Wicked Charms Read online

  “I have ways.” He glanced at the waffle in the toaster. “Not a healthy breakfast, but then maybe you’re not expecting to live that long.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re playing on the losing team, and the stakes are high.”

  “Another warning?”

  “An offer to come over to my side. There are dark forces who know about you, know about your special abilities. When they come for you, they won’t be easy to evade.”

  “I’m just a baker. I don’t even have a Facebook page. How would anyone know about me?”

  “You aren’t just a baker. You are an asset and a very rare and useful one. That kind of secret doesn’t stay secret very long from people who crave power. How do you think I found you? How do you think my cousin found you? And are you so sure he isn’t interested in the stone for himself?”

  “I’ll take my chances with Diesel.”

  “I could make your life very pleasant,” Wulf said. “Or very uncomfortable. Which will it be?”

  “Neither. Just leave me alone, and let me do my job.”

  “Finding the Avarice Stone for Diesel?”

  “Making cupcakes.”

  Wulf’s lips curved ever so slightly into a hint of a smile. His eyes were dilated totally black. There was a flash of light, and he was gone.

  I looked over at Cat. His tail was bushed out like a bottlebrush. “It’s a whole-wheat waffle,” I said to Cat. “It’s sort of healthy.”

  —

  Dazzle’s Bakery has been owned and operated by a Dazzle since Puritan times, and is now managed by Clarinda Dazzle. The shop is ancient, consisting of two rooms downstairs and a small apartment upstairs. The store part of the bakery fronts onto a narrow street that’s close to the harbor. The floor is the original wide-plank pine. The walls are whitewashed. The glass display cases are filled with cupcakes and cookies. Wicker baskets holding a variety of breads and breakfast pastries line the back counter. Clara and I work in the kitchen behind the shop, and between the two of us we make everything that’s sold up front.

  I rolled into the bakery at five o’clock. I flipped the light switch, and dialed into ’60s rock on my iPad. I love this part of my day when everything is a new beginning. I love that I’m the one to unlock the door and bring the bakery to life.

  I slipped on a white chef coat and got the yeast dough started. I had just moved on to cupcake batter when Clara showed up at five-thirty. Clara is divorced, is in her early forties, and lives in the apartment above the shop. She has a wiry mass of black hair shot with gray that she tries to contain in a knot at the nape of her neck. Her nose is Wampanoag Indian. The rest of her is sturdy New England pilgrim stock. I’ve been told that special abilities run in her family, and that she used to be one of us. Several years ago she made an unfortunate choice in the bedroom, and Clara was the one to get stripped of her power.

  “We have a lunch takeout for twelve with meat pies and cupcakes today,” Clara said. “Plus Mr. Duggan will be here at ten for his standing order of pretzel rolls.”

  “I’m on it.”

  Two hours later Glo swept in with her tote bag on her shoulder and her broom in hand.

  “Your tote bag has a big bulge in it,” I said to Glo.

  “I know. I made the most amazing purchase. I passed by a yard sale on my way to work just now, and a voice called out to me.”

  “Like when you bought Ripple’s Book of Spells.”

  “Exactly! Only this voice belonged to Emily Shipton. It was her yard sale.”

  “What did she sell you?”

  “A Magic 8 Ball. And she swore it could predict the future.” Glo took the 8 Ball out and held it in her hand. “Emily said it was empowered by her distant relative Mother Shipton.”

  “Mother Shipton was an English prophet who lived in a cave and died in the 1500s,” Clara said. “The Magic 8 Ball is a toy invented by Mattel in the 1950s.”

  “It could have been Mother Shipton’s spirit,” Glo said.

  I looked over at Broom, and I swear I saw him twitch.

  Glo dropped the Magic 8 Ball back into her tote. “I asked the 8 Ball if Lizzy would have another exciting night with Theodore Nergal, and it said, ‘As I see it, yes.’ ”

  “Who’s Theodore Nergal?” Clara asked.

  “I fixed Lizzy up with a date last night,” Glo said. “It was a spur-of-the-moment thing, but he was very cool. A doctor.”

  “He’s a coroner,” I said. “And he smelled like formaldehyde.”

