Wicked Business Page 14

  “This could all be a colossal nineteenth-century joke,” I said. “An endless scavenger hunt that goes nowhere.”

  I heard the elevator doors open, and a security guard walked our way.

  “No one is supposed to be in this part of the building,” he said.

  “Sorry,” I said. “We didn’t realize. We had a free moment and I guess we got carried away. We’ve never been in the State House before, and it’s really interesting.”

  “If you come back during the week, you can take a tour,” the guard said. “I’m going to have to ask you to go back to the Great Hall now.”

  “We should be getting back anyway,” I said. “Our break time is over.”

  Diesel pocketed the key. We took the elevator to the second floor and went back to the reception. The guests were still seated. Chamber music could faintly be heard over the crush of conversation.

  “Watch this,” Morty said. “I could do it with my eyes closed.”

  A cheer went up from across the room.

  “I got one!” someone yelled.

  “Am I good or what?” Morty said.

  We went down to the employee locker room, changed back into our own clothes, and left through a door that led to Hancock Street. We walked Hancock to Mt. Vernon, and Mt. Vernon to Joy. The house number that appeared on the mosaic was on the first block between Beacon and Mt. Vernon. We stood on the sidewalk and stared at the redbrick town house. Four floors, plus a garden level. Not in terrible condition, but not newly renovated, either.

  There weren’t any lights on in the house. Either no one was home, or else someone went to bed early. It was too dark to read the bronze plaque by the door.

  “It must be a historic house,” Morty said. “They always have plaques on them like that.”

  Curiosity got the better of me, and I crept up the steps to the small front stoop to better see the writing on the plaque.

  “It says this is a historic house designed by William Butterfield in 1880,” I whispered. “Its name is The Key House, after its first occupant, Malcom Key.”

  I touched the plaque with my fingertip and felt the trapped energy. “It’s the plaque,” I said, motioning Diesel to come take a look. “I can feel the energy.”

  Diesel examined the plaque and felt around the edges. “I can’t just remove it,” he said. “It’s cemented into the brick.”

  “I’m hungry,” Morty said. “I had some of them hors d’oeuvres, but I never got my baloney sandwich.”

  Diesel looked at his watch. “I’m supposed to hand you over to your son in a half hour. Let’s go back to the car, and I’ll figure this out later.”

  We walked to the car, and Diesel drove to Beacon and double-parked in front of a small grocery store. I ran in and got Morty a loaf of worthless white bread, half a pound of baloney, and a bag of chips, and I was back before the police spotted our illegally parked car.

  Diesel skirted the Public Garden and pulled in behind the Four Seasons Hotel. Morty’s son was already there.

  “He’s not so bad,” Morty said. “I’m sort of looking forward to going home. I got a nice television in my room, and I got my baloney.”

  We handed Morty off, and Diesel got back into the stream of traffic, driving away from Beacon Hill.

  “Where are we going?” I asked him.

  “As long as we’re here, I thought I’d check on Deirdre Early. There are a few things I’d like to talk to her about.”

  “Such as?”

  “Hitting people in the head, threatening you, Anarchy.”

  “All good topics of conversation,” I said. “Maybe you want to take five or six Advil before knocking on her door.”

  Diesel turned onto Commonwealth Avenue, and we immediately saw the fire trucks a block away, parked in front of Early’s house. He pulled in behind one of the trucks, and we sat there for a moment looking at the disaster in front of us. Early’s house appeared to be gutted. Windows were blown out. The exterior was soot-stained. The roof was partially collapsed.

  “I warned her she was going to self-combust,” I said to Diesel.

  His smile was grim. “That would be the hoped-for scenario.”

  We left the car and joined two of the firefighters, relaxing by their truck, sipping coffee.

  “What happened?” Diesel asked.

  “Not sure,” one of the guys said. “Probably some accelerant involved, since it went through the house like lightning. Impossible to know for sure, but it doesn’t look like anyone was home. Lucky we got here fast and kept it from spreading.”

