Wicked Business (8 page)

“One of them loses all their special abilities. No way of knowing ahead which one will be the loser.”

“And just exactly what is it that triggers this power outage? I mean, does there have to be penetration? Does there have to be an exchange of body fluids?”

“Exchange of body fluids is a given, beyond that it’s a gray area.”

“How about contraception? A condom would contain body fluids. What then?”

I could feel Diesel smile. “You want me bad.”

“I do not! That’s ridiculous. I’m just asking.”

He slid his arm around me and nuzzled my neck. He was warm, and he smelled great, and I liked the way he felt pressed against me.

“How about we just fool around a little,” he said.

“Is that allowed?”

“Probably.”

“Is that probably like the
I probably can defuse the alarm system
?”

“Yeah, it might be similar.”

I heard rustling in the dark room and realized Carl was creeping across the bed, trying to get closer to Diesel and me, trying to find a place to sleep. At the same time, there was movement at the foot of the bed. Cat was uncurling, slowly stalking Carl.

“Maybe you can find a place for Carl to sleep,” I said to Diesel. “I don’t think Cat likes having a monkey in his bed.”

“They’re fine,” Diesel said. “They’ll figure it out.”

“Yes, but …”

YEOWL
.

EEeeeee!

Cat pounced on Carl, and Carl went postal. There was a
lot of screeching and hissing and growling and monkey bitch slapping. I dove under the covers, and I felt Diesel roll over me. I peeked out and saw he had Cat and Carl by the scruffs of their necks, holding them both at arm’s length.

I switched the light on, and Diesel marched out of the room, still holding Cat and Carl. Minutes later, Diesel returned to bed and shut the light off.

“Is everything okay?” I asked him.

“I have Carl on the couch in the sleeping bag, and Cat is in his bed in the kitchen.”

“Was anybody bleeding?”

“Not that I could see.” There was a beat of silence. “Now that I’m back in bed, would you like me to demonstrate some of the things we shouldn’t be doing?”

“No!”

Carl and Cat had saved me from doing something stupid. And it had the added bonus of seeing Diesel with the light on. Sweet dreams tonight.

I was snuggled into Diesel when I woke up. He was still asleep, so I carefully eased away from him and shut the alarm off before it rang. Cat had returned to the foot of the bed. No sign of Carl. I grabbed clothes and tiptoed into the bathroom. I showered and dressed, and Cat and I went downstairs.

Four hours later, I was in the bakery kitchen helping
Clara make meat pies and Diesel strolled in, carrying the painting wrapped in the bedsheet.

“I need you to babysit this,” Diesel said. “There’s a problem I have to solve, and I don’t want to leave this unguarded in your house.”

“Put it against the far wall and make sure it’s covered. I’m up to my elbows in bread dough and meat filling here.”

“I’ll be back before you leave today,” Diesel said, propping the painting against the wall. “Call me if there’s an issue.”

He went out the back door, closing and locking it behind him.

“What’s under the sheet?” Clara wanted to know.

“A painting. We sort of borrowed a Van Gogh yesterday.”

“A real Van Gogh?”

“Yeah.”

“Borrowed?”

“Yep.”

“Borrowed what?” Glo asked, coming in from the front shop.

“A painting,” Clara said. “It’s under the sheet.”

Glo pulled the sheet away, and we all looked at the painting.

“It looks like wallpaper,” Glo said. “My grammy had wallpaper like this in her bedroom, but it wasn’t 3D.”

“What do you mean 3D?” I asked.

“Well, there’s the branches and flowers, and then in front of them, there’s writing and some bells with numbers and musical notes, and then a man’s name.”

“I don’t see any of that,” Clara said. “You haven’t been smoking mushrooms, have you?”

“No,” Glo said, “but I had some on pizza a couple days ago.”

“What does the writing say?” I asked her.

“ ‘Hope endures in the reader of this message. Love comes to those who still hope,’ ” Glo said. “I’d like to think that’s true, because I haven’t had great luck so far in the love department.”

“Yes, but you’re such an optimist,” I told her. “Every time you meet a man, you’re sure he’s going to be your perfect match.”

“What else do you see?” Clara asked. “You said there were bells and a man’s name.”

“Charles Duane.”

“Draw a picture of the bells, so I can see them,” I said to Glo.