  —

  I was working with the large pastry bag, piping pink cream cheese frosting onto a dozen cupcakes destined for a birthday party, when Diesel sauntered in.

  “Are you ready to go?” Diesel asked me.

  “Ready to go where?” I asked. “It’s ten o’clock. I don’t even get done till one.”

  “So, five minutes?” Diesel asked.

  Clara looked over from her workstation. “Is it important?”

  “You know how it is,” Diesel said, picking up one of the cupcakes and taking a bite. “The end of the world, maybe.”

  Clara shoved a strand of hair back from her forehead with her forearm. “Only maybe?”

  “Probably,” Diesel said.

  “If it’s ‘probably’ then Lizzy can have another ‘save the world’ day, but you’re using them up fast,” Clara said.

  I wasn’t in a rush to get on with saving the world. I’d been there and done that, and I wasn’t anxious to do it again.

  “Why can’t you save the world by yourself?” I asked Diesel. “Why do I have to go along?”

  “You have to do your touchy-feely thing. I’m big and strong and smokin’ hot, but I’m not touchy-feely.”

  This was all true.

  “I’ll be with you as soon as I finish this batch of cupcakes,” I said to Diesel.

  “I’ll help,” Diesel said, grabbing a second pastry bag off the counter.

  “No! I don’t need help.”

  “How hard can it be? You just squeeze the bag, and the stuff comes out.”

  Diesel squeezed the bag and pink frosting shot out and hit me in the head.

  I rolled my eyes up, as if I could see the gunk that was now stuck in my hair.

  “You did that on purpose,” I said to Diesel.

  Diesel smiled wide and swiped some frosting off my forehead with his finger. “No, but I like it. It’s a good look for you.”

  Glo was standing in the doorway.

  “It’s true,” Glo said to me. “Pink is your color.”

  “Okay, enough fun,” Diesel said. “We need to get moving. Lots to do, and you have a meeting with Martin Ammon at four.”

  Everyone froze.

  “Martin Ammon?” Clara asked. “The Martin Ammon?”

  “He has a map and a diary that I’d like to see,” Diesel said.

  I went back to icing the cupcakes. “So why don’t you just introduce yourself and ask if you can see them?”

  “Because I might want to see them for an extended amount of time. And it’s more than that. It could be helpful if you got friendly with Ammon. You could keep your eye on him.”

  “Why me?”

  “You’re cute. And you have a hook. You make magical cupcakes.”

  “Yes, but…”

  “I was sitting in your kitchen, and I realized it would be easy for you to get friendly with Ammon. He’s a publisher and you have a cookbook.”

  “You didn’t!”

  “Yeah, I did. You had a copy of your cookbook on the counter, so I messengered it over to him with a dozen cupcakes.”

  “Where did you get the cupcakes?”

  “You had them in your freezer.”

  “Omigod. Crap on a cracker.”

  “It’s all good,” Diesel said. “I sent a note with the package saying how you had this amazing cookbook idea, and all he had to do was try one of your cupcakes to know they were like magic.”

  “And?”

  “And his assi
stant called right away and said that Ammon would like to see you at four o’clock at his Marblehead house.”

  “That is so cool,” Glo said. “He’s like mega rich. He’s a gazillionaire. I bet his house is made out of gold. What are you going to wear? Are you going to dress up like a chef?”

  Everyone stared at me, taking in my outfit. Jeans, sneakers, T-shirt under a chocolate-smudged chef coat. Hair punked up with pink frosting.

  “Maybe not a chef,” Clara said.

  “You should get something new,” Glo said. “This is an important meeting.”

  I shrugged out of my chef coat. “While I’m at it, I should also get my hair done, buy some makeup, and lose five pounds.”

  “Don’t forget a manicure,” Glo said.

  I checked my watch and gave up a sigh. “I have six hours, more or less, to whip myself into shape.” I looked at Diesel. “How much time do you think it will take to save the world?”

  Diesel grinned down at me. “Less time than it will take for you to lose five pounds.”

  I followed Diesel out of the bakery to his SUV, and saw that Carl wasn’t in the backseat. “No monkey?” I asked.

