Wicked Business Page 9

  Carl got to the table first. He climbed onto his booster chair and sat with excited expectancy. I tied a napkin around his neck and brought him his dinner in a wide bowl. No fork. No spoon. No knife.

  “Finger food,” I said to Carl.

  “Eeeh?”

  I picked a piece of chicken out of his bowl and held it out to him. “Eat it with your fingers.”

  “That’s a disaster waiting to happen,” Diesel said, taking his seat.

  “What do you feed him?”

  “Hot dogs, peanut butter sandwiches, Cheerios, and mangoes.”

  “No wonder he likes to eat here.”

  “Yeah,” Diesel said. “For the same reason I like to eat here.”

  I brought bowls of stir-fry for Diesel and me, and I sat down.

  Carl looked at me and carefully selected a piece of chicken from his bowl. “Eeh?” Carl asked.

  “Exactly,” I said. “Eat it.”

  “I’m not cleaning up the mess,” Diesel said.

  “There’s no mess. He’s being careful.”

  “I bet you were a pushover in high school,” Diesel said. “A guy could probably tell you anything and you believed it.”

  “I wasn’t a pushover until culinary school. I was a late bloomer.”

  Carl picked out a peapod and ate it. He ate another chunk of chicken. He ate a single grain of rice. He stared into his bowl. He looked at me. He looked at Diesel. He looked back into his bowl. He swiped up a fistful of food and shoved it into his mouth. A few grains of rice fell out of Carl’s mouth onto the table. He fisted more food and lost half of it to the floor. He gave the floor the finger, smushed his face into the bowl, and licked it clean. He looked up at me and smacked his lips. “Cha, cha, cha.”

  “You have rice stuck in your fur,” I said.

  Carl gave me the finger, jumped off his booster chair, walked into the living room, and turned the television on.

  “Does he know that’s rude?” I asked Diesel.

  Diesel forked into a piece of chicken. “It’s hard to tell what Carl knows.”

  “Are you making any progress on the latest message?”

  “We’re back to Shakespeare. The silence of pure innocence persuades when speaking fails is a quote from The Winter’s Tale. Basically, it means sometimes silence speaks louder than words. The second sentence references Tichy.”

  Diesel got up and returned with a notepad.

  “Peder Tichy was a Danish paleontologist, geologist, and engineer,” he read. “Born May 11, 1790. Died March 17, 1862. He grew up in Copenhagen and, after emigrating to the United States, became a professor of natural history at Harvard.”

  “Interesting but not helpful.”

  “He was a pretty influential guy. There are a bunch of landmarks around Boston named for him. There’s a neighborhood in Cambridge called Tichytown, a town in Northern Algeria named for him, and a dinosaur resembling Stegosaurus named Tichasaurus Armatus.”

  “If the next clue is in Algeria, you’re on your own.”

  “I thought we’d start with the landmarks. I have four, and they’re all in Cambridge.”

  “Tonight?”

  “No. Tomorrow. It’ll be easier in daylight. And I have a date tonight.”

  This produced an instant sick feeling in my stomach. The guy who slept next to me naked last night had a date. And it wasn’t with me. Okay, so nothing actually happened between us, and he had every right to see other women, and it wasn’t like he was my boyfriend. So why did I feel like someone just stuck a fork in my heart?

  He stared down at his empty plate. “Is there dessert?”

  “No.”

  “Jeez,” he said. “I was just asking.”

  “Sorry. I guess that came out snappy. I have ice cream.”

  “Ice cream would be great.”

  I had vanilla, chocolate, and coffee ice cream. I knew chocolate was his favorite, so I brought him coffee. I wasn’t liking him a whole lot.

  He finished his ice cream and checked his watch. “I have to run.” He pushed away from the table and kissed me on the top of my head. “I’m leaving Carl here.”

  And he was gone.

  “Scumbag!” I yelled at the closed door.

  Carl turned the television up a notch.

  “And you better watch your step,” I said to Carl, shaking my finger at him. “You’re on thin ice.”

