Janet Evanovich - Finger Lickin’ Fifteen

“Look at the time,” Grandma said. “We gotta get the ribs going.”

Connie, Lula, and Grandma set off power-walking across the field. I tried to follow, but I walked into a trash can and fell over.

“Oops,” I said.

Morelli looked down at me. “Are you okay?”

“I can’t see in this stupid suit.”

Morelli picked me up. “Would you like me to get you out of this thing?”

“Yes!”

He worked at the zipper in the back and finally peeled me out of the hot dog suit. “You’re soaking wet,” he said.

“It was hot in the suit.”

Morelli wrapped an arm around me and shuffled me off to a booth selling cook-off gear. He bought me a T-shirt, a hat, and a sweatshirt, stuffed the hot dog suit into a bag, and sent me to the ladies’ room to change.

“This feels much better,” I said to him when I came out. “Thanks.”

“You look better, too.”

“Out of Rangeman black?”

“Yeah.” Morelli wrapped his arms around me. “I miss you. Bob misses you. My grandmother misses you.”

“Your grandmother hates me.”

“True. She misses hating you.” Morelli straightened the hat on my head. “Maybe I could learn to like peanut butter.”

“You don’t have to like peanut butter. Just stop yelling at me.”

“That’s the way my family communicates.”

“Find another way to communicate. And why are we arguing all the time? We argue over everything.”

“I think it’s because we aren’t having enough sex.”

“And that’s another thing. Why are you so obsessed with sex?”

“Because I don’t get any?”

I tried not to laugh, but I couldn’t help myself. “I guess that could do it.”

I saw flames shoot into the sky and then black smoke.

“It looks like Lula fired up the grill,” I said to Morelli. “I should get back to them.”

We made our way through the crowd, back to the Flamin’ kitchen. The guy from the kitchen next to us was standing with the fire extinguisher in his hand, shaking his head.

“Unbelievable,” he said. “You moved the canopy back, and then you set your ribs on fire and torched your hat.”

Lula still had the hat on her head, but the top was all black and smoking, and foam dripped off the hat onto Lula’s white chef coat.

“Looks to me like the ribs are done,” Grandma said, peering over the grill at the charred bones. “You think they need more sauce?”

“I think they need a decent burial,” Connie said.

The rusted bottom of the grill gave way, and everything fell out onto the ground.

“Don’t that beat all,” Grandma said.

Morelli’s cell phone buzzed. He walked away to talk, and when he returned he was smiling.

“They caught Marco,” he said. “He was trying to get to the airport in Philly. He’s being brought back to Trenton.”

“Do we get the reward?” Lula wanted to know. “We gave information that got him captured.”

“I don’t know,” Morelli said. “That’s up to the company offering the reward.”

“The barbecue sauce company,” Lula said. “The one with the picture of Chipotle on the jar. Fire in the Hole sauce.”

“Yep.”

“What about the other moron?” Lula said. “What about the guy who was always shooting at me?”

“Marco fingered him the minute he was caught. Zito Dudley. Marco said as far as he knew, Dudley was still on the cook-off grounds.”

“We gotta find Dudley before anyone else,” Lula said. “Or we might have to split the reward, bein’ that there were two killers and only one million dollars. We should spread out, and if you see him, shoot him.”

“I wouldn’t mind shooting him, but I don’t know what he looks like,” Grandma said.

“He looks sort of like the Maniac,” Lula said. “Only shorter.”

“Dudley sounds familiar,” Connie said. “I just saw that name somewhere. Zito Dudley. Zito Dudley.”

The fire-extinguisher guy was basting the ribs on his grill. He looked over when Connie said Zito Dudley.

“Zito Dudley is presenting the check to the winner of the cook-off,” he said. “He’s associated with Chipotle’s barbecue sauce.”

Lula’s eyes went wide. “Get out. That wiener is part of Chipotle’s company?”

“It’s not actually Chipotle’s company,” the guy said. “Chipotle got money for putting his name on the jar. The company is owned by someone else.” He reached behind him to his prep table, grabbed the cook-off program, and handed it to Lula. “His picture is in here. It’s on the last page. He’s standing with the cook-off committee.”

We all looked at the picture of Dudley.

“That’s him, all right,” Lula said. “Nasty little bastard.”

Morelli was on his phone talking to his partner, feeding him the information, asking for more men.

Something was causing a disturbance on the opposite side of the field. We all craned our necks and stood tall to see what the noise and movement was about. People were parting in front of us, and suddenly a man burst out of the crowd. He was running for all he was worth, and Joyce was chasing him in her high-heeled boots.

“It’s him,” Lula said. “It’s Dudley!”

They got even with our booth, and Joyce launched herself into the air and tackled Zito Dudley. Lula rushed in, pulled Joyce off Dudley, and grabbed his foot.

“He’s mine,” Lula said.

Joyce kicked Lula in the leg and wrestled Dudley away from her. Lula put a neck lock on Joyce, and they went down to the ground, kicking and clawing and cussing, taking Dudley with them. There was a gunshot, and Joyce yelped and flopped onto the ground, blood oozing from her red leather bustier.

Morelli had his gun drawn, but Dudley was on his feet, holding a gun to Lula’s head.

“Drop your gun,” Dudley said.

Connie, Grandma, Morelli, the guys next to us, and several passersby all dropped their guns.

“You won’t get anywhere,” Morelli said to Dudley. “There are police all over this park.”

“I’ve got a hostage. And I’d be real happy to have one more excuse to shoot her. I’ve been trying to shoot her all week. And I would have done it, if I wasn’t saddled with Marco the Moron.”

“I thought he was a Maniac,” Grandma said.

“I want a helicopter brought in,” Dudley said. “And I want one unarmed pilot flying it.”

“That only happens in the movies,” Morelli said. “Trenton can’t afford helicopters. We’re lucky we’re not all riding bicycles.”

“Get the traffic report helicopter then. Get one from the beach patrol. Get one from NASCAR. You don’t get me out of here in a helicopter, and I swear I’ll kill my hostage.”

Morelli went back to his cell phone. “I’ll make some calls,” he said to Dudley. “Maybe I can come up with something. Would National Guard be okay?”

Dudley looked at Joyce on the ground, bleeding.

“Get a medevac. I know you’ve got one of those.”

“You got it,” Morelli said. “I’ve got two paramedics here. I want you to allow them to treat her.”

“Sure. Get her out of the way.”

“This is confusing,” Lula said. “What happens to the reward? How am I gonna get the reward from you if you’re the one I caught?”

“It’s my brother-in-law’s reward. He’s the owner of the company. I’m just a token vice president. He’s the one who was the big Chipotle fan. Put his picture on all the sauce jars. I told him not to do it, but would he listen to me? Hell, no. Now see where that got us.”

“Where’d it get you?” Grandma wanted to know.

“It got us nowhere. Chipotle refused to sign a new contract. He was screwing my brother-in-law’s bimbo gold-digger wife. They were going to start their own company as soon as the divorce went through.” Dudley looked over at Morelli. “Where’s the helicopter?”