Plum Spooky

  Fifteen minutes later, we were in the Jeep and we‘d eaten all the doughnuts.

  “I feel a lot better,” Lula said. “Now what?”

  I looked down at my shirt. It had powdered sugar and a big glob of jelly on it. “I‘m going home to change my shirt.”

  “That don‘t sound real interesting,” Lula said. “You could drop me at the office. I might have to take a nap.”

  Stephanie Plum 14.5 - Plum Spooky

  TWO

  I PARKED MY Jeep in the lot behind my apartment building, and Carl and I crossed the lot and pushed through the building‘s rear entrance. We took the elevator to the second floor, and Carl waited patiently while I opened my door.

  “So,” I said to him, “do you miss Susan?”

  He shrugged.

  “You do a lot of shrugging,” I told him.

  He studied me for a moment and gave me the finger. Okay, so it wasn‘t a shrug. And giving and getting the finger is a way of life in Jersey. Still, getting the finger from a monkey isn‘t normal even by Jersey standards.

  My apartment consists of a small entrance foyer with hooks on the wall for coats and hats and handbags. The kitchen and living room open off the foyer, a dining area is tucked into an extension of the living room, and at the other end is a short hallway leading to my bedroom and bathroom. My décor is mostly what ever was discarded by relatives. This is okay by me because Aunt Betty‘s chair, Grandma Mazur‘s dining room set, and my cousin Tootsie‘s coffee table are comfortable. They come to me infused with family history, and they give off a kind of gentle energy that my life is sometimes lacking. Not to mention, I can‘t afford anything else.

  I hung my tote on one of the hooks in the foyer and stared down at a pair of scruffy men‘s boots that had been kicked off and left in the middle of the floor. I was pretty sure I recognized the boots, plus the battered leather backpack that had been dumped on Tootie‘s coffee table.

  I walked into the living room and stared down at the backpack. I blew out a sigh and rolled my eyes. Why me? I thought. Isn‘t it enough that I have a monkey? Do I really need one more complication?

  “Diesel?” I yelled.

  I moved to the bedroom, and there he was, sprawled on my bed. Over six feet of gorgeous, hard-​muscled, slightly tanned male. His eyes were brown and assessing, his hair was sandy blond, thick, and unruly. His eyebrows were fierce. Hard to tell his age. Young enough to be lots of trouble. Old enough to know what he was doing. He was wearing new gray sweatsocks, tattered jeans, and a faded T-​shirt that advertised a dive shop in the Caicos.

  He rolled onto his back and smiled up at me when I came into the room.

  “Hey,” he said.

  I pointed stiff-​armed to the door. “Out!”

  “What, no kiss hello?”

  “Get a grip.”

  He patted the bed next to him.

  “No way,” I said.

  “Afraid?”

  Of course I was afraid. He made the Big Bad Wolf look like chump change.

  “How do you always manage to smell like Christmas?” I asked Diesel.

  “I don‘t know. It‘s just one of those things.” The smile widened, showing perfect white teeth, and crinkle lines appeared around his eyes. “It‘s part of my appeal,” he said.

  “You were in Martin Munch‘s house earlier today, weren‘t you?”

  “Yeah. You came in the back door, and I went out the front. I would have hung around, but I was following someone.”

  “And?”

  “I lost him.”

  “Hard to believe.”

  “Are you sure you don‘t want to roll around on the bed with me?”

  “Rain check,” I told him. “Really?”

  “No.”

  Here‘s the thing with Diesel. I‘d be crazy not to want to take him for a test drive, but I‘ve already got two men in my life, and that‘s actually one too many. Truth is, I‘m a good Catholic girl. The faith has always been elusive, but the guilt is intractable. I‘m not comfortable having simultaneous intimate relationships . . . even if it‘s only for a glorious ten minutes. And Diesel isn‘t a normal guy. At least, that‘s his story.

  If Diesel is to be believed, there are people living among us with abilities beyond normal. They look just like anyone else, and most hold normal jobs and live relatively normal lives. They‘re called Unmentionables, and some are more unmentionable than others. From what I‘ve seen, Diesel is about as unmentionable as a guy could get. Diesel travels the world tracking Unmentionables who‘ve gone to the dark side, and then he pulls the power plug. I don‘t know how he accomplishes this. I‘m not even sure I believe any of it. All I know is, one minute he‘s here, and then he‘s gone. And when he leaves, the barometric pressure improves.

  Diesel stood and stretched, and when he stretched, there was a tantalizing flash of skin exposed between shirt and low-​riding jeans. It was enough to make my eyes glaze over and my mouth go dry. I struggled to replace the image with thoughts of Morelli naked, but I was only partially successful.

  “I‘m hungry,” Diesel said. “What time is it? Is it lunch -time?” He looked at his watch. “It‘s after noon in Greenland. Close enough.”

