”

“I put a couple things together,” Joyce said, and she turned to face Lula. “I listen to the police bands. I know all about the Chipotle killers stalking you. And I figure those guys are here looking to put a bullet in you. Or maybe carve you up for barbecuing.”

“So you’re here to protect me?” Lula said.

“No, Dumbo. I’m here to capture the idiots and get the reward.”

Joyce sashayed away, and we all made the sign of the cross.

“I always smell sulfur burning when she’s around,” Connie said.

“I want to do some walking and look at the other kitchens,” Grandma said. “We got an hour before we have to start cooking the ribs.”

“That’s a good idea,” Lula said. “We should be looking for the killers, anyway. I’m all ready for a takedown. I got my gun and my stun gun and some pepper spray. And I got body armor on under this white jacket.”

CONNIE, LULA, GRANDMA, and I eased into the crowd that was slowly making its way past the cook-off teams.

“Look at this group,” Grandma said. “They’ve got one of them drums for cookin’ a pig.”

I couldn’t see the drum. The drum was lost behind my hot dog skin. I turned to look and bumped into a kid.

“The hot dog stepped on me,” the kid said.

“Sorry,” I said. “Excuse me.” I stepped to the side and knocked a woman over.

Connie picked the woman up. “It’s her first time as a hot dog,” Connie told the woman. “Cut her some slack.”

Lula had me by my bun, steering me forward. “Watch out for the hot dog,” she was telling people. “Make way for the hot dog.”

“I think I’m getting the hang of this,” I said to Lula. “I’m okay as long as I only go forward.”

Lula’s grip tightened on my arm. “It’s him.”

“Who?”

“The Chipotle killer. Marco the Maniac.”

“Where?”

“Up there in front of us. The guy who’s all dressed up in a cheap suit.”

I squinted through the hot dog skin. I couldn’t see a guy in a suit. “Does he have a cleaver?”

“No. He’s got an ice-cream cone.”

Lula hauled her gun out of her purse. “Hey! Marco the Maniac!” she yelled at him. “Hold it right there. I’m making a citizen’s arrest.”

Marco looked around, spotted Lula, and froze.

“Guess it’s not so funny when he don’t have his cleaver,” Lula said.

A family walked between us and Marco, and Marco threw his ice-cream cone down and took off.

“He’s running away,” Lula said. “After him!”

After him? Was she kidding?

Lula had one side of my costume, Connie had the other, and I could feel Grandma pushing from behind.

“Wait,” I said. “I can’t run. I can’t…” CRASH. I knocked over a prep table. “Sorry!”

Lula kept dragging me. “He’s going for the parking lot,” Lula said.

“I see him,” Connie said. “He’s getting into that silver BMW. Who’s got a car here?”

“What about your car?” Grandma asked.

“It’s way on the other side of the lot.”

I wriggled my arm out of the armhole and pulled the keys to the cab out of my pants pocket. “I’ve got the keys to the cab.”

Connie got behind the wheel, Lula sat next to her, and Grandma got into the backseat. I tried to sit next to Grandma, but I couldn’t get all of me in. Everyone jumped out and ran around to my side and pushed and shoved.

“She’s too fat,” Grandma said. “She don’t fit in the door.”

“Bend the bun,” Connie said. “There’s too much bun.”

“Stand back,” Lula said. And she put her butt to me and rammed me in.

Everyone rushed back into the car, Connie rocketed out of the parking place and whipped around the lot. “I see him,” she said. “He turned left out of the park.”

“If you get close enough to him, I can shoot out his tires,” Lula said.

“Yeah, me, too,” Grandma said. “You take the right-side tires,” she said to Lula, “and I’ll take the left-side tires.”

We were on a two-lane road that ran for almost a mile before hooking up with a four-lane highway.

“I can’t catch him in this cab,” Connie said after a half mile. “I’ve got it floored, and we’re losing him.” Her eyes flicked to her side mirror. “Crap,” she said. “It’s a cop.”

Lula and Grandma stuffed their guns back into their purses, and Connie popped the button on her shirt so she showed more cleavage. She pulled over, and the cop stopped behind her, lights flashing. We’d crossed the line, and we were in Hamilton Township. I didn’t know any of the Hamilton Township police.

“Do you know why I pulled you over?” the cop asked Connie.

Connie leaned back to give him a good look at the girls. “Because you couldn’t catch the guy in front of me?”

“We were trying to run down a killer,” Grandma said. “And the hot dog is a personal friend of Joe Morelli.”

“Morelli is the reason my bowling team lost the trophy,” the cop said. “I hate Morelli.”

MORELLI WAS WAITING for us when we rolled into the cook-off lot. Lula had called him and told him about Marco the Maniac, and now Morelli was leaning against his SUV, watching Connie park the cab. Lula and Connie and Grandma got out, but I was stuck.

“What are you, some superhero?” Lula asked Morelli. “How’d you get here so fast?”

“I was already here. We have some men on site.” Morelli looked into the cab. “There’s a hot dog in the backseat.”

“It’s Stephanie,” Grandma said. “She’s stuck. Her bun’s too big.”

“Gotta cut back on the dessert,” Morelli said.

“Very funny,” I said to him. “Just get me out of here.”

Morelli pulled me out of the cab and gave me the once-over. “What are you doing in a hot dog suit?”

“It was supposed to be a sparerib, but the costume shop was all out, so the best we could get was a hot dog.”

“Yeah, that makes sense,” Morelli said. “What have you got in your hand?”

“We got stopped by Officer Hardass. Connie got a speeding ticket, and I got a ticket for not wearing a seat belt. I was in the backseat. Do you have to wear a seat belt in the backseat?”

Morelli took the ticket from me and put it in his pocket. “Not if you’re a hot dog.”

“I hope we didn’t miss Al Roker,” Grandma said.

Morelli looked over at her. “Al Roker?”

“He’s bringing a whole crew with him, and he’s going to film the cook-off, and we’re going to be on television,” Grandma said.

“It’s not Al Roker,” Morelli said. “It’s Al Rochere. He’s got a cooking show on some cable channel.”

“How do you know that?” Lula said. “They could both be coming.”

“I have a list of media and celebrities present,” Morelli said. “There’s extra security for this event because of the Chipotle murder.”