“Sure, but they’re just plain old bells that are numbered one through nine.” Glo’s eyes went wide. “This is about saving mankind, isn’t it? I bet this is some kind of clue to finding the Luxuria Stone. And I’m the only one who can read the clue. This is definitely a sign of wizardry. This is
so awesome
.”

“The clue is only good if you can figure out where it takes you,” Clara said. “Just reading the clue isn’t enough.”

“True,” Glo said. “But I still feel special. And I’m sure we’ll figure it out.”

I returned to the meat pies, and Glo sketched the bells on a napkin and went back to tending the shop.

CHAPTER TEN

Diesel called at noon and said he was having problems.

“My boss has me looking for a guy named Sandman. He’s one of us. His specialty is putting people to sleep and robbing them.”

“One of us?”

“That’s what I’m told. In the registry, his ability is listed as mid-level metal bender, but clearly he has something new with the sleep thing.”

“There’s a registry?”

“Yeah. That’s how I found you. A lot of people slip through the cracks, but for the most part, it’s all documented.”

“How?” I asked him.

“Don’t know. Don’t care. I just do my job, and after twenty years of service I can retire, and I’ll have my own island in the South Pacific.”

“Where’s all this going?”

“I can’t find him,” Diesel said. “He’s not where he’s supposed to be. Take the painting with you when you leave work, and I’ll hook up with you later.”

I cleaned my area, wedged the painting into the backseat of my car, and headed for home. I had my radio tuned to a news station, and they were talking about an art theft. A rare Van Gogh had been boldly stolen in broad daylight from a Boston town house. No one saw the robbery take place. The owner was overseas at the time.

I wondered how such a thing could happen … a robbery like that in broad daylight. And then I realized they were talking about the Van Gogh I had in the backseat. Good God,
I
was the one who’d committed the robbery.

I had a moment of dizziness, followed by nausea. Stay calm, I told myself. Don’t panic. It’s not as bad as it sounds. The painting wasn’t actually stolen. It was
borrowed
. Probably, I wouldn’t have to do more than ten years for borrowing. Time off for good behavior might have me out before I turned forty. A sob inadvertently escaped from somewhere deep in my chest, and I changed the radio station to seventies rock.

I parked in front of my house and hustled the painting inside, being careful not to let the bedsheet slip away. I
locked the door behind me, carried the painting upstairs, and slid it under my bed. Out of sight, out of mind. Except it wasn’t totally out of my mind.

“This is a mess,” I said to Cat. “What if I get caught? What will I say?
I’m sorry, your honor, but I was trying to save all of mankind
. And then I’ll tell the court I’m special because I can identify bewitched objects. Even
I
don’t believe it.”

I sat on my couch with my computer and Googled Charles Duane. I assumed he was a composer, since his name seemed to be attached to the musical notes on the painting. I was surprised to see he was the rector of the Old North Church from 1893 to 1911.

“This does me no good at all,” I said to Cat.

The doorbell rang and my heart jumped in my chest. I peeked out my front window, fearing a SWAT team, seeing Glo instead.

I opened the door to her. “Why aren’t you at work?”

“Clara said I was useless, so she gave me the afternoon off. She said she didn’t want to hear any more about saving the world, but golly, it’s important. I mean, it’s the
world
. And you’ll never guess what I found out. Charles Duane was the rector of
Old North Church
, so let’s go.”

“To Old North Church?”

“I’m sure we’ll find more clues there,” Glo said. “My wizardry is finally kicking in. I wouldn’t be surprised if we get there and I have a vision. I might be able to point us right to the Luxuria Stone.”

I put Cat in charge of guarding the hidden painting, and an hour later, we were at Old North Church in Boston’s North End. It’s a sturdy, blocky redbrick building with a bell tower that looks like it was built by Practical Pig. The sidewalk and courtyard surrounding the church are redbrick, and all the other buildings on Salem Street are also redbrick. There’s parking on one side of the street with enough space left for a single car to navigate the remaining blacktop patched road. Across the street from the church is an Italian café and a shop selling T-shirts to tourists.

I’d walked the Freedom Trail a couple months ago and stopped in to see the church, so I knew something about it. Built in 1723. It’s an Episcopal church with services on Sunday. Other days, it’s open to the public as a national treasure with tours and a gift shop. The interior is white, with some dark wood trim and elaborate chandeliers hanging over the center aisle. Pews are set into boxes, and there’s also a second-floor balcony with a pipe organ.