  I collected the dishes and huffed off to the kitchen. I was such a dope. I should never have brought him ice cream. Let him get his own dumb ice cream. And he wasn’t sleeping in my bed tonight, either. Let him sleep in her bed. Okay, that was unrealistic. I had no way of keeping him out of my bed. He just unlocked the door, dropped his boxers on the floor, and sneaked under the covers. Not to mention, I had no way of knowing if he was seeing other women. It wasn’t something we discussed. And it would be logical to assume a guy with that much testosterone would want to deposit it somewhere once in a while.

  “Men!” I said, dumping the dishes into the dishwasher.

  Cat 7143 was sitting on the counter with his half-tail curled around him.

  “My life is confusing,” I said to Cat. “I can’t get a grip on it. And I’m ridiculously attracted to an idiot.”

  Cat blinked and I took that as a suggestion to have a glass of wine. I cleaned the kitchen, had a second glass, and trudged upstairs. I shucked my clothes and dressed for bed in sweatpants, sweatshirt, and thick socks. I couldn’t keep him out of my bed, but I could insulate myself from him.

  I was wide awake and sweating like a pig in my insulation when I heard Diesel come home. It was ten o’clock. Not an especially long date. He came into the dark room, kicked his shoes off, and disappeared into the bathroom. He returned in a couple minutes, and the rest of his clothes hit the floor. He slipped under the covers and went dead still for a couple beats.

  “What the heck are you wearing?” he asked.

  “Workout clothes. I was cold.”

  “Well, you’re not cold now. You’re lying there in a pool of sweat.”

  “I might be coming down with something.”

  “Me, too. I’m coming down with a strong desire to relinquish my power and spend the rest of my days in the park, eating baloney sandwiches.”

  “Did the date not go well?”

  He covered his eyes with his hands and groaned. “Hideous. She gave me a migraine.”

  “Why are you dating someone who gives you a migraine?”

  “I’m not dating her. She called and wanted to see me.”

  I was getting a strange feeling about this. “Are we talking about anyone I know?”

  “Deirdre Early. I told you I was going into town to see her.”

  “No you didn’t.”

  “I yelled it to you when I got off the phone with her. You were in the kitchen.”

  “I didn’t hear you.”

  I wanted to get out of bed, take all my clothes off, and do a happy dance, but I restrained myself.

  “What did she want?” I asked Diesel.

  “Mostly information. She’s definitely after the stone. I don’t know if she’s always been after it, or if she learned about it from Reedy. She’s one of us, but she’s not in the registry, and I can’t pinpoint her power. She brushed it off when I mentioned it.”

  “And she gives you a migraine.”

  “Yeah. I have heightened senses, and that includes a sensitivity to power. She’s got a lot of it, and it’s all negative.” He wrapped an arm around me. “You have a lot of power, too, but it’s positive. You feel like sunshine.”

  “Wow.”

  He was pressed against me, his lips brushing my ear. “What do I feel like?”

  “Um, solid.”

  “I’m more solid than usual,” he said. “I get turned on by women in workout clothes.”

  “I could take my clothes off, if that would help,”

  “Not a good idea right now,” Diesel said.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  It was ten in the
morning, and Glo had Ripple’s open on the counter. “I think I found a spell that will fix Hatchet. It’s a general undoing spell. It’s like one of those programs you run in your computer to get rid of a virus.”

  “Are you sure his problem is a spell?” Clara asked. “Have you considered the possibility that he needs to change his diet?”

  “I guess that’s something to think about,” Glo said. “The spell could have been a coincidence. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to try my new spell out on him. I know he has some aggression issues, but he’s kind of interesting. I’ve been following his blogs and tweets. He knows a lot about old castles and poison and medieval torture.”

  “Lovely,” Clara said. “What every woman looks for in a man.”

  “He might be stopping in this morning for me to de-fart him. Just don’t let him touch anything edible, and keep him away from sharp objects,” Glo said.

  A half hour later, Hatchet walked in. He was wearing a black-and-silver tunic, black tights, and beat-up Nike running shoes. He had his sword at his waist, and he looked like he was seven months pregnant.

