Read Online Finger Lickin' Fifteen by Janet Evanovich - Free Book Online Page B

barbecue sauce connection?”
    “I’ve considered a lot of connections. Chipotle had so much bad juju going it’s a wonder he wasn’t killed sooner. He has three ex-wives who hated him. Everyone on his television show hated him. His sister hated him. He was suing his manager. And the tenants in his New York co-op signed a petition to get him evicted.”
    “Who would have thought? He was all smiley on the jar of barbecue sauce.”
    “It’s not that easy to slice off someone’s head,” Morelli said.
    “The way Lula tells it, there wasn’t any struggle.”
    “Yeah. That bothers me. Would you stand there and let someone decapitate you? And what about the guy who did it? Why would he choose decapitation? There are so many easier, cleaner ways to kill someone. And this was done in broad daylight in front of the Sunshine Hotel. It was almost like it wasn’t planned.”
    “A spontaneous decapitation?”
    Morelli grinned. “Yeah.”
    “And he just happened to be carrying a meat cleaver around with him?”
    “Maybe he was a butcher.”
    “So all we have to do is look for an impulsive butcher.”
    Morelli signaled for another beer. “I’m having fun.”
    “Me, too.”
    “Do you want to go home and go to bed?”
    “Jeez,” I said. “Is that all you ever think about?”
    “No, but I think about it a lot. Especially when I’m with you.”
    “I thought we were supposed to be mad at each other.”
    Morelli shrugged. “I don’t feel mad anymore. I can’t even remember what we were fighting about.”
    “Peanut butter.”
    “It was about more than peanut butter.”
    “So you do remember?”
    “You called me an insensitive clod,” Morelli said.
    “And?”
    “I’m not a clod.”
    “But you admit to being insensitive?”
    “I’m a guy. I’m supposed to be insensitive. It’s my birthright.”
    I was pretty sure he was kidding. But then, maybe not. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll take half of it back. You’re not a clod.”
    The waitress brought our food and Morelli took out his credit card. “We’ll take the check now, and we’d like a to-go box.”
    “Since when?” I said.
    “I thought we decided to go home.”
    “I can’t go home. I have to go back to work.”
    “Doing what?”
    “Doing what I do. I’m working at Rangeman.”
    “At night?”
    “It’s complicated,” I said.
    “I bet.”
    I felt my eyebrows squinch together. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “It means I don’t trust him. He’s a total loose cannon. And he looks at you like you’re lunch.”
    “It’s a job. I need the money.”
    “You could move in with me,” Morelli said. “You wouldn’t have to pay rent.”
    “Living with you doesn’t work. Last time we tried to cohabitate, you threw my peanut butter away.”
    “It was disgusting. It had grape jelly and potato chips in it. And something green.”
    “Olives. It was just a little cross-contamination. Sometimes I’m in a hurry and stuff gets mixed into the peanut butter. Anyway, when did you get so fussy?”
    “I’m not fussy,” Morelli said. “I just try to avoid food poisoning.”
    “I have never poisoned you with my food.”
    “Only because you don’t cook.”
    I blew out a sigh because he was right, and this was going to lead to another contentious topic. Cooking. I’m not sure why I don’t cook. In my mind, I cooked a lot. I made whole mental turkey dinners, baked pies, roasted tenderloins, and whipped up rice pudding. I even owned a mental waffle maker. So to some extent, I understood Lula’s delusional belief that she could barbecue. The difference between Lula and me being that I knew fact from fiction. I knew I was no kind of cook.
    The waitress came back with a couple plastic take-out boxes and the check.
    “Well?” Morelli asked me.
    “Well what?”
    “Are we eating here or are we taking these subs back to my house?”
    “I’d rather eat here. I have to go back to work tonight, and this is closer to Rangeman.”
    “So you’re