“I’ve never been in here,” Glo said, looking up at the chandeliers. “This is so historic.”

We were the only tourists in the church. Glo was walking around, reading plaques. I sat in one of the pews and listened to the silence, imagining what it must have been like to worship here two hundred years ago. Someone was working on the balcony level. I could hear footsteps and an occasional
clink
.

“The chandeliers and the bells were shipped here from
England,” Glo said from the back of the church. “How cool is that?”

A guy looked over the balcony railing at Glo. “Are you interested in the bells?”

“Yes,” Glo said. “Can they still ring?”

“We usually ring them for Sunday service. And we have weekly practice sessions.”

“Wow,” Glo said. “I’d love to hear them.”

“I’m one of the bellringers,” he said. “If you come back on Sunday, maybe we could go out for coffee after.”

“Sure,” Glo said.

“I have some questions about the bells,” I said to him.

“Give me a minute to finish cleaning up, and I’ll be right down.”

“How do you always manage to get a date?” I asked Glo. “You’re like a date magnet.”

“I’m cute,” Glo said. “And I think it must be part of my wizard power. I think to myself,
Boy, he’s hot. I’d like to go out with him
, and next thing, I’ve got a date.”

I didn’t know about the wizard power, but she was right about being cute. I was sort of cute in a girl-next-door kind of way that didn’t seem to encourage dates. Glo was cute in a quirky, fun way that was obviously more approachable. Truth is, I wish I was more like Glo, but I’d feel like an idiot if I tried to wear a pink ballet tutu with green-and-black striped tights and motorcycle boots.

I heard a door close upstairs and the bellringer ambled
over to us. He was around twenty. Still in his puppy stage, with long, gangly legs and big feet. Sandy blond hair that had probably been cut by a friend.

“Josh Sidwell,” he said, extending his hand.

“Lizzy Tucker,” I said, shaking his hand.

Glo stuck her hand out and smiled. “Gloria Binkly, and I’ve never dated anyone named Josh before. I’m, like, a Josh virgin.”

“Jeez,” Josh said. “I’m honored.”

“How do you get to be a bellringer?” I asked him.

“I’m a member of the MIT Guild of Bellringers.”

“Wow, a college guy,” Glo said. “I’ll bet you’ve never even been arrested.”

“I got caught smoking pot once, but I was underage, and I didn’t get charged with a felony.”

“Even better,” Glo said.

“So tell me about the bells,” I said to Josh.

“There are eight of them. They were cast in Gloucester, England, in 1744, and they were hung here in Old North in 1745. They were restored in 1894 and again in 1975.”

“Is it possible to play a song with them?”

“I suppose it’s possible, but they’re not designed to play a song. These are tone bells. We have certain sequences that we play,” Josh said. “It’s a complicated process.”

“This is confusing,” I said. “I was under the impression there were nine bells.”

“Nope,” he said. “Right from day one, there were only eight. Maybe you’re thinking about the Duane bell. Charles Duane was a church rector. He was the first rector to have the bells refurbished. He also had a small replica bell made as well and asked that it be buried with him. Sometimes it’s referred to as the ninth bell.”

“Where’s he buried?”

“Here,” Josh said. “There are thirty-seven tombs and over eleven hundred bodies buried in the basement.”

“That’s a lot of bodies to bury in your basement,” Glo said.

“They give tours,” Josh said. “It’s awesome. Charles Duane has a plaque and everything. Not everybody has a plaque.”

“Is it creepy down there?” Glo asked. “Are there ghosts?”

“The tour I took didn’t see any ghosts. At least, I didn’t see any. And it wasn’t creepy, except it feels a little claustrophobic.”

“Thanks,” I said to Josh. “You’ve been very helpful.”

“Are you walking the Freedom Trail?”

“No,” Glo said. “We’re saving mankind.”

“Excellent,” Josh said. “See you Sunday.”

“He was dreamy,” Glo said, when we got back to my car. “He could be the one I’ve been looking for. He spoke English and everything. I have a good feeling about him.”

We left the North End and hit 1A at rush hour. Route 1A isn’t good at the best of times. Rush hour is excruciating. By
the time I rolled into Marblehead, I was starving and my back was in spasm.