Finger Lickin' Fifteen

by Janet Evanovich

  That sounded like a good deal to me. “I’ll wear it,” I said.

  There were holes in the bottom where my legs could stick out, armholes in the sides of the bun, and part of the hot dog was made of mesh, so I could sort of see. I got the thing on, and Grandma zipped me up.

  “This is disappointing,” Lula said. “It’s not as good as Mister Clucky.”

  “She’s got a saggy bun,” Grandma said.

  Connie squished my bun. “It’s foam. It needs reshaping.”

  Everyone worked on the bun while I stood there.

  “It’s hot in this thing,” I said. “And I can’t see through the hot dog skin. Everything’s brown. And there’s only a little window to look through.”

  “I can’t hardly hear what you’re saying through all that padding,” Grandma said. “But don’t worry, we got you looking pretty good.”

  “Yeah,” Lula said. “Dance around. Let’s see what you got.”

  “What kind of dance?” I asked her.

  “I don’t know. Any kind of dance.”

  I jumped around a little and fell over.

  “This is top-heavy,” I said.

  “It don’t look top-heavy,” Lula said. “It’s all one size top to bottom. Imagine if we got a pork chop instead of a hot dog.”

  I was on my back, and all I saw was brown sky. I rolled side to side, trying to flip over. No luck. I was stuck in the stupid bun. I flopped around, flailing my arms and kicking my feet. I got some decent momentum going rocking back and forth in my bun, but in the end, it didn’t get me anywhere.

  Lula looked down at me. “Stop clownin’ around. You’re scarin’ the kids. You’re even creepin’ out the big people. It’s like someone threw away a giant twitching hot dog.”

  “I can’t get up!”

  “What?”

  “I can’t fucking get up. What part of that don’t you understand?”

  “Well, you should have said so instead of just layin’ there thrashin’ around.”

  Connie and Lula grabbed my arms and hauled me to my feet.

  “This might not be a good idea,” I told them. “This suit is unwieldy.”

  “You just gotta get used to it,” Lula said. “I bet Al Roker will be here any minute. Anybody seen Al Roker?”

  Some people stopped to look at me.

  “What is it?” a man asked.

  “It’s a dancing hot dog,” Lula said.

  “It’s not dancing,” the man said.

  There was a kid with the man. “I want to see the hot dog dance,” the kid said.

  I did a couple moves and fell over. “Shit!”

  The kid looked up at the man. “The hot dog said shit.”

  Everyone hurried away.

  “Dancing hot dogs don’t say shit,” Lula said to me, pulling me upright.

  “What do they friggin’ say?”

  “They say oops.”

  “I’ll try to remember.”

  “And that’s a cranky tone I’m hearing,” Lula said. “Hot dogs are happy food. If you was a brussels sprout, you could be cranky. Or maybe a lima bean.”

  “I don’t feel happy. I’m sweating like a pig in this thing.”

  “Hey,” Lula said. “You were the one who wanted to be the hot dog. Nobody made you be the hot dog. And you better learn how to dance before Al gets here, or you’re going to miss your chance at having a national television debut.”

  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.”

  NINETEEN

  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 muc
h 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.”

  “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.”