Janet Evanovich: Wicked Business

Diesel looked over my shoulder at Reedy’s notes. “ Luxuria is Latin for lust .”

“You can read Latin?”

“Superbia, Acedia, Luxuria, Ira, Gula, Invidia, Avaritia. The seven deadly sins. That’s the extent of my Latin.”

“Do you think Reedy was killed because he was researching the Luxