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A Stephanie Plum Mystery
by Janet Evanovich
Nowicki's mother lived on Howser Street. She'd posted the bond and had put her house up
as collateral. At first glance this seemed like a safe investment for my cousin Vinnie.
Truth was, getting a person kicked out of his or her house was a chore and did nothing to
endear a bail bondsman to the community.
I got out my street map and found Howser. It was in north Trenton, so I retraced my
route and discovered Mrs. Nowicki lived two blocks from Eddie Kuntz. Same neighborhood of
well-kept houses. Except for the Nowicki house. The Nowicki house was single family, and
it was a wreck. Peeling paint, crumbling roof shingles, saggy front porch, front yard more
dirt than grass.
I picked my way over rotting porch steps and knocked on the door. The woman who
answered was faded glory in a bathrobe. It was getting to be mid-afternoon, but Mrs.
Nowicki looked like she'd just rolled out of bed. She was a sixty year old woman wearing
the ravages of booze and disenchantment with life. Her doughy face showed traces of
make-up not removed before calling it a night. Her voice had the rasp of two packs a day,
and her breath was hundred proof.
"Mrs. Nowicki?"
"Yeah," she said.
"I'm looking for Maxine."
"You a friend of Maxy's?"
I gave her my card. "I'm with the Plum Agency. Maxine missed her court date. I'm
trying to find her, so we can get her rescheduled."
Mrs. Nowicki raised a crayoned brown eyebrow. "I wasn't born yesterday, honey.
You're a bounty hunter, and you're out to get my little girl."
"Do you know where she is?"
"Wouldn't tell you if I did. She'll get found when she wants to."
"You put your house up as security against the bond. If Maxine doesn't come
forward you could loose your house."
"Oh yeah, that'd be a tragedy," she said, rummaging in the pocket of her
chenille robe, coming up with a pack of Kools. "Architectural Digest keeps wanting to
do a spread, but I can't find the time." She stuck a cigarette in her mouth and lit
up. She sucked hard and squinted at me through the smoke haze. "I owe five years back
taxes. You want this house you're gonna hafta take a number and get in line."
Sometimes bail jumpers are simply at home, trying to pretend their life isn't in the
toilet, hoping the whole mess will go away if they ignore the order to appear in court.
I'd originally thought Maxine would be one of these people. She wasn't a career criminal,
and the charges weren't serious. She really had no reason to skip out.
Now I wasn't so sure. I was getting an uncomfortable feeling about Maxine. Her
apartment had been trashed, and her mother had me thinking maybe Maxine didn't want to be
found right now. I slunk back to my car and decided my deductive reasoning would be vastly
improved if I ate a donut. So I cut across town to Hamilton and parked in front of Tasty
Pastry Bakery.
I'd worked part-time at Tasty Pastry when I was in high school. It hadn't changed much
since then. Same green and white linoleum floor. Same sparkling clean display cases filled
with Italian cookies, chocolate chip cannolli, biscotti, napoleons, fresh bread and coffee
cakes. Same happy smell of fried sweet dough and cinnamon.
Lennie Smulenski and Anthony Zuck bake the goodies in the back room in big steel ovens
and troughs of hot oil. Clouds of flour and sugar sift onto table surfaces and slip under
foot. And lard is transferred daily from commercial sized vats directly to local butts.
Copyright © 1998 by Evanovich, Inc. Reprinted with the permission of St. Martin's Press, Inc.
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