Wicked Business (3 page)

We took one last tour of the apartment, and Diesel scooped up the anthology, the pad, and the folders.

“You can’t take all that stuff,” I said. “That’s stealing.”

“Think of it as borrowing,” Diesel said. “Someday I might bring them back.”

Diesel locked the door and stuck the crime scene tape back in place. We took the elevator to the lobby and ran into Hatchet carrying a chain saw.

“Does Wulf know you’re playing with power tools?” Diesel asked Hatchet.

“My lord only knows I will get the job done. He cares not how. You and your slut need not know more than this.”

I felt my eyes narrow, and I listed a couple inches in Hatchet’s direction. “Slut? Excuse me?”

Diesel slid an arm around my shoulders and eased me far enough back so my fist couldn’t reach Hatchet’s nose.

“It’s not a secret,” Diesel said. “Everyone knows Wulf is looking for the Luxuria Stone.”

“And we will succeed,” Hatchet said. “We have the sonnets, and we will shortly secure the key.”

“Why didn’t you get the key when you took the sonnets?” Diesel asked.

Hatchet’s face flushed red. “It was an oversight.” He turned on his heel and marched to the elevator.

“He’s going to cut a hole in Reedy’s front door with the chain saw,” I said to Diesel.

“Not likely,” Diesel said. “It’s a metal fire door. If Hatchet wants to get in, he’s going to have to go through the wall.”

CHAPTER THREE

It was pouring rain by the time we got back to my house. We kicked our shoes off in the mudroom and padded sock-footed into the kitchen. Diesel took a couple cookies from the cookie jar.

“You could have defended my honor back there when Hatchet called me your slut,” I said to Diesel.

“I was enjoying the moment. I’ve always wanted a slut of my own.”

Carl wandered into the kitchen. He’d been sleeping on the couch in the living room, and he had bed-head monkey fur all over. He scratched his stomach and eyeballed Diesel’s cookie. “Eee?”

I gave Carl a cookie and turned my attention to the anthology and the folders Diesel had placed on the counter. The first folder was labeled
General History of the SALIGIA
. The second folder contained a thesis called
The Myth of the Luxuria Stone
by someone named Carl Stork. Plus a shorter professional paper, also by Stork. Both works by Stork were written in 1943. The third folder held a collection of stapled pages, scraps of paper, and articles cut from journals and newspapers.

“Most of the stuff in this folder is relatively recent,” I said to Diesel. “Some handwritten notes. A newspaper piece about a museum exhibit that opened last week. An article reprint about Salem witches.” I pulled the witch article out and started reading. “Holy cow. This article is about Miriam Lovey being suspected of witchcraft. It says she disappeared before she could be brought to trial. She was fifteen years old at the time.”

“Any mention of sexy sonnets?”

“No. But she was accused of inspiring inappropriate desires in men.”

Diesel took the article from me and read it for himself. “The whole witch trial thing makes my nuts crawl.”

“Boy, I’m really glad you shared that with me.”

“Don’t you have an equivalent body part that’s shriveling even as we speak?”

“No. But I’m getting nauseous.”

My doorbell bonged, and someone started pounding. BAM, BAM, BAM! I opened the door and Hatchet charged in, sword drawn.

“Hand it over,” he said, “or I will smite thee down.”

“You’ve gotta lose the Renaissance thing,” Diesel said to Hatchet. “You sound like an idiot.”

“You mock me now, but there will come a time when you will bow to my sire, and to me as well.”

Diesel didn’t look worried about bowing to Wulf and Hatchet. “There’s a reason for this visit, right?”

“You have what is rightly ours. We have the book, and the key is part of the book.”

“What key?” Diesel asked.

“You know very well. The Lovey key.”

“Nope,” Diesel said. “Don’t have it.”

“You lie. You were in Gilbert Reedy’s apartment ahead of me, and you took the key.”

“How do you know?” Diesel asked him. “Maybe the police took the key. Maybe the key doesn’t exist. Maybe Reedy swallowed the key, and they’ll find it during the autopsy.”

“I know because I have powers,” Hatchet said. “I sense these things. I smell them. I see visions. And besides, I looked in the kitchen window just now, and I saw the key lying on the counter.”

“Finders keepers,” Diesel said.

Hatchet’s eyes almost popped out of their sockets and
his face got blotchy. “It will be ours!” he yelled. “My master commands it. You will give me the key or all will die!”

