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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.”
