My name is Stephanie Plum…oops. I mean, Stephanie Morelli. I was recently married, much to my mother's delight. My husband, Joe, and I had been living on our new houseboat for two weeks when we had our first fight as a married couple.

We used to fight over my job, or my habit of leaving little pieces of olive stuck in the peanut butter. This fight started out a lot like our pre-marital fights, with something stupid, and ended up in a blowout.

"What am I supposed to do, Joe?" I asked in earnest, my voice two octaves too high, my arms outstretched palms up, in the universal sign of a distressed woman on the edge.

"Just do what you would normally be doing at this time of day," Joe said, waiving me off. He was watching a football game on ESPN while sitting at the desk in our business office, which doubled as our living room. He was lounging in navy sweats, sock feet up on the desk, chair leaning back slightly, drinking a beer and eating peanuts. He had been going over the finances, which helped us outline a timeframe for when we could expect the electricity to be shut off due to non-payment.

"Normally, I would have my own apartment. I would be working as a bond enforcement agent for my cousin, Vinnie. I'd be hanging out at the office with Lula and Connie. But I no longer have my own apartment. I no longer work for Vinnie. I am no longer a bond enforcement agent. And Lula and Connie are now working full time for Melvin Pickle at his new photography studio. Nothing is the same. I don't even know who I am anymore," I complained.

"You're the same person you've always been, Cupcake. You may not be Stephanie Plum, bounty hunter, but you have a new job. You're Stephanie Morelli, private investigator," he reminded me, leaning back and tapping the plate glass window that announced to all approaching visitors:

Morelli & Morelli

Detective Agency

Surveillance

Missing Persons

Domestic/Child Custody

Criminal Investigations

Heir/Witness Locates

Risk Management

Background Checks

Consulting

"And you don't need Lula and Connie. I'm here to help you." He trying to sound reassuring, but all he was doing was winding me up.

"What am I supposed to do without Connie? She always assigned me my FTA's. She handled the contracts. She handled payroll. All I had to do was bring in the bad guy. I don't know how to find clients for a private detective agency."

"Honestly, Steph, I just thought customers would knock on the front door. We posted signs all over town."

"No, I posted signs all over town," I corrected. "And no one's knocking, Joe. So, now what?"

"You're just a little stir crazy, Steph. Just relax. Go mingle with people. You're always being asked to investigate things. Just let nature take it's course."

"Yes, but that usually happens while I'm working a case. I have no case to work. I have no one to investigate."

"That's never stopped you from getting involved in other people's business before."

I sucked in a big breath and planted my hands on my hips, shifting into rhino mode. "I know you didn't just call me a Burg busy-body." I growled under my breath. I couldn't control the tapping of my foot as I waited impatiently for his answer. It was on.

"Steph," Joe groaned, not wanting to fight. "Just take your Grandma Mazur down to Clara's Beauty Parlor or to a viewing at Stiva's Funeral Home. Go visit the old folks in your old apartment building. There are lots of places you used to go to get into trouble. Just go there," he said, turning back to football.

"Do you want customers or do you want trouble, Joe?"

"With you, it's always been one in the same," he said with a sigh.

"Oh, really, Joe?" I yelled. "And just why is it my responsibility to find us clients? What about you and all your police connections? Got nothing?"

"What I've got is no income and bills coming due. I only had enough money to buy this barge at auction. I had to finance the cars and the rings. The dock fees are due again in 2 weeks. The fun's over. It's time to get back to work."

I stared at his sock feet, feeling the roots of my hair starting to smoke. I didn't know he had financed the rings too. He hadn't mentioned it when we went over the financials. I had a mental image of my wedding ring being repossessed. I had some experience with that, like my cars and furniture. It wasn't a pleasant feeling that suddenly overwhelmed me. "Well, isn't that romantic. Nothing says love like a revolving payment plan," I fumed.

"I didn't hear any complaints when I swept you off your feet and married you on this dock, or when we rocked this boat for the first time," Joe said, still engrossed in the game.

"You sprang it on me. I didn't have time to think. And we were already married when you announced that you were quitting the police department. I didn't realize you couldn't afford to take care of us. At least as a cop you were making a decent living. I trusted you. I thought you knew what you were doing. And you didn't discuss it with me, so it's not my fault."

"I quit the force so I could be with you. So I could include you in everything I do, just like you wanted," he said, his voice beginning to rise.

"So, you are saying it's my fault. This is all my fault?"

"I didn't say that. The fact that there is never any toilet paper in the bathroom, now, that's your fault," he yelled, color rising in his face, finally.

"Seriously," I sneered, "that's the best you've got? If you would just buy the big package with 24 rolls, we wouldn't have a problem. But, no! You just buy one roll at a time. Who buys one roll of toilet paper, Joe?"

"Someone with no storage space in the bathroom, because the small space under the sink is full of feminine products," he yelled.

"Don't yell at me!" I yelled.

"I'm not yelling", he bellowed, drowning me out and making the windows rattle.

"Do you really want to file for divorce citing irreconcilable differences over toilet paper?"

"We are not getting a divorce. We are having a discussion."

"Not anymore we're not." I turned on my heel and stormed out. I jumped in my yellow hydro-Jeep. I turned it over, hit reverse and spun the wheels, hitting the water as I shifted from land gears to water gears. A minute later I was doing 40 miles per hour up river, my pony tail flying behind me.

Joe had a black 2002 Camaro convertible. Both vehicles were purchased from a police auction. They had been modified by drug runners. They'd take off from a ship off shore and run the drugs right up to makeshift dock by some back road and disappear into suburbia. Apparently they hadn't considered that the US Coast Guard can do better than 40 miles per hour. Joe picked them up for next to nothing, because insurance was an obstacle for everyone but Ranger's talented agent, who probably has backers in third world countries.

My foot was pressed all the way to the floor, the motor was roaring, and it felt good. I was screaming a long string of expletives no one but God could hear. It was a bright, sunny day, and it did not suit my mood one bit. In a few hours, high tide would raise the water level by 8 or 9 feet. But it was low tide, and in another mile, I was going to have to slow down. There was a lot of exposed bank due to the recent hot weather. Trenton was in the grips of a dry spell, and I could see farther down the bank than even last week when I came this way with Joe. He had been teaching me to get the vehicle out of the water without getting stuck. He was tired of coming to my rescue.

The honeymoon was over.