He raised the sword, took a step toward me, and Cat flew through the air and latched onto Hatchet’s face.

“YOW!” Hatchet shrieked, dropping his sword, batting at Cat.

Diesel grabbed a handful of Hatchet’s tunic and lifted him off the floor. “I’ll take it from here,” Diesel said to Cat.

Cat disengaged from Hatchet’s face, gracefully landed on the floor, and flicked away a clump of Hatchet’s hair that was stuck in his claw.

Diesel carted Hatchet at arm’s length to the open door, pitched him out, closed and locked the door.

BAM, BAM, BAM. Hatchet was hammering on the door.

Diesel opened the door and looked down at Hatchet. “Now what?”

Hatchet had a bunch of cat scratches and punctures that were beginning to ooze blood. “I think I left my sword in your living room.”

Diesel retrieved the sword, gave it to Hatchet, and closed and locked the door again.

“Have you ever thought about getting shades on those kitchen windows?” Diesel asked me.

“Shades cost money.”

“Maybe I should spend the night here. Make sure you’re safe.”

“Not necessary. I have Cat.”

• • •

My clock radio went into music mode at 4:15 A.M. Still dark out. Cat was asleep at the foot of the bed. No rain slashing against the window. All good signs. I dragged myself out of bed, took a shower, and got dressed in my usual uniform of jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers.

The floors throughout the house are wide plank yellow pine. Some very, very old. Some new. The ceilings are low. The walls are old-fashioned plaster. The windows are wood, with small panes. The kitchen is far from high tech, but perfectly functional, and it feels cozy. I have my pots and pans hanging from hooks screwed into ceiling beams over my little work island.

I started coffee brewing, poured some kitty nuggets into a bowl for Cat, and gave him fresh water. I ate a small container of blueberry yogurt while I waited for my coffee, and reviewed my day.

It was Monday. That meant I would make all the usual cupcakes, plus an extra forty-five strawberry for Mr. Nelson’s weekly lunch meeting at the boat club. And Clara would need help with the bread, because Mr. Nelson would also want forty-five pretzel rolls. My afternoon and evening were open, but I had a feeling Diesel would fill the empty spaces.

I poured the brewed coffee into a travel mug, added a splash of half-and-half, stuffed myself into a sweatshirt, and grabbed my purse. Diesel had taken the Lovey key and
Reedy’s papers with him, but the Shakespeare anthology was still on the counter. I stared at the anthology and thought about Hatchet and Wulf … that they might be lurking in the dark somewhere between me and my car, waiting to snatch me.

If I’d let Diesel spend the night, he would have protected me against all sorts of drooly, knuckle-dragging, bloodsucking monsters. Problem was, who would protect me from Diesel? Diesel was six foot three inches of mouthwatering, heart-stopping male temptation. He was annoying, charming, pushy, practically leaking testosterone, and he always smelled great. He also was off-limits. According to Diesel, if two people with exceptional abilities do the deed, one of them loses all their special skills, and there’s no way to tell which one will lose. It’s a total bummer, because if I could be sure it would be me, I’d be happy to make the sacrifice. Unfortunately, if it was Diesel and I had to save the world all by myself, I’d be up the creek without a paddle.

I peeked out the front window at my car. It was sitting under a streetlight only a few steps from my door. No sign of Wulf or Hatchet. Houses were dark across the street. Most of Marblehead was still asleep. Cat was leaning against my leg.

“What do you think?” I asked Cat. “Is it safe?”

Cat blinked, and I took that to mean
yes
.

I opened the door and cautiously stepped outside. I had a plan. If someone came rushing at me, I’d hit him with my purse and kick him in the crotch. I suppose I should also
scream, but I hated to wake my neighbors. I locked my door, quickly walked to my car, and jumped behind the wheel. No one came rushing at me. But Wulf appeared out of nowhere, standing motionless, holding my door open, looking down at me.

I couldn’t muster enough air to scream, and kicking Wulf in the crotch wasn’t an option.

“This isn’t a safe place for you,” Wulf said, his voice soft and seductive. “And this life you’ve chosen has limitations. If you played for my team, you would have no limitations. I could give you a new car, your own bakery, a house that doesn’t lean downhill.” He paused and his eyes softened a little. “I could give you normalcy.”

