Wicked Business (12 page)

I went scramble-brain for a beat. I’m not sure what I expected to hear from her, but it wasn’t this.

“I can’t eliminate
him
,” she said, “but I can eliminate
you
. And he will be worthless without you. So I’m giving you warning. Abandon the search.”

And she turned and left the shop.

Glo and Clara were standing in the doorway to the kitchen.

“Whoa,” Glo said. “That was harsh.”

“Does Diesel know about her?” Clara asked.

I nodded. “Yes. Do you think she would really kill me?”

“She seemed capable,” Clara said, “but she chose to warn you.”

“I got the same warning from Wulf,” I told her.

“They both probably fear retaliation from Diesel,” Clara said.

I took my chef jacket off and tossed it into the laundry hamper. “This is crazy. We’re all looking for the Luxuria Stone, and at least two people are willing to kill for it. And no one can even be sure it exists or that it holds any power. It’s like hunting down the Easter Bunny or the Tooth Fairy.”

“What about the hidden messages?” Glo said. “You have to admit they’re magical.”

I shrugged into my sweatshirt. “The clues were left by John Lovey and his followers. Probably, one or two had special abilities and managed to program the painting and the bell to respond to a certain energy. I suppose it’s a kind of magic, but so are ultrasound and yeast.”

“You’re so logical,” Glo said. “I would be exhausted if I had to think up all these explanations. It’s so much easier to believe in magic.”

Diesel strolled in from the parking lot. “Magic is convenient.”

“You just missed Deirdre,” I told him.

“Was she buying cupcakes?”

“No. She came to warn me. She said if I kept helping you, she’d turn me into dust.”

“Dust is bad,” Diesel said. “It would be hard to put you back together from dust.”

“This is serious!” I said.

He hooked an arm around my neck and kissed me just below my ear. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to let anyone turn you into dust. And just to make sure you’re safe, I’m going to follow you home.”

“At the risk of being branded a cynic, I think it’s more likely you’re following me home because you want me to make lunch.”

“Not true, but now that you mention it, lunch would be good.”

Diesel ate his sandwich and looked at the map he had spread open on the table. “I’ve marked off three monuments to Tichy in the Cambridge area. The first is a statue of the guy and it’s in a small park. Originally, the park was privately owned by a horticultural group, but three years ago, it was sold and turned into a dog park. The second is Tichy House. He lived there for most of his time in Cambridge, and he died there. It’s a sort of museum now. The third is Tichy Street. It’s exactly one block long, and it ends with a bronze Tichasaurus Armatus statue, in slightly reduced size,
planted on the corner, in front of the building housing the Harvard history department. I thought we’d start with these three places. Just walk around and see if you catch any vibes.”

I left Cat 7143 to guard the house. I had the Van Gogh under my bed, and the bell in my clothes dryer. Diesel didn’t want to return them until the stone was found. Having stolen priceless artifacts in my house seemed like a ticking time bomb to me, but I saw his point. We didn’t want them available to any new treasure hunters.

I was riding shotgun, next to Diesel, and I was enjoying the trip. There was a chill in the air, but the sun was bright, and people were running and biking on the
Esplanade path
next to the Charles River. We crossed the bridge and cruised up Massachusetts Avenue. Diesel turned a couple blocks before Harvard Yard and followed his GPS through a residential neighborhood. Tichy Dog Park was attached to a larger municipal park with a lighted baseball field. We parked and walked to the statue positioned at the entrance to the fenced-in dog area.

The bronze statue of Peder Tichy represented him as a portly, mostly bald little man with a bulbous nose and double chin. There was a simple plaque at the base of the statue with his name and dates of birth and death. A pack of dogs chased one another in the enclosed space, and dog owners were lined up on a bench, talking, watching the dogs play.

“The history of Tichy persuades when innocence prevails,” Diesel said.

“What does that mean? What history is it referring to?”

“Don’t know. He had a variety of interests.”

I reached out and touched the statue. “I’m not feeling it. No trapped energy.”

“Moving on,” Diesel said. “The Tichy House is a block from here. We can walk.”

Diesel is a big guy with a long stride, and you cover a lot of ground fast when you walk with him. I imagine when he’s barefoot on a beach he slows down, but today he wasn’t wasting time. We stopped at the front stoop to the house and read the plaque. Again, nothing fancy.
Tichy House. Circa 1850. Open to the public. Donations appreciated
.