  “I left him at the apartment.”

  “You have an apartment already?”

  “I have friends in high places. They have ways of getting things done fast.”

  I had no idea what that meant, and I wasn’t going to ask. I’d reached the conclusion that it was best not to know too much about Diesel.

  “Wulf popped into my kitchen this morning,” I said.

  Diesel looked over at me. “He have anything interesting to say?”

  “Mostly it was dire warnings of my bleak future.”

  —

  Ten minutes later, Diesel pulled into the lot attached to Salem Hospital and parked. We entered the hospital and found our way to the State Pathology Department. Nergal’s office door was open, and Nergal was working at his computer when we walked in.

  “Knock, knock,” I said.

  Nergal looked up and smiled. “Hey. Find any more mummies?”

  “Nope,” I said. “Just the one. We’d like some information on him.”

  “I haven’t done the autopsy yet so there’s not much to tell,” Nergal said.

  “Have you had a chance to look through his clothes?”

  “Not since last night.”

  “Did you find anything last night?” Diesel asked him.

  Nergal sat up a little straighter. “What do you mean?”

  While Diesel was talking to Nergal, I walked around the room, skimming my hand across surfaces, looking for a vibration or a tingle or heat.

  “Was anything interesting stuck in his clothes?” Diesel asked. “Like a coin?”

  Nergal went silent for a beat. “Um…” he finally said.

  I put my hand on Nergal’s shoulder. Nothing.

  “Try his pockets,” Diesel said.

  Nergal shrank away from me. “What’s going on?”

  “We think there might have been a coin on the dead guy,” Diesel said. “And it’s not on him now.”

  “How do you know?” Nergal asked.

  “I looked,” Diesel said.

  Nergal jumped to his feet. “You’re not allowed to look. How did you get in to look?”

  “I’m special,” Diesel said.

  I ran my hand over Nergal’s pants pocket and felt a definite vibration.

  “He’s got it,” I said.

  Nergal moved away from me. “You’re freaking me out. Who are you? What are you?”

  I looked over at Diesel. “You want to field this one?”

  “You have the coin in your pocket,” Diesel said to Nergal.

  “So what?” Nergal said. “It’s not a crime. It’s evidence.”

  “I’ve seen the evidence list, and the coin isn’t on it,” Diesel said. “So it looks to me like you stole some evidence.”

  “It’s just an old coin,” Nergal said. “It’s not even a whole coin. It’s just a piece of a coin.” He pulled it out of his pocket and held it in the palm of his hand. “Why are you so interested in this?”

  “It’s a small but important piece of a puzzle,” Diesel said. “Why did you want it?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Nergal said. “It’s too weird.”

  “Try me,” Diesel said.

  Nergal adjusted his Harry Potter glasses. “If I touch a dead body, I can sense the last thing he or she was thinking before death.” He shifted foot to foot. “I know that’s crazy. I used to think it was my imagination, but sometimes I learn things that turn out to be true.”

  “Wow,” I said, “that’s amazing.”

  He shrugged. “Most people’s last thoughts are pretty mundane. I get a lot of people wishing they’d worn clean underwear. Or wishing they’d deleted their browser history. Folks are surprisingly pragmatic.”

  “So they don’t get all profound at the end?”

  “Not so much,” Nergal said. “Still, every now and then someone tells me something interesting. Like the guy in the cage. I guess I shouldn’t have taken the coin, but I didn’t see any harm in it. I didn’t think it had real value.”

  “Do you have any other talents besides the dead thing?” Diesel asked him. “Can you fly? Can you talk to grasshoppers?”

  “No. I can’t do either of those things.”

  “He’s not listed in our database,” Diesel said to me.

  “What database?” Nergal asked.

  “The one that records people with enhanced abilities,” I said.

  Nergal’s mouth dropped open, and his eyes got wide. “You mean there are others?”

  “Yep,” I said. “We’re called Unmentionables.”

  “Not officially,” Diesel said.

  I looked over at him. “You told me we were called Unmentionables.”

  “That’s more of a nickname. Like calling people from Massachusetts ‘Mass-holes.’ ”

  “Well, what’s the official name for people with enhanced abilities?” I asked.

