Twisted Twenty-Six (Stephanie Plum 26)

by Janet Evanovich

  Copyright © 2019 Evanovich, Inc.

  The right of Janet Evanovich to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published in Great Britain in 2019 by

  HEADLINE REVIEW

  An imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  First published in Great Britain as an Ebook in 2019 by HEADLINE REVIEW

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  eISBN: 978 1 4722 4616 5

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  Praise for Janet Evanovich

  Alos by Janet Evanovich

  About the Book

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  About the Author

  Janet Evanovich is the No. 1 New York Times bestselling author of the Stephanie Plum series, the Knight and Moon series, the Fox and O’Hare series co-written with Lee Goldberg, the Lizzy and Diesel series, twelve romance novels, the Alexandra Barnaby novels and Troublemaker graphic novels, and How I Write: Secrets of a Bestselling Author.

  evanovich.com

  Facebook.com/JanetEvanovich

  @JanetEvanovich

  Praise for Janet Evanovich’s books:

  ‘A laugh-out-loud page-turner’ Heat

  ‘Utterly delightful’ Cosmopolitan

  ‘Pithy, witty and fast-paced’ Sunday Times

  ‘Romantic and gripping . . . an absolute tonic’ Good Housekeeping

  ‘Among the great joys of contemporary crime fiction’ GQ

  ‘Slapstick, steam and suspense’ People

  ‘Evanovich’s characters are eccentric and exaggerated, the violence often surreal and the plot dizzily speedy: but she produces as many laughs as anyone writing crime today’ The Times

  ‘Fast, funny and furious . . . keeps the reader breathless’ Publishers Weekly

  By Janet Evanovich

  The Stephanie Plum novels

  One For The Money

  Two For The Dough

  Three To Get Deadly

  Four To Score

  High Five

  Hot Six

  Seven Up

  Hard Eight

  To The Nines

  Ten Big Ones

  Eleven On Top

  Twelve Sharp

  Lean Mean Thirteen

  Fearless Fourteen

  Finger Lickin’ Fifteen

  Sizzling Sixteen

  Smokin’ Seventeen

  Explosive Eighteen

  Notorious Nineteen

  Takedown Twenty

  Top Secret Twenty-One

  Tricky Twenty-Two

  Turbo Twenty-Three

  Hardcore Twenty-Four

  Look Alive Twenty-Five

  Twisted Twenty-Six

  The Knight and Moon novels

  Curious Minds (with Phoef Sutton)

  Dangerous Minds

  The Fox and O’Hare novels

  with Lee Goldberg

  The Heist

  The Chase

  The Job

  The Scam

  The Pursuit

  The Big Kahuna

  The Diesel & Tucker series

  Wicked Appetite

  Wicked Business

  Wicked Charms (with Phoef Sutton)

  The Between the Numbers Novels

  Visions Of Sugar Plums

  Plum Lovin’

  Plum Lucky

  Plum Spooky

  And writing with Charlotte Hughes

  Full House

  Full Tilt

  Full Speed

  Full Blast

  About the Book

  This isn’t just another case. This is family.

  Grandma Mazur, Stephanie Plum’s favourite family member and occasional partner in crime, has decided to get married again - this time to local gangster Jimmy Rosolli. If Stephanie has her doubts about this marriage, she doesn’t have to worry for long. Forty-five minutes after saying “I do,” the groom drops dead.

  A sad day turns into something dangerous when Jimmy’s "business partners" become convinced that his widow is keeping to herself the keys to a financial windfall. The one thing these wise guys aren’t counting on is the widow’s bounty hunter granddaughter, who’ll do anything to save her.

  Stephanie Plum has made a career of tracking down bad guys, but this time some of the worst people are coming after the most important person in her life - and she’s the only thing standing in their way.

  CHAPTER ONE

  SOME MEN ENTER a woman’s life and screw it up forever. Jimmy Rosolli did this to my Grandma Mazur. Not forever, but for an afternoon last week when he married her in the casino at Atlantis and dropped dead forty-five minutes later.

  So far as I know, the trip to the Bahamas was a last-minute decision, and the marriage was even more unplanned. I guess they were just a couple of wild-and-crazy seniors having a moment.

  My name is Stephanie Plum. I’m five seven with shoulder-length brown hair that curls whether I want it to or not. I’ve inherited a good metabolism from my mother’s Hungarian side of the family, so I can eat cheeseburgers and Häagen-Dazs and still button my jeans. The hair and a bunch of rude hand gestures I get from my father’s Italian ancestry.

  I work for my cousin Vinnie as a bail bonds enforcement agent. It’s a crappy job, but it’s not as bad as my present job of escorting Grandma to Jimmy’s viewing at Stiva’s funeral home.