  Mrs. Weintraub was selecting a dozen cupcakes for a birthday party when Hatchet got in line behind her and farted.

  “I’ll take six chocolate and six strawberry,” Mrs. Weintraub said to Glo, pretending not to have noticed Hatchet.

  Brrrrrrrp.

  Mrs. Weintraub sneaked a peek over her shoulder and saw that the noise was coming from a medieval minion. This was unusual, because most of the crackpots in Salem were dressed like witches and werewolves.

  “Goodness,” Mrs. Weintraub said.

  “Pardon my flatulence and bloat, good woman,” Hatchet said. “A curse has been set upon me.”

  Glo handed Mrs. Weintraub her box of cupcakes. “No charge,” Glo said. “You should leave before they suck up the farts.”

  “Farewell,” Hatchet said to Mrs. Weintraub.

  “You gotta learn to control yourself,” Glo said to Hatchet.

  “I need not control. I need relief from this vile bag of gas and stench.”

  “I hear you,” Glo said. “I think I found something. It’s a broad-spectrum antidote to whatever ails you. Stand in front of the counter and do what I tell you.”

  Hatchet stood at attention.

  “Begone, begone all manner of enchanted suggestion,” Glo read. “Evil eye and witches brew, charmed touch, tainted blood, foul drugged sleep forever leave this vessel, this Hatchet.” She snapped her fingers twice. “Turn around three times and clap your hands once,” she said to Hatchet.

  Hatchet turned around three times and clapped his hands once. We watched and waited. Two minutes passed. No fart. We all breathed a sigh of relief.

  “It worked,” Hatchet said.

  “I was supposed to seal the deal with powdered frickberry, but it’s on back order, so this might not last forever,” Glo said to Hatchet. “Just come back if you need a refresher spell.”

  “Very well, but before I take my leave, I must purchase a red velvet cupcake.”

  Glo put one in a bakery bag and passed it over to him. “Sorry about tackling you last night, but you shouldn’t have been eavesdropping. That’s really rude.”

  “My master is on a holy quest, and I am honor bound to help him in any manner.”

  “Has he figured out the riddle yet?” I asked.

  “None of thou’s beeswax,” Hatchet said. “But I will say this . . . we will succeed where you will fail. And now I must be off to do my master’s bidding.”

  We watched him swish out the door with his bakery bag, and Clara lit a scented candle and sprayed the shop with air freshener.

  “That was impressive,” I said to Glo. “The reverse spell worked.”

  “It would have been even better if I’d had the frickberry. And I was supposed to throw a pinch of ground salamander tail over my shoulder when I read about the tainted blood, but obviously it wasn’t important.”

  “Oh boy,” Clara said.

  “It wasn’t as if he had tainted blood,” Glo said. “At least, none that I know about.”

  I returned to the kitchen and finished piping frosting onto my cupcakes. I helped Clara with the bread, and I cleaned my workstation. I looked up and saw that Glo was standing in the doorway. Her eyes were huge and her face was white.

  “There’s someone here to see you,” she said to me. “She said her name was Deirdre Early, and I don’t know why, but I feel like I’m having a panic attack. I’ve never had a panic attack before.”

  I wiped my hands on a kitchen towel and handed Glo a lemon meringue cupcake. “Take a deep breath and eat a cupcake,” I told her. “I’ll talk to Deirdre.”

  The shop was empty except for Early, and I understood Glo’s problem when I stood behind the counter. Deirdre Early had a way of sucking the air out of a room, or at least of making a room feel airless. Her short black hair was flat and glossy, tucked behind one ear, sweeping across the other half of her face. Her skin was Kabuki white. Her eyes were lined with black kohl. Her lips were fire-engine red. She was dressed in high-heeled boots, skin-tight black leather pants, and a blousy red silk shirt.

  “I know who you are,” she said to me, her voice soft, barely above a whisper, her eyes fully dilated black. “And I know what you do. And I’m telling you now, if you continue to serve Diesel, I will destroy you. Literally. When I’m done with you, there will only be ashes scattered by the wind.”

  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 firs
t 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.