My upper lip broke out in a cold sweat. How did he know I craved normalcy? I reached for the car door and found myself staring at Wulf’s perfectly pressed pants. Not a wrinkle in sight. My eyes were at package level, and it was like Baby Bear’s bed, not too big and not too small. It looked
just right
.

“Thanks,” I said, forcing my attention to move to his eyes. “I’m good.”

Thirty minutes later, I rolled into the small lot behind the bakery and parked. Light poured out the open back door of the building and flour floated in the light like fairy dust. Clara was already at work.

Clarinda Dazzle is the latest in a long line of Dazzles
who have operated the bakery, stretching back to Puritan times. She owns the historic building, and she lives in a small apartment on the second floor. She’s forty years old. She’s twice divorced, currently single. She’s my height at 5′5″, but she seems taller, in part because of her hair. My hair is blond and straight as a pin. Clara’s hair is black, shot with gray, possibly shoulder-length, but it’s difficult to tell due to the frenzied curls and sheer mass of it all. She’s part Wampanoag Indian, but it’s a very small part.

I exchanged my sweatshirt for a white chef coat and wrapped a chef apron around my waist.

“It’s our usual Monday,” Clara said. “Extra pretzel rolls and strawberry cupcakes.”

I was already measuring out flour. “I’m on it.”

Clara and I don’t talk a lot in the morning. Machines whir and hum as bread dough is mechanically kneaded and cake batter is mixed. I move from collecting ingredients to preparing baking pans to shaping yeast dough, my mind focused on the task at hand and the day all bright and shiny in front of me. Usually. Hatchet and Wulf were intruding today. My thoughts kept turning to swords and keys and ugly threats and perfectly pressed pants.

“Are you okay?” Clara asked. “You’re talking to yourself, and you’re glaring at the sweet roll dough.”

“I had a disturbing night. Do you remember Steven Hatchet?”

“Wulf’s medieval minion.”

“Yeah. I have a key he wants.”

“And you don’t want to give it to him?”

“No.”

“Well, then,” Clara said. “Case closed.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Glo swung into the kitchen at precisely eight o’clock. She parked her broom in the corner, and set her messenger bag on a shelf.

“The most amazing thing happened last night,” she said. “I met this guy online, and he’s perfect. I think he’s
the one
. And I definitely think he might be a wizard. He didn’t come right out and say it, but I got a total vibe.”

I looked over at Clara and saw she was working hard to squelch a grimace. Glo was always meeting perfect guys who had the promise of wizardry. I admired her optimism but thought her dating criteria could use some adjustment. None of the guys ever turned out to be a wizard. And some of them were downright scary.

“I’m meeting him for drinks tonight,” Glo said. “I have high hopes.”

Clara pulled a tray of croissants out of the oven. “The last time you said that, the guy had forty-three piercings and a snake tattooed onto his forehead.”

“He was sweet,” Glo said. “I’d still be dating him, but he always wanted to wear my clothes, and sometimes he’d wear them home and never return them. I don’t mind sharing, but a girl has to draw the line somewhere.”

Glo buttoned herself into a blue Dazzle’s smock and marched to the front door, where three people were already standing, waiting for the bakery to open. Two hours later, we were between customers, and Glo took the opportunity to box up orders for pickup. Clara was busy scrubbing down her work area, and I was piping frosting onto the last batch of cupcakes. The back door was still open, bringing fresh air and sunshine into the kitchen. A shadow fell across the floor, and we all looked up at Hatchet.

“Let me guess,” Clara said. “Sir Hatchet.”

“Nay,” he said. “Just Hatchet, in service to his lord and master.”

“I’m afraid you’re in the wrong spot,” Clara said. “If you want to buy cupcakes for your lord and master, you need the shop entrance, off the street.”

“My liege lord does not require anything so low as a cupcake,” Hatchet said. He looked at the tray of newly
frosted chocolate cakes, his lips parted, and his eyes glazed over. “Although they doth look tasty.”

“Get to the point,” I said to Hatchet. “What do you want?”

He snapped to attention. “The key. I will die before I will disappoint my master.”

“We could probably arrange that,” Clara said.

Hatchet glared at her. “Do not scoff at me. I will have the key. And I will have these cupcakes as well.” He grabbed two off the tray and shoved them into his mouth. “Now the key,” he said.

Glo had her nose wrinkled. “Dude, you shouldn’t talk with your mouth full. Your teeth are all full of chocolate smush.”