  “What do you think of my outfit?” Grandma asked. “I got a black dress for the funeral, but it’s not my best color, so I thought I’d lighten things up for the viewing. It’s going to be a doozy. All the bigwigs from the mob and the K of C will be there.”

  Grandma was wearing a simple pale green dress that made her complexion look like she’d been embalmed right along with Jimmy. Grandma was in her mid-seventies and didn’t look a day over ninety. She had the posture and energy of a twenty-year-old marine, but gravity had taken its toll. She carried slack skin over lean muscle and spindle bone and was in many respects the human version of a soup chicken. The day before her ill-fated
trip with Jimmy Rosolli she’d decided to shake things up at the hair salon and had gone with a short punk cut and flame red hair. If you knew Grandma you wouldn’t be surprised at this, and in fact, I thought it suited her.

  “I saw the Queen of England wearing a dress just like this,” Grandma said. “She had a hat on that matched the dress, but I couldn’t find one of those.”

  Grandma came to live with my parents when Grandpa Mazur ate his last pork chop, sucked in the last drag on his Marlboro, and went to heaven to keep his eye on Jesus. It’s been a bunch of years now. So far, my father hasn’t killed Grandma—only because we took his guns away and we never leave sharp knives lying out in the open.

  My parents live in Trenton, New Jersey, in a small two-story house in a pleasant lower middle-class neighborhood called the Burg. My mom has always been a homemaker. My dad is retired from the post office.

  “It’s too bad your mother is in bed with a bad back,” Grandma said to me. “It’s not every day that her stepfather is laid to rest.”

  “He was only her stepfather for forty-five minutes,”I said.

  “Still, this is an important occasion for me. I get to stand at the head of the casket and be the grieving widow. There’s lots of women out there who would kill to be Jimmy’s widow.”

  I had doubts about the source of my mother’s back pain. She self-diagnosed on Google and was self-medicating with bourbon. I was pretty sure the pain had more to do with my grandmother being my mother’s worst nightmare than with my mother having a potentially herniated disk.

  “We better get a move on,” Grandma said. “I don’t want to be late. They said I could get a private viewing before they let all the other people in. You’re lucky to come along with me on account of you get to go to the private viewing, too.”

  I was escorting Grandma because my mother had threatened to never again make another pineapple upside-down cake if I didn’t stick to Grandma like glue. Then she sweetened the deal with the promise of lifetime unlimited laundry service, which included folding and ironing.

  Stiva’s funeral home is no longer owned by Stiva. It’s changed hands several times and has been given a bunch of different names, but everyone still calls it Stiva’s. It’s a large white colonial-type house with black shutters, a wide front porch, a utilitarian brick addition in the rear, and garages behind the addition. I parked in the small lot designated VIP PARKING and followed Grandma to the side door.

  Grandma knows every inch of Stiva’s by heart. Ladies of a certain age use Stiva’s as a social center. Grandma and her girlfriends are there four nights out of seven, whether they know the deceased or not. Two of the remaining nights are reserved for bingo at the firehouse. I suppose it could be worse. I mean, it’s not like they’re frequenting strip clubs or crack houses.

  Mervin Klack, the current owner and funeral director of Stiva’s, met us at the door.

  “Mrs. Rosolli,” he said, “my sincere condolences.”

  Grandma turned to look behind her before remembering that she was Mrs. Rosolli.

  “Thank you,” Grandma said. “Where’s he at? You got him in Slumber Room Number One, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” Klack said. “Nothing but the best for Mr. Rosolli.”

  “And he’s in the mahogany casket with the satin lining?”

  “Yes,” Klack said. “I think you’ll be pleased when you see him. He’s wearing the tie you picked out, and he looks very dapper.”

  Grandma hurried down the corridor, past the refreshment kitchen, to the foyer with the center hall table and massive floral display. The double doors that led to the front porch were closed, but I could hear noise from the crowd that had gathered on the other side.

  Slumber Room Number One was the largest of the viewing rooms. It was reserved for lodge members and the occasional decapitation that was sure to draw a crowd. Grandma marched down the center aisle, past the rows of empty folding chairs, and went straight to the casket at the far end of the room. She looked at Jimmy and nodded her approval.

  “Yep, he looks good, all right,” she said. “He’s got good color to his cheeks.” She looked around, checking out the flowers. “We got a good amount of flowers, too. Jimmy was real popular.”

  Good amount couldn’t begin to describe the flowers. They were overwhelming. They were crammed in everywhere. My nose was clogged with the scent of carnations, and my eyes were burning.

  “Okay,” Grandma said to Klack. “I’m satisfied. Open the doors and let’s get started.”

  I heard the front doors bang open and the mourners surge forward. Three old ladies dressed in black were the first to charge down the center aisle. I recognized all three. They were Jimmy’s sisters. Angie, Tootie, and Rose. Tootie was using a walker hooked up to a travel pack of oxygen, but she was keeping up with the other two. Jimmy’s daughter was close behind. And Jimmy’s two ex-wives were behind her.

