“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.”

Connie, Lula, and Grandma set off power-walking across the field. I tried to follow, but I walked into a trash can and fell over.

“Oops,” I said.

Morelli looked down at me. “Are you okay?”

“I can’t see in this stupid suit.”

Morelli picked me up. “Would you like me to get you out of this thing?”

“Yes!”

He worked at the zipper in the back and finally peeled me out of the hot dog suit. “You’re soaking wet,” he said.

“It was hot in the suit.”

Morelli wrapped an arm around me and shuffled me off to a booth selling cook-off gear. He bought me a T-shirt, a hat, and a sweatshirt, stuffed the hot dog suit into a bag, and sent me to the ladies’ room to change.

“This feels much better,” I said to him when I came out. “Thanks.”

“You look better, too.”

“Out of Rangeman black?”

“Yeah.” Morelli wrapped his arms around me. “I miss you. Bob misses you. My grandmother misses you.”

“Your grandmother hates me.”

“True. She misses hating you.” Morelli straightened the hat on my head. “Maybe I could learn to like peanut butter.”

“You don’t have to like peanut butter. Just stop yelling at me.”

“That’s the way my family communicates.”

“Find another way to communicate. And why are we arguing all the time? We argue over everything.”

“I think it’s because we aren’t having enough sex.”

“And that’s another thing. Why are you so obsessed with sex?”

“Because I don’t get any?”

I tried not to laugh, but I couldn’t help myself. “I guess that could do it.”

I saw flames shoot into the sky and then black smoke.

“It looks like Lula fired up the grill,” I said to Morelli. “I should get back to them.”

We made our way through the crowd, back to the Flamin’ kitchen. The guy from the kitchen next to us was standing with the fire extinguisher in his hand, shaking his head.

“Unbelievable,” he said. “You moved the canopy back, and then you set your ribs on fire and torched your hat.”

Lula still had the hat on her head, but the top was all black and smoking, and foam dripped off the hat onto Lula’s white chef coat.

“Looks to me like the ribs are done,” Grandma said, peering over the grill at the charred bones. “You think they need more sauce?”

“I think they need a decent burial,” Connie said.

The rusted bottom of the grill gave way, and everything fell out onto the ground.

“Don’t that beat all,” Grandma said.

Morelli’s cell phone buzzed. He walked away to talk, and when he returned he was smiling.

“They caught Marco,” he said. “He was trying to get to the airport in Philly. He’s being brought back to Trenton.”

“Do we get the reward?” Lula wanted to know. “We gave information that got him captured.”

“I don’t know,” Morelli said. “That’s up to the company offering the reward.”

“The barbecue sauce company,” Lula said. “The one with the picture of Chipotle on the jar. Fire in the Hole sauce.”

“Yep.”

“What about the other moron?” Lula said. “What about the guy who was always shooting at me?”

“Marco fingered him the minute he was caught. Zito Dudley. Marco said as far as he knew, Dudley was still on the cook-off grounds.”

“We gotta find Dudley before anyone else,” Lula said. “Or we might have to split the reward, bein’ that there were two killers and only one million dollars. We should spread out, and if you see him, shoot him.”

“I wouldn’t mind shooting him, but I don’t know what he looks like,” Grandma said.

“He looks sort of like the Maniac,” Lula said. “Only shorter.”

“Dudley sounds familiar,” Connie said. “I just saw that name somewhere. Zito Dudley. Zito Dudley.”

The fire-extinguisher guy was basting the ribs on his grill. He looked over when Connie said Zito Dudley.

“Zito Dudley is presenting the check to the winner of the cook-off,” he said. “He’s associated with Chipotle’s barbecue sauce.”

Lula’s eyes went wide. “Get out. That wiener is part of Chipotle’s company?”

“It’s not actually Chipotle’s company,” the guy said. “Chipotle got money for putting his name on the jar. The company is owned by someone else.” He reached behind him to his prep table, grabbed the cook-off program, and handed it to Lula. “His picture is in here. It’s on the last page. He’s standing with the cook-off committee.”

We all looked at the picture of Dudley.

“That’s him, all right,” Lula said. “Nasty little bastard.”

Morelli was on his phone talking to his partner, feeding him the information, asking for more men.

Something was causing a disturbance on the opposite side of the field. We all craned our necks and stood tall to see what the noise and movement was about. People were parting in front of us, and suddenly a man burst out of the crowd. He was running for all he was worth, and Joyce was chasing him in her high-heeled boots.