  Diesel shrugged. “People with enhanced abilities?”

  “I thought I was the only one,” Nergal said. “I never told anyone. And now I find out there are others like me.”

  “Not exactly like you,” I said. “We all have different talents. I can locate certain empowered objects. Some people can bend spoons. Others can make it rain.”

  “That’s so cool,” Nergal said. “And you guys have, like, a club?”

  “No club,” Diesel said.

  “Do you have parties?” Nergal asked. “Mixers?”

  Diesel grinned. “Sorry, dude,” he said. “No mixers.”

  “So if you don’t have parties, how did Lizzy get frosting in her hair?” Nergal asked.

  “It’s work-related,” I said, gesturing toward my head.

  “Tell me about the pirate prisoner,” Diesel said to Nergal. “What did you learn from him?”

  “The first thought I got was ‘peg leg.’ That’s how I found the piece of the coin. I heard the thought, and I looked down at the man’s wooden leg and saw that a piece of a coin was lying next to it. It must have fallen out.”

  “Did he have any other thoughts?”

  “The last thought he had before he was shot was ‘At least McCoy will never be able to find the treasure without all eight pieces of the coin.’ And his attitude was odd. The guy was almost happy. No, not happy. Gloating. That’s the closest I can come to it.” Nergal exhaled a long breath. “I can’t tell you how good it feels to talk about all this. Can I have the names of other people in the club? Do we have a Facebook page?”

  “No and no,” Diesel said, taking the piece of coin from him.

  —

  “This is going to be a real pain in the ass,” Diesel said when we got back to the car. “Some idiot cut the coin up into eight pieces.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Clara was rolling out cookie dough in the kitchen when we returned. “Have you finished saving the world?” sh
e asked Diesel.

  “Just starting,” Diesel said. “I assume by now Glo’s told you about the skeleton in the cage at the Pirate Museum.”

  “I know every detail,” Clara said.

  “We’ve been doing some detective work, and it looks like the skeleton in the cage might be Peg Leg Dazzle,” I said to Clara.

  Clara stopped in mid-roll. “Are you serious?”

  “Pretty much,” I said. “Do you know anything about him?”

  “Peg Leg was my great-uncle,” Clara said. “His real name was Collier. He was my grandfather’s older brother. Gramps didn’t know him very well because Collier disappeared when Gramps was just a kid, but we’ve all heard lots of stories about Collier. He was a cod fisherman who lost his leg when it got tangled in rigging during a storm. He chose a wooden peg leg over a prosthetic, gave up on cod fishing, and went into business with Billy McCoy.

  “Gramps said Collier used to drive him to a soda fountain on Essex Street, buy him milkshakes, and tell him stories of pirates and buried treasure. He even gave Gramps a couple pieces of a coin that was supposed to be a clue to finding the most fabulous treasure of all time. Collier said he got the coin from a pirate named Bellows. And Gramps said the pieces matched up to a couple more pieces Collier kept in his peg leg.”

  I looked over at Diesel. “Oh boy.”

  “No kidding,” Diesel said.

  “Did you ever get to see the pieces of coin Collier gave to your grandfather?” Diesel asked.

  “I did,” Clara said. “Gramps used to show them to me all the time when I was a kid.”

  Diesel pulled the pirate prisoner’s chunk of coin out of his pocket and placed it on the workbench. “Did they look like this?”

  “Yes!”

  “Do you know what happened to them?” Diesel asked.

  “I assume Gramps still has them.”

  “He’s still alive?”

  “The Dazzles have surprisingly long lifespans,” Clara said. “Unless you partner up with Billy McCoy. Collier isn’t the first McCoy partner to mysteriously disappear. I suspect McCoy wasn’t good at sharing the wealth.”

  “How old is Gramps?” I asked Clara.

  “Gramps is ninety-eight, and he doesn’t look a day over a hundred and ten.”

  “I’d like to talk to him,” Diesel said.

  “You’ll have to wait until tomorrow,” Clara said. “He’s on a seniors’ bus trip to Mohegan Sun Casino. He likes to play the slots. He won’t get back until late tonight.”