  He ambled out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, where Carl was sitting on the counter, staring into Rex‘s aquarium.

  “What‘s with the monkey?” Diesel asked, his head in the refrigerator.

  “I‘m babysitting.”

  Diesel gathered up some cold cuts and sliced cheese and turned to me. “You don‘t strike me as especially maternal.”

  “I have my moments.” Admittedly not very many, but probably they‘re just waiting for the right time to pop out.

  Diesel found bread and made himself a sandwich. “He got a name?”

  “Carl.”

  Diesel flipped Carl a slice of bread and Carl caught it and ate it.

  “Are you a monkey man?” I asked Diesel.

  “I can take ‘em or leave ‘em.”

  Carl shot Diesel the finger, and Diesel gave a bark of laughter. Diesel ate some sandwich and looked my way. “You two must get along great. You taught him that, right?”

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “Visiting.”

  “You never just visit.”

  Diesel got a Bud Light from the fridge, chugged it, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I‘m looking for a guy who has been known to hang with your friend Munch.”

  “Does this guy drive a black Ferrari and have long black hair?”

  “Yes. Have you seen him?”

  I shook my head. “No. I‘ve talked to Munch‘s neighbors, and apparently he was Munch‘s only visitor. Munch didn‘t have much of a social life.”

  “What kind of leads do you have?” Diesel asked.

  “The usual. Nothing. And you?”

  “I tracked my man to Munch‘s house but missed him by minutes. I‘ve been trying to tag him for over a year. He can sense my approach, and he moves on before I get too close.”

  “He‘s afraid of you.”

  “No. He‘s enjoying the game.”

  “His name?”

  “Gerwulf Grimoire,” Diesel said.

  “Wow, that‘s a really bad name.”

  “This is a really bad, really powerful guy. Somehow he connected with Munch, and now they‘re palling around together with Munch‘s magnetometer.”

  “Why was Whatshis name in Munch‘s house?” I asked Diesel.

  “Gerwulf Grimoire, but he goes by Wulf. I suppose he went back to get something. Or maybe he was playing with me. The house was clean when I got there. I followed Wulf‘s breadcrumbs to Broad Street, and then they disappeared.”

  “Breadcrumbs?”

  “Cosmic debris. Hard to explain.”

  “Do I leave cosmic debris?”

  “Everyone leaves it. Some people leave more than others. Wulf and I leave a lot because we‘re dense. We both carry high energy.”

  “That‘s weird.”
>
  “Tell me about it,” Diesel said. “You should walk in my shoes.” He crossed to the foyer, took my bag off its hook, and stuck his hand in.

  “Hey!” I said. “What are you doing?”

  “I want to read your case file on Munch.”

  “How do you know it‘s in there?”

  “I know. Just like I know you‘re wearing a pink lace thong, and you think I‘m hot.”

  “How? What?” I said. “Lucky guess,” Diesel said, pulling the file out of my bag, scanning the pages.

  “I do not think you‘re hot.”

  “That‘s a big fib,” Diesel said.

  “I can save you some time,” I told him. “There isn‘t anything in Munch‘s file. Only a grandmother.”

  “Then let‘s talk to the grandmother.”

  “I‘ve already talked to her.”

  Diesel shoved his feet into his boots and laced up. “Let‘s talk to her again.”

  I changed my shirt, and we headed out.

  “Your car or mine?” I asked him when we got to the lot.

  “What are you driving?”

  “The Jeep that used to be red.”

  “I like it,” Diesel said.

  “What are you driving?”

  “The hog.”

  I looked over at the black Harley. No room for Carl, and it would wreck my hair. “Probably it‘s easier to follow cosmic dust when you‘re on a bike,” I said.

  Diesel settled himself into the Jeep‘s passenger-​side seat and grinned at me. “You don‘t really think there‘s cosmic dust, do you?”

  I plugged the key into the ignition. “Of course not. Cosmic dust would be… ridiculous.”

  Diesel hooked an arm around my neck, pulled me to him, and kissed me on the top of my head. “This is going to be fun,” he said.

  Stephanie Plum 14.5 - Plum Spooky

  THREE

  CADMOUNT IS a sleepy little town on the Delaware River a few miles north of Trenton. It looks quaintly historic—a bunch of big, white, clapboard houses with black shutters and yards shaded by oak and maple trees. Lydia Munch‘s retirement home was a sprawling single-​story redbrick structure. The architect had enhanced the entrance with a portico and four white columns in an attempt to make it look less like a retirement home. The result was that it looked a lot more like a funeral parlor.

  I parked in the visitor lot, and we shuffled into the lobby. The walls were a pleasant pale peach, and the floor was covered in dove gray industrial pile carpet. It was a relatively small area, large enough to accommodate the reception desk manned by two green-​smocked women, a uniformed security guard old enough to be a resident, and a couple wingback chairs for tired guests.