  I was thinking probably when the roof went it released all the evil spirits into the air, like the scene in Ghostbusters when the spook containment facility exploded.

  Twenty minutes later, we were standing in front of The Key House again, and Diesel had a big screwdriver in his hand.

  “So you think that screwdriver is going to do the job?” I asked him.

  “I shouldn’t have a problem if it’s just cemented in at the corners.”

  “And if the whole thing is cemented?”

  “I’ll have a problem. Keep your eye out for company.”

  He rammed the screwdriver into the brick and mortar, chipping away chunks of brick.

  “You’re making a mess,” I said.

  He stopped work and looked at me. “Do you want to try this?”

  “No.”

  Thunk, thunk, thunk.

  “Jeez,” I said. “That’s awfully loud.”

  “I’m starting to think I’d be better off with Hatchet,” Diesel said. “At least I could beat him.”

  “Just trying to be helpful,” I said. “I thought you’d want to know you were loud.”

  Second-floor lights went on in The Key House.

  “Uh-oh,” I said. “Can you hurry it up?”

  Diesel rammed the screwdriver in one last time, wrenched it back, and the plaque popped off. He scooped it up and stepped off the stoop just as the front door opened and a man wearing boxers and a striped pajama top looked out at us.

  “What the devil?” the man said.

  We turned and ran, and I heard the man whistle and yell for Bruno. Seconds later, Bruno bounded out of The Key House and took off after us.

  “Dog,” I said, gasping for air. “BIG DOG!”

  The dog was doing a lot better on four legs than I was doing on my two. We were still a block from the car, and Bruno was gaining. Diesel stopped in front of a house with a six-foot privacy fence, grabbed me, and threw me over.

  One minute, I was running for all I was worth, and next thing, I was flying through the air, and then—wump—I was flat on my back in someone’s backyard. Diesel followed me over, landing on his feet.

  He bent down and looked at me. “Are you okay?”

  “Unh.”

  Bruno was barking and scratching at the fence.

  “He’s going to bring people,” Diesel said, pulling me to my feet. “We have to go.”

  We looked around. No place to go. Six-foot fence on all sides. No gates.

  “I’m going to alley-oop you into the next yard,” Diesel said.

  “No!”

  Too late. I was over the fence. Diesel came next. Same deal. No way out.

  “This is ridiculous,” Diesel said.

  He opened the back door to the house and the alarm went off. We raced through, found the front door, and walked out of the house.

  “That was easy,” he said.

  Diesel took the 1A all the way into Salem and drove to the bakery. I’d called to check on Clara and found she was at her sister’s house for the night. Glo was off on a date with the bellringer, and no one knew if Deirdre Early was still in the parking lot.

  “What are we going to do if she’s still there?” I asked Diesel.

  “We’re going to ignore her, break into the bakery, and get something to eat. I’m starving.”

  He turned the corner, his headlights flashed on the lot, and the lot appeared to be empty, with the exception of a grot
esque, twisted, large black piece of metal.

  “What is that?” I asked.

  “I think it’s your car,” Diesel said.

  “It can’t possibly be my car.”

  Diesel parked, we got out, and looked at the charred mess.

  “I’m pretty sure it’s your car,” Diesel said. “I can see part of the license plate.”

  “I loved that car!”

  “No you didn’t,” Diesel said. “It was one step away from scrap metal.”

  “Yes, but now I have no scrap metal.”

  “Let’s think about what we have here,” Diesel said. “Someone torched your car and Early’s town house. Probably the same person. Possibly Early, although I don’t know why she’d burn down her own house.”

  “Because she’s insane?”

  “Yeah, that could be one possibility.”

  “And then we also have a missing Early. Which could be that either the spell didn’t stick or else someone stole her.”

  “I’m going with the spell didn’t stick. I can’t imagine anyone wanting Deirdre Early.”