  Angie stopped at the casket and looked down at her brother. Her lips were pressed tight together. Her eyes were narrowed. “Stupid man,” she said. She glared at Grandma. “Slut.”

  “I’m no slut,” Grandma said. “I’m a married widow woman.”

  “You took advantage of my brother’s weakness,” Angie said. “He could never stay away from the women. And he always went after the young chickies.”

  Grandma perked up at being lumped in with the young chickies.

  “He had no business getting married at his age,” Rose said to Grandma. “And look at you, all dressed up like you’re going to a party. Where’s your respect? A decent widow woman would be in black.”

  “A lot you know,” Grandma said. “The Queen of England has a dress just like this.”

  “I bet it cost you a pretty penny,” Rose said. “No doubt bought with my brother’s money.”

  “I bought it with my own money,” Grandma said. “I haven’t got your brother’s money yet. I’m waiting for the lawyers to give it all to me.”

  The six women dressed in black sucked in air.

  Angie leaned in and got a grip on the casket. “You’ll never get his money. You don’t deserve his money. I’ll see you dead and buried before you get his money. That money goes to the family, not to some gold-digging whore.”

  Grandma went squinty-eyed on Angie. “Get your hands off my honey’s casket, you frump crone.”

  “I’ll put my hands where I want them,” Angie said. “I’ll put them around your scrawny turkey neck and squeeze the life out of you.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Grandma said, and the lid to the casket slammed down on Angie’s fingers.

  Mervin Klack jumped in and wrenched the lid up. “Ladies!”

  Angie wobbled away from the casket. “She broke my fingers! They’re all broke.”

  “It was an accident,” Grandma said. “The lid just let go. It was an act of God.”

  “You did it on purpose!” Angie said.

  “You can’t prove that,” Grandma said. “And anyway, you’re going to have to move along. You’re holding up the line.”

  Klack half-dragged Angie away, promising medical aid and cookies, and the rest of the women followed.

  Harry Dugan moved forward.

  “Howdy,” Grandma said to Harry. “Nice of you to show up here for Jimmy.”

  “My condolences,” Harry said, standing at a safe distance, careful not to put his hands on the casket.

  Klack had everyone cleared out and the front doors locked by nine o’clock. I exited the side door first and looked around to make sure no one was waiting to ambush Grandma. When I gave the all-clear signal, she scurried to the car with me. We jumped in and locked the doors.

  “That was a beauty of a viewing,” Grandma said. “Capacity crowd. The funeral is going to be something.”

  The funeral was going to be a freaking disaster.

  “It’s Wednesday,” I said. “Why are you waiting until Saturday for the funeral?”

  “I couldn’t get all the arrangements made any sooner. And Betty Ha
uck is getting buried tomorrow. Not that she’s any competition, but Klack had the big flower car already promised to Betty. And mostly it was that I had to find a place for the wake. Your mother didn’t want it at the house, and it wouldn’t have been big enough anyway. Lucky, I remembered Jimmy owned the Mole Hole. They said it would be an honor to hold his wake there Saturday morning.”

  The Mole Hole was a strip club that was famous for its massive Angus beef burgers and its cheap drinks. The drinks were cheap because they were all watered down, and half the time the booze was bootleg. Jimmy and his geriatric cronies met in the back room to play cards, plan the occasional whacking, and take naps in their La-Z-Boy recliners.

  “You don’t seem very upset about Jimmy,” I said to Grandma.

  “You get to be my age and you have relations with an old codger, you got to expect these things are going to happen. It’s not like he’s the first man who kicked the bucket on me. I have to admit it was a shock when it happened, and the first couple hours were rough. I went through a lot of Kleenex. But then I got to thinking it was a pretty good way to go. He hit the jackpot on one of the poker machines. One minute he was real happy and the next minute . . . dead. Death don’t get much better than that.”

  There was a stretch of silence in the car while we took it all in.

  “I want to go at bingo,” Grandma finally said.

  I put the car in gear and drove Grandma home. I idled at the curb until she was safe inside, and then I returned to Hamilton Avenue and drove to my apartment building.

  I live in a clunky, three-story, no-frills apartment building about fifteen minutes from my parents’ house. My one-bedroom apartment is on the second floor and faces the parking lot at the back of the building. I have a hamster named Rex as a roommate, and a boyfriend named Joe Morelli who does an occasional sleepover. Most of my furniture was handed off to me by my relatives, and since they wouldn’t give their furniture away if it was any good, my decorating style and color palette is shabby blah.

  I parked in the lot and looked up at my windows. Lights were on. This meant one of the two men in my life was upstairs, waiting for me. Morelli had a key, and the other guy, Ranger, didn’t need a key. Nothing stopped Ranger, least of all a door lock.