Whose Number Is Up, Anyway?

Whose Number Is Up, Anyway?
Stevi Mittman

Literally, he's had it for every hour of the day for as long as Teddi's known him.So it's no coincidence that minutes after Teddi stumbles accidentally on a corpse in the deep freeze at King Kullen, Detective Dreamboat is back on the scene. Her supermarket snob (among other things) of a mother will never let her hear the end of it. Nor will Drew, who has told Teddi time and again she's got to stop messing with murder scenes.Until Teddi goes from material witness to potential next victim… But the woman whose smarmy ex dubbed her "Long Island's Most Dangerous Decorator" isn't going down without a fight. Or going down alone. Not when she's got an oh-so-irritating, way-too-irresistible cop watching her every move…

Whose Number Is Up, Anyway?

I usually dedicate my books to the wonderful friends

who read my drafts, laugh in all the right places and

applaud when I ask them to, but lately I’ve had so many

wonderful e-mails from readers telling me how much they

are enjoying this series that I think this book should be

dedicated to them. It’s those e-mails that keep my bottom

glued to the chair and send my fingers flying over the

keyboard even when the sun is shining and there are sales

at the mall. Thanks for the praise, the encouragement,

the loyalty, and for taking the time to write and tell me

I’m doing something right!

CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 1

Before redecorating a room, I always advise my clients to empty it of everything but one chair. Then I suggest they move that chair from place to place, sitting in it, until the placement feels right. Trust your instincts when deciding on furniture placement. Your room should “feel right.”

—TipsFromTeddi.com

Gut feelings. You know, that gnawing in the pit of your stomach that warns you that you are about to do the absolute stupidest thing you could do. Something that will ruin life as you know it.

I’ve got one now, standing at the butcher counter in King Kullen, the grocery store in the same strip mall as L.I. Lanes, the bowling alley cum billiard parlor I’m in the process of redecorating for its “Grand Opening.”

I realize being in the wrong supermarket probably doesn’t sound exactly dire to you, but you aren’t the one buying your father a brisket at a store your mother will somehow know isn’t Waldbaum’s.

But then, June Bayer isn’t your mother.

The woman behind the counter has agreed to go into the freezer to find a brisket for me since there aren’t any in the case. There are packages of pork tenderloins, piles of spareribs and rolls of sausage, but no briskets.

Warning number two, right? I should so be out of here.

But no, I’m still in the same spot when she comes back out, brisketless, her face ashen. She opens her mouth like she is going to scream, but only a gurgle comes out.

And then she pinballs out from behind the counter, knocking bottles of Peter Luger Steak Sauce to the floor on her way, hitting the tower of cans at the end of the prepared-foods aisle and sending them sprawling, making her way down the aisle, careening from side to side as she goes.

Finally, from the distance, I hear her shout. “He’s deeeeeeaaaad! Joey’s deeeeeaaaad.”