Explosive Eighteen - Janet Evanovich [10]
“No. The bond agreement lists her address as Stiller Street in Hamilton Township.”
So far as I know, Joyce is currently single. Although that might be yesterday’s news. It’s hard to keep up with Joyce. She’s a serial divorcée, working her way up the matrimonial ladder, kicking used-up husbands to the curb while negotiating lucrative settlements. She left her last marriage with a net gain of an E-class Mercedes and half of a $1.5 million house. Rumor has it he got the guinea pig.
Might as well have a look at Joyce’s house, I thought. Make a fast run out to Hamilton Township, and by the time I got back, hopefully, my car would be parked behind the bonds bus.
Twenty minutes later, we were rolling down Stiller.
“This clump of houses is brand new,” Lula said. “I didn’t even know this was here. This was a cornfield last week.”
The clump of attached town houses was called Mercado Mews, and it looked not only brand new but expensive. Joyce lived in an end unit with a two-car garage. Everything looked fresh and spiffy. No activity anywhere. No cars parked on the street. No traffic. No one tending the azalea bushes. No one walking a dog or pushing a stroller.
“Looks to me like lots of these houses aren’t sold yet,” Lula said. “They look empty. ’Course, Joyce’s house looks empty, too.”
According to the file notes, Connie had been calling every day, twice a day, since Joyce went missing. She’d called the cell number and the home phone, and no one ever picked up.
Lula pulled to the curb and we went to the door and rang the bell. No answer. She waded into the flowerbed and looked into the front window.
“There’s furniture in here, but no Joyce that I can see,” Lula said. “Everything looks nice and neat. No dead bodies on the floor.”
“Let’s snoop around back.”
We skirted the house and discovered the backyard was sealed off with a seven-foot-high wooden privacy fence. I tried the fence door. Locked.
“You’re gonna have to kick it in,” Lula said. “I’d do it, but I’m wearin’ my Via Spigas.”
We’ve done this drill many, many times. Lula was always wearing the wrong shoes, and I was inept.
“Go ahead,” Lula said. “Kick it.”
I gave a halfhearted kick.
“That’s a sissy kick,” Lula said. “Put something behind it.”
I kicked it harder.
“Hunh,” Lula said. “You don’t know much about kickin’ in doors.”
No kidding. We went through this routine at least once a week, and it was getting old. Maybe I didn’t need kickboxing lessons. Maybe I needed a new job.
“One of us is gonna have to alley-oop over the fence,” Lula said.
I looked up at the fence. Seven feet. Neither of us was exactly Spider-Man.
“Who’s going to alley, and who’s going to oop?” I asked her.
“I’d do the lifting, but I just got a manicure. And I notice you don’t have a manicure at all. Only thing noticeable about your hands is the missing tan on your ring finger that I don’t care about.”
“Okay, great. I’ll do the lifting, but you’re going to have to ditch the Via Spigas. I don’t want to get gored by a stiletto.”
Lula took her shoes off and threw them over the top of the fence into Joyce’s yard. “Okay, I’m ready. Give me a boost.”
I tried boosting, but I couldn’t get her off the ground.
“You’re going to have to climb onto my shoulders,” I said.
Lula put her right foot on my thigh, hoisted herself up, and wrangled her left leg over my shoulder. Her spandex skirt was up to her waist, and her tiger-striped thong was lost in the deep, dark recesses of her voluptuousness.
“Uh-oh,” she said.
“What uh-oh? I don’t like to hear uh-oh.”
“I’m stuck. You gotta get a hand under my ass and shove.”
“Not gonna happen.”
She wrapped her arms around my head to keep from slipping, and we went over backward. WUMP.
“Are you okay?” I asked her.
“Hard to tell with you laying on me. I might need a moment.”
We both got up and reassessed the situation.
“My Via Spigas are on the wrong side of the fence,” Lula said, tugging at her skirt. “No way am I losing them Via Spigas.” She hauled her Glock out of her purse