Foul Play - By Janet Evanovich Page 0,35

closed, took the iron poker from the fireplace, and checked each and every closet. What a goose, she thought. How many years had she lived alone … and now suddenly she was frightened. Not so much frightened as uneasy. The house didn’t feel right. It was empty. It needed Jake.

Jake sank deep into his couch, his long legs stretched in front of him, crossed at the ankles. Spot grunted and flopped down under the coffee table. “Look at this place, Spot. It’s a dump.”

Just two weeks ago he’d thought it was a palace. He’d arranged everything around his favorite couch cushion. The TV, the microwave, and his veterinary journals were all within arm’s reach. He never had trouble finding clothes because they were spread across the floor. He’d lived like this for as long as he could remember. Weeks. Maybe years. Now all of a sudden he didn’t like it. It was the messy habitat of a couch potato.

How had he become such a lazy slob? Practice, he decided. Years and years of practice had honed his slobbery to a fine art. Not only was his home a mess, but his body was falling apart. Amy had almost killed him on the jogging trail.

He looked at his watch. Eight o’clock. Not too late. He carried the microwave to the kitchen and found a place for it on the counter.

“Look at this counter,” he said to Spot. “Immaculate. You know why? Because I never use it.”

He shook his head in silent rebuke as he examined his refrigerator. A can of coffee and a six-pack of beer. Two TV dinners resided in his freezer.

A wave of lonely depression washed over him. Amy’s refrigerator had all sorts of good things in it, and her kitchen smelled like cookies and daffodils. Jake wrinkled his nose. His kitchen smelled like Spot.

An hour later Jake straggled into his apartment with bags of groceries. He filled his refrigerator with milk and cheese and a container of potato salad. He artfully arranged his apples and oranges and grapefruits. He proudly stuffed a chicken into the meat drawer, enormously pleased with his purchase, despite the fact that he hadn’t a clue what to do with it.

“Only healthy food,” he said to Spot. “No more greasy chips.”

Spot looked disappointed. He sniffed at a bag of carrots and went back to the couch.

“And that’s not all. We’re going running.” He clinked the leash onto the dog’s collar and pranced around the room.

“Come on, Spot, wake up those muscles. Get the lead out. Let’s go pound some pavement.”

Jake’s T-shirt was soaked through when he returned to his apartment. He unlocked the door and leaned against it for a minute, catching his breath, watching Spot bound up the stairs. “Show-off,” Jake grumbled.

He labored up the stairs and went straight to the kitchen for a glass of orange juice. “This is so damn healthy,” he said, leaning against the counter. “Why isn’t it any fun? How come everything that’s fun contributes to heart disease?” And why am I feeling so grouchy? he thought. He’d moved his microwave, bought good food, and run his buns off. He kicked at the kitchen chair and muttered an oath. He wanted to be with Amy.

There was more to a refrigerator than apples and oranges. He couldn’t simulate her kitchen any more than he could pretend she was in his bed. He’d changed, he realized. A whole chapter of his life had ended. His carefree bachelor days were gone.

Good riddance, he thought. He was never much of a bachelor, anyway. He wanted to be married. He wanted mortgage payments and crabgrass and Amy snuggled next to him for the rest of his life. Amy, who felt responsible to a bunch of Munchkins.

He stretched on his bed and linked his hands behind his head, wondering what Amy was doing. He didn’t like those two slimeballs camped outside her house, but he felt powerless to remove them. He picked up the phone to call her and realized he didn’t know her number. He tried information, but she wasn’t listed.

“That’s it. I’m going over there.”

He stopped at the head of the stairs. He couldn’t go. It would compromise Amy’s image. “But maybe she’s in danger. Maybe those creeps are knocking on her door right now.” Jake, he told himself, this is the woman who wasted Safeway. Probably he should worry about the creeps. “Okay,” he shouted, making flamboyant gestures, “I’m going to take a shower. I’m going to put this out of