I pulled up next to the Firebird, Lula got out, unlocked her car, and slid behind the wheel. I waited for the engine to catch, and then I put the Cayenne in gear and drove out of the lot. I realized Lula was still sitting there, so I returned to the lot, parked next to her, and got out.

“Something wrong?”

“It’s making a funny sound. You hear it?”

“Are any of the warning lights on?”

“No. I’m gonna take a look under the hood.”

“Do you know anything about cars?”

“Sure I know about cars. I know there’s an engine up there. And lots of other shit, too.”

Lula popped the hood, and we took a look.

“What are we supposed to be looking for?” I asked her.

“I don’t know. Something unusual. Like I once had a neighbor who found a cat in his car. At least, he thought it used to be a cat. It was something with fur. It might have been a raccoon or a big rat or a small beaver. It was hard to tell.”

“What’s that package wrapped in cellophane with the wires?” I asked her.

“I don’t know,” Lula said, leaning closer. “I think that might be the problem, though, on account of it’s ticking.”

“Ticking?”

“Oh shit!” Lula said.

We jumped back and ran for all we were worth and hid behind the Dumpster. Nothing happened.

Lula stuck her head out. “Maybe that was the carburetor, and it was supposed to tick,” she said. “Do carburetors tick?”

BABOOOM! Lula’s car jumped five feet in the air. The doors and hood flew off into space, and the car burst into flames. There was a second explosion, the Firebird rolled over onto Ranger’s Cayenne, and the Cayenne caught. In a matter of minutes, there was nothing left of either car but smoking, twisted, charred metal.

Lula’s mouth opened, but no words came out. Her eyes got huge, rolled back into her head, and she keeled over in a dead faint. By the time the fire trucks arrived, the fire had played itself out. Lula was sitting propped against the Dumpster, still not making sense.

“It… and… my… how?” she asked.

I was numb. These idiots were still trying to kill Lula, and I’d just destroyed another Cayenne. I’d been involved in so many fires in the past week, I’d lost count. I had no place to live. I had no idea what I wanted to do about my personal relationships. And I still couldn’t get all the red paint out of my hair. I was a disaster magnet.

I suddenly felt warm, and all the little hairs stood up on my arms. I turned and bumped into Ranger.

“This has to be a record,” he said. “I’ve had that car for twenty-four hours.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. And I burst into tears.

Ranger wrapped his arms around me and cuddled me into him. “Babe. It’s just a car.”

“It’s not just the car. It’s me,” I wailed. “I’m a mess.”

“You’re not a mess,” Ranger said. “You’re just having one of those emotional girl moments.”

“Unh,” I said. And I punched him in the chest. “Feel better?”

“Yeah, sort of.”

He stepped back and looked at Lula. “What’s wrong with her?”

“She’s in a state. Her Firebird got blown up.”

“She spends all this time with you, and she’s not used to cars getting blown up?”

“They aren’t usually hers.”

“Does she need help?”

“I think she’ll come around,” I said. “She’s breathing now. And her eyes have mostly gone back into their sockets.”

I looked past Ranger and saw Morelli come on the scene. He picked me out of the crowd of bystanders and jogged over.

“Are you okay?” he asked me. “What’s with Lula?”

“One of those cars used to be her Firebird.”

“And the other used to be my Cayenne,” Ranger said.

Morelli looked down at Lula. “Does she need a medic?”

“Someone’s gonna pay,” Lula said. And she farted.

Morelli and Ranger smiled wide, and we all took a step back.

“That should help,” I said.

“Yep,” Morelli said, still grinning. “Always makes me feel better.”

“I have to get back to the office,” Ranger said. “Ramon is in a car on the street if you need anything.”

Morelli watched him walk away. “It’s like he’s Spider-Man with Spidey sense. Something happens, and he suddenly appears. And then when the disaster is contained, he vanishes.”

“His control room listens to the scanners.”

“That was my second guess,” Morelli said.

“It was some sort of bomb,” I said to Morelli. “It was next to the engine, and it ticked. We were lucky we weren’t killed.”

“It ticked? Bombs don’t tick anymore. Where did they get their material, WWI surplus?”

“Maybe it was something rubbing against a moving part. I don’t know anything about this stuff. It was making a noise that sounded like ticking. Anyway, these guys aren’t smart.”

“I noticed. It makes it all the more annoying that we can’t catch them.”

“How’s Bob?” I asked.

“Bob is fine. His intestines are squeaky clean.”

“How are you?”

“I’m clean, too.”

And then I couldn’t help myself. The bitch part of me sneaked out. “How’s Joyce?”

“Joyce is Joyce,” Morelli said.

Lula hauled herself to her feet. “I’m in a bad mood,” she said. “I’m in a mood to get me some Marco the Maniac. I’ve had it with this shit. It’s one thing to kill me, but blowin’ up my Firebird is goin’ too far.” She looked at her watch. “We gotta get to the park. We gotta sign in.”

“We haven’t got a car. The Buick is parked at Rangeman.”

“I’ll call Connie. She can take us.”

CONNIE DROVE A silver Camry with rosary beads hanging from her rear view mirror and a Smith amp; Wesson stuck under the driver’s seat. No matter what went down, Connie was covered.

I was in the backseat with Grandma, and Lula was next to Connie. We were in the parking lot adjacent to the field where the cook-off was to be held, and we were watching competitors pull in, dragging everything from mobile professional kitchens to U-hauls carrying grills and worktables.

“I didn’t expect this,” Grandma said. “I figured we come with a jar of sauce, and they’d have some chicken for us.”

“We got a grill,” Lula said, getting out of the Camry. “We just didn’t bring it yet.”

“Did you get a set of rules when you registered?” Connie asked Lula.

“No. I did the express register, bein’ that the organizer was under some duress. And on top of that, I didn’t have to pay no registration fee, so he might have been trying to save on paper.”

A registration table had been set up at the edge of the lot. Competitors were signing in, taking a set of instructions, and leaving with a tray.

“What’s with the tray?” Lula asked the guy in line in front of us.

“It’s the official competition tray. You put the food that’s going to be judged on the tray.”

“Imagine that,” Grandma said. “Isn’t that something?”

We got our tray and our rules, and we stepped aside to read through the instructions.

“It says here that we can’t use a gas grill,” Connie said. “We need to cook on wood or charcoal. And we have to pick a category. Ribs, chicken, or brisket.”

“I’m thinking ribs,” Lula said. “Seems to me it’s harder to poison someone with ribs. I guess there’s always that trichinosis thing, but you don’t know about that for years. And I’m gonna have to get a different grill.”

“All these people got tents and tables and signs with their name on it,” Grandma said. “We need some of that stuff. We need a name.”

“How about Vincent Plum Bail Bondettes,” Connie said.

“I’m not being nothin’ associating me with Vincent Plum,” Lula said. “Bad enough I gotta work for the little pervert.”

“I want a sexy name,” Grandma said. “Like Hot Vagina.”

“Flamin’ Assholes would be better,” Lula said. “That’s what happens when you eat our sauce. Can you say Flamin’ Assholes on television?”

“This is big,” I said, looking out over the field. “There are; ags with numbers on them all over the place. Every team is assigned a number.”