  “Bottom line is I have no idea what the hell’s going on,” Diesel said. “Are we raiding the bakery or do you have something better to eat at your house?”

  “I doubt there’s anything left here. We mostly do doughnuts and cookies on Sunday, and Clara isn’t opening for business tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Cat was waiting for us when we walked into the house. I scratched him behind his ear and apologized for leaving him alone all day. I think he might have rolled his eyes at me, but it’s hard to tell, since he only has one that works. I gave him a can of cat food and pulled stuff out of the refrigerator for a frittata.

  I’d had a chance to look at the plaque on the way home. There were some markings on the back that looked like hieroglyphics and random letters. I could feel a little heat and a mild vibration, but nothing to make my hair curl.

  Diesel was in the living room with the plaque and my computer, and I could hear the television droning in the background. Undoubtedly some sort of sporting event.

  I brought him a beer and some cheese and crackers to hold him until the frittata was out of the oven. “How’s it going? Any ideas?”

  “The original owner of The Key House, Malcom Key, and the architect, William M. Butterfield, belonged to the Boston Society of Natural History. They would have known Monroe Tichy, and most likely one or both of them was a follower of Lovey, or at least knew him. So maybe the Society is the common denominator. I’m guessing Duane and an early owner of the Van Gogh painting were also Society members.”

  “And either Lovey or one of the Society members had the unique ability to energize an object in such a way that another kind of energy would trigger a message.”

  “Yup.”

  “Do you know where any of this takes us next?”

  “No. It would help if something magically appeared on the plaque.”

  We looked at the plaque but nothing appeared.

  “It’s always something different,” I said. “The first clue was visible to Glo. The second clue was produced by the tone of the bell. The third clue responded to Carl. And the fourth clue was produced by the key.”

  “I have no basis for thinking this, but I can’t shake the feeling that the writing on the back of the plaque is the clue.”

  I left Diesel to study the clue he’d copied onto paper and returned to the kitchen. I didn’t have fresh greens for a salad, but I had some frozen French bread I could defrost, and there were vegetables in the frittata.

  The towels and sheets were still on the windows, and not doing a lot for my decorating scheme or my mood.

  “Someone toasted my car,” I said to Cat. “I think it might have been Deirdre Early. She’s a really mean person.”

  I took the frittata out of the oven, gave a slice to Cat, and plated the rest for Diesel and me, along with the bread. I brought the food into the living room and we ate in front of the television.

  “I found a connection,” Diesel said. “In 1885, a secret society, Sphinx, was founded at Dartmouth College. In 1903, the society erected a Sphinx Tomb on a small piece of land on Wheelock Street on the Dartmouth campus. William M. Butterfield was the architect for the Tomb. I downloaded a picture of it, and it’s hard to be sure, because the resolution isn’t as sharp as I’d like, but I think there are markings on the Sphinx cornerstone that resemble the hieroglyphics on the back of the plaque.”

  I looked at the downloaded picture and gave an inadvertent shudder. “Whoa, this is solemn. It actually looks like a tomb.”

  It was a windowless gray stone structure with stone steps leading up to a large solid door that was bordered by columns reminiscent of Egyptian temples. Difficult to tell how large the building was from the photo.

  “Does this mean we’ll be going to Dartmouth?” I asked.

  “It’s the best lead I have so far.”

  “Are we going tonight?”

  “No. You have to get naked tonight.”

  “In your dreams.”

  “Frequently,” Diesel said. “You look good.” He stared down at his empty plate. “Is there dessert?”

  “Fruit.”

  “Fruit isn’t a dessert unless it’s in pie crust.”

  I had my cell phone clipped to my jeans waistband, and I felt it buzz. I looked at the readout and saw Glo’s number.

  “Hey,” I said. “What’s going on?”

  “He wants the Lovey key,” Glo said.

  “Who?”

  “Wulf. He has me, Lizzy. I don’t know where I am. It’s dark and it smells like dirt, and Hatchet is here and he has knives. And he cut me, and I’m bleeding.”