  I asked for Lydia Munch and was directed to a lounge in her wing. I‘d already done this drill twice before, but no one seemed to remember me, and the rules and directions were precisely repeated. They would tell Lydia she had a visitor, and Lydia would meet us in the lounge. Diesel and I moved toward the corridor leading to the lounge, and one of the green-​smocked women called after us.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “There‘s a monkey following you.”

  We turned and looked down at Carl. We‘d forgotten he was with us.

  “Go back to the car,” I said to Carl.

  Carl looked at me with his bright monkey eyes. The eyes dimmed down a notch, and he blinked.

  “Don‘t play dumb,” I said to him. “I know you understand.”

  Another blink.

  “We don‘t allow monkeys,” the woman said.

  Carl flipped her the finger and took off down the corridor toward the lounge.

  “Security!” the woman shouted, waving her hand at the old man at the door. “Expel that monkey.”

  The security guard looked around. “What monkey? I don‘t see no monkey.”

  Carl scampered down the length of the hall and swung through the door to the lounge. A murmur went up from the room when Carl entered, a woman screamed, and something crashed to the floor.

  Diesel and I followed Carl into the lounge and found a little old lady who looked like Mother Goose pressing herself into a corner. A little old man with his pants hiked up to his armpits was scrabbling after Carl. The little old man was trying to smack Carl with his cane, but Carl was too fast. Carl was scurrying around, avoiding the cane, jumping on tables, knocking lamps to the floor, climbing up the drapes. He jumped onto Mother Goose‘s head, leaned over into her face, and gave her a kiss on the lips.

  “He frenched me!” Mother Goose said. “I‘ve been Frenched by a monkey.”

  Diesel grabbed Carl by the tail, lifted him off Mother Goose, and held him at arm‘s length, where Carl meekly dangled like a dead opossum. The old man took a swipe at Carl with the cane but missed and tagged Diesel. Diesel held Carl with one hand, and with the other, he snatched the cane away from the man and snapped it in half.

  “I need mouthwash,” Mother Goose said. “I need a tetanus shot. I need a Tic Tac.”

  “I‘m looking for Lydia Munch,” Diesel said.

  “Two doors down on the right,” the man told him. “Apartment 103.”

  Diesel thanked him, and we trooped out of the lounge with Carl riding on Diesel‘s shoulder. Several residents were in the hall. Lydia Munch was among them. Easy to recognize Lydia. She was five-​foot-​nothing and had the same curly strawberry blond hair and freckled skin as her grandson.

  “What‘s the ruckus in the lounge?” she asked. Her eyes focused on Carl. “Is that a real monkey?”

  “Yep, it‘s a real monkey,” I told her. “And this big guy is Diesel. He‘d like to talk to you about your grandson.”

  “Martin? I don‘t know what to say about him. I haven‘t seen him since Christmas. I know he‘s accused of stealing something where he worked, but it‘s hard to believe. He‘s such a nice young man.”

  “I need to find him,” Diesel said. “Do you have any idea where he might be staying?”

  “He has a house in Trenton. Other than that, I don‘t know. There‘s not a lot of family left. His mother and father were killed in a car wreck five years ago. He doesn‘t have any brothers or sisters. The rest of the family is in Wisconsin. He was never close to any of them.”

  “Friends?” Diesel asked.

  “He never mentioned any. It was always hard for him, being so smart. He didn‘t go through school with kids his own age. And then he had that whole Star Trek thing where he dressed up like Mr. Spock. I told my daughter to get him help, but she said it was just a phase. And when he took the job at the research center, he was working on something secret that he couldn‘t talk about. He was real excited about it. He worked all the time on it. Weekends and nights. I thought he should be going out with girls, making some friends, but he said everyone he met was boring.”

  “Did he ever mention someone named Wulf?” Diesel asked.

  “No,” she said. “I would have remembered.”

  Diesel gave Lydia a business card. “I‘d appreciate a call if you hear from Martin.”

  I looked over at the card. It said Diesel, and below that was a phone number.

  “Very professional,” I told him.

  Diesel nodded adios to Lydia, took my hand, and pulled me down the hall toward the back door. “They were a Christmas present from one of my handlers. He said I had to stop writing my phone number on people‘s foreheads.”

  “Handlers?”

  “The guys who move me around.”

  “So you can follow the cosmic dust?”

  Diesel opened the back door and pushed me through. “Very funny. Keep in mind not everything I say is bullshit.”

  “What would you say is the bullshit percentage? Twenty? Thirty?”

  “Thirty might be low.”

  We circled the building and jumped into my Jeep. I cranked the engine over, and an animal control van rolled into the lot just as we were leaving.

  “Now what?” I asked Diesel.

  “Did you thoroughly search Munch‘s house?”
br />   “Lula and I walked through the rooms and looked in closets and drawers. There wasn‘t much to see. The house was empty. No clothes, no food, no toothbrush in the bathroom.”