The house is on the fringe of Harvard’s campus in a neighborhood that I suspect is, to a large extent, faculty housing, just as it was in the 1800s. The homes are modest but sturdy. Not many are as old as Tichy House.

I turned just before going through the house’s front door and caught a glimpse of a car as it drove past. It was a beat-up junker, and Hatchet was behind the wheel. He was focused on the road ahead and didn’t notice us. Probably running down all the Tichy leads, like we were doing.

The two front rooms of the house held displays of Tichy memorabilia. Framed awards and diplomas, bound professional papers, photographs of Tichy and his family, some personal treasures. Threadbare Oriental rugs covered the wide plank floor. A woman who looked as old as the rugs sat behind a spindle-legged writing desk.

“May I help you?” she asked. “Feel free to look around.”

“Is the rest of the house open to the public?” I asked her.

“Yes, but it’s not historically interesting. The upstairs rooms are empty. The kitchen and bathroom were renovated in 1957. The last Tichy to live in the house moved out in 1962, and the house was turned over to the Trust.”

Diesel and I walked through the house, studied the mementos in the downstairs rooms, left a donation, and returned to our car.

“Next stop is Tichy Street,” Diesel said.

“I think that little museum was our best shot at finding a clue, but I touched everything in there, and nothing registered.”

Diesel headed back to Massachusetts Avenue. “I saw Hatchet drive down the street just as we were going into the Tichy House. He could have gone through ahead of us and taken something.”

“That’s a depressing thought.”

We traveled the length of Tichy Street and briefly got out and looked at the Tichasaurus Armatus. It was a fun replica, but it wasn’t enchanted, and I couldn’t find any hidden messages.

“I have one more stop,” Diesel said. “Mount Auburn Cemetery. Tichy’s buried there.”

“I’m trying to forget I was threatened with death today.
Visiting a cemetery isn’t going to contribute to my mental health.”

“Just think of a cemetery as a history book with grass.”

“What about the ghouls and ghosts who live there?”

“No different from anyplace else.”

“And your opinion on death?”

“I think it’s to be avoided. Beyond that I have no opinion.”

“How about life? Do you have an opinion on life? What do you value?”

“Honor, duty, sex, and the NFL. Not necessarily in that order.”

“What about love and friendship?”

“Girl stuff.”

I rolled my eyes. “Yeesh.”

Diesel gave a bark of laughter. “I don’t know how you’ve survived this long, considering how transparent and gullible you are,” he said.

I punched him in the arm. “Jerk.”

Diesel followed his GPS southwest, skirting
Harvard Square
, hooking up with Mount Auburn Street. Mount Auburn Cemetery is for the most part located in Watertown, but its granite Egyptian Revival entrance is in neighboring Cambridge. It’s bordered by other cemeteries and by densely populated neighborhoods of the living.

The cemetery
was founded in 1831 and was the first garden cemetery in this country. Its 174 acres of rolling hills are heavily forested in parts with native trees and bushes. The graves and monuments are scattered throughout, accessible by a system of roads and meandering footpaths.

Diesel drove into the heart of the cemetery, following instructions from his assistant. He parked on the side of the paved road, and we took a footpath to the Tichy family plot.

Peder Tichy was buried in 1862 on a grassy hillside now shaded by mature oak trees. The granite monuments around Tichy were worn by age and weather, but the inscriptions were still clear, and we went headstone by headstone, reading names, looking for Tichy.

“I found him,” Diesel said, squatting in front of a headstone with a cross carved into the top. “Peder Tichy, survived by his wife, Mary, and his children, Catherine and Monroe.”

I joined Diesel and looked at the headstone.

“No message,” I said.

“None that I can see.”

“This is getting old. At the risk of being a whiner, I’d rather be home taking a nap.”

A flash of silver caught my eye, and I looked beyond Diesel to a heavily shrubbed area toward the top of the hill.

“I see feet,” I said. “In running shoes. They’re sticking out of the bushes, and they aren’t moving.”

Diesel walked up the hill, reached the feet, and stepped into the rhododendron thicket.

“It’s Hatchet,” he called down to me.

“Is he dead?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

I scrambled up to Diesel and watched him pull Hatchet out of the bushes.