  Her voice was shaking, and I could hear she was crying.

  “How bad are you bleeding?”

  “Not bad, but it hurts. And he says he’ll cut me more if you don’t bring the key.”

  “Is Wulf there?”

  “He was, but he left. And now I’m alone with Hatchet.”

  “Where are we supposed to bring the key?”

  “Hatchet is going to text you the address.”

  She sucked in a sob, and the connection was broken.

  I felt all the blood leave my brain, and bells started to clang in my head. I felt Diesel’s hand at the back of my neck, pushing my head down between my knees.

  “Breathe,” Diesel said.

  I got it together and sat up. “Sorry, that was a horrible phone call. They have Glo, and they want the key.”

  “Is it a serious threat?”

  “It sounded serious. She was crying, and she said Hatchet cut her.” I watched my phone for a text message. “He’s going to text me the address for the drop.”

  Diesel had his hand on my shoulder. “She’ll be fine. We’ll do whatever we have to to get her back.” He was quiet for a moment, lost in thought. “It’s interesting that they want the key,” Diesel said. “We used the key to get the clue in the State House. It didn’t occur to me that the key might have another purpose.”

  “Maybe they’re two steps behind us.”

  Diesel shook his head. “I think Wulf has always been two steps ahead of us. He’s using Hatchet as a dupe to slow us down.”

  “Do you think Hatchet knows he’s a dupe?”

  Diesel shrugged. “Hatchet sees his job as serving his liege lord in whatever capacity. His role is to do or die and not question why.”

  “Jeez.”

  “Yeah,” Diesel said. “You’d suck at it.”

  My phone chirped and the address came up in my text messages.

  “I’ve got it,” I said. “They want the key brought to Carter Street in Salem, and they’ll swap the key for Glo.”

  Diesel was on his feet. “Let’s go.”

  We locked the house, and in minutes we were leaving Marblehead and crossing into Salem. I was trying to stay calm, but I was shaking from anger and adrenaline. And I was heartsick. I was supposed to be saving the world, but my two best
friends were hurt because of me.

  Carter Street was in a residential part of North Salem. Most of the houses had been converted to multifamily or apartments and were in various stages of renovation, some showing obvious effects of a bad economy. I counted off numbers and had Diesel stop at a gray Georgian Colonial. Even at night I could see that paint was peeling from window frames and the roof was in disrepair. There were no lights shining from windows. The houses on either side were dark as well.

  “Wulf’s here,” Diesel said. “His car is parked in the driveway.”

  We walked to the door and Hatchet opened it just as Diesel was about to knock. Hatchet stepped back, and I could sense Wulf more than see him. He was lost in the dark room, with only his pale face visible.

  “I want to see her,” Diesel said.

  “The emotional drama isn’t necessary,” Wulf said. “This is a simple transaction.”

  He snapped his fingers at Hatchet, and Hatchet scurried into another room and returned with Glo. Glo looked disheveled and disoriented, and she had a bandage on her forearm.

  “I’m afraid Hatchet got carried away in my absence,” Wulf said. “Nothing serious, but she might drool a little for an hour or two.”

  Diesel gave Wulf the key, and Wulf motioned for Hatchet to release Glo.

  “You would make a terrible general,” Wulf said to Diesel. “You’re willing to sacrifice the many for the one.”

  “I was under the impression the key had already served its purpose.”

  “It’s the key,” Wulf said. “It’s the last step in the process.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It was all in the little book. While you were out bumbling around searching for clues, I was studying Lovey’s sonnets. And I finally have the last piece of the riddle.”

  “Why did you have Hatchet following us, trying to get the key and the clues, if it was all in the book?” I asked him.

  “There was no guarantee that the book would give me the final clue. Lovey was a complicated, devious man. So while I was working my way through his obscure references, I directed Hatchet to ensure you didn’t succeed in your treasure hunt.”

  “What did you give Glo?” I asked. “She looks drugged.”