“Are you sure you should drag him out by his feet like that?” I asked. “What if he has a broken back or something?”

“His problem, not mine.”

I looked down at Hatchet and a wave of nausea rolled through my stomach. Hatchet had a handprint burned into his neck.

“Oh boy,” I said. “Why would Wulf do this to his own minion?”

“It wasn’t Wulf,” Diesel said. “The print is too small.”

“I thought Wulf was the only one who could burn people.”

“Apparently not.”

Diesel prodded Hatchet with his foot. “Hatchet! Wake up.”

“Unh,” Hatchet said, eyes closed.

Diesel kicked him in the leg.

“Thank you, sire,” Hatchet said.

Diesel shook his head. “That’s sick.”

Hatchet’s eyes opened and took a moment to focus. “What?” he said.

Diesel grabbed Hatchet by the front of his tunic and hoisted him to his feet. “That’s my question. What happened?”

“I know not. I was investigating the grave site, and that’s all I remember.” He touched his neck. “Ow!”

“It’s burned,” Diesel said. “In the shape of a hand.”

Hatchet looked confused. “Why?”

“Did you remove anything from the Tichy House?” I asked him.

“Nay. ’Twas junk and not worth taking.”

“That burn’s going to blister,” I told him. “You need to put some aloe on it.” I looked more closely at his face. He had a huge red splotch on his nose and another on his forehead. He scratched the one on his forehead.

“Are you okay?” I asked him.

“ ’Tis as if the foul farts have turned to these beastly hives. I rid myself of one plague only to acquire another.”

“If you still have them tomorrow, you might want to talk to Glo about it.”

Hatchet scratched his leg and his butt. “Might she find some spell to cure this?”

“Maybe,” I said. “In the meantime, you could try calamine lotion.”

“You have been most kind,” Hatchet said, “but I will still smite thee down if I must. I will slice off your ear, run my sword through your liver, boil you in a cauldron of oil if you attempt to slow me on my quest.”

“Wonderful,” I said. “I’ll add that to the list of things I can look forward to.”

“I think I doth got carried away with the oil,” Hatchet said. “It would be difficult to procure such an amount of oil.”

He scratched his crotch and under his arm, and he limped down the hill toward the road.

Diesel and I took one last futile look around, saw nothing that would indicate the presence of a clue, and followed Hatchet.

“I’m pretty sure there weren’t any other cars on the road when we parked,” I said to Diesel. “How did he get here? And how is he getting home?”

“Methinks we’ll find out,” Diesel said. “It appears he doth stand by my SUV.”

“Where’s your car?” I asked Hatchet.

“Stolen,” Hatchet said. “This day doth suck.”

Diesel took Hatchet’s sword so he wouldn’t be tempted to run it through my liver, and we loaded him into the back of the SUV.

“Where do you want us to drop you?” Diesel asked.

“Put me in a sack and throw me into the river,” Hatchet said.

“Not my thing,” Diesel told him. “Pick something else.”

“A pharmacy.”

Diesel found one on Massachusetts Avenue. He pulled to the curb, gave Hatchet his sword back, and watched him get out of the SUV

“Do you want me to wait?” Diesel asked.

“Nay. I will find my own way.”

Diesel slipped back into traffic, continued down Massachusetts, and called Wulf.

“Yes,” Wulf said.

“Hey, cuz, just wanted you to know Hatchet is in the CVS in Cambridge. He’s getting ointment for a handprint burn on his neck. And he’s without transportation. Someone stole his car.”

There was a silent pause and a disconnect.

“Why are you helping Hatchet? Isn’t he the enemy?” I asked Diesel.

“Yes, but it annoys Wulf when I’m nice to Hatchet. And I need to protect Hatchet to some degree. Wulf would be more determined to capture you if he didn’t have Hatchet.”

“We’re missing something with Tichy. I don’t feel like we’re even close.”

“The history of Tichy persuades when innocence prevails,” Diesel said.

“Maybe we’re not innocent enough.”

“That’s a given for me.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Midway through the morning, the bell over the bakery’s front door jingled and Hatchet walked in. I was filling one of the large wire breadbaskets in the front of the shop, and Glo was helping a woman select several meat pies. We all gave a start when we saw Hatchet. His face and hands were dabbed with calamine lotion, his scraggly hair was greasy, and he was scratching like a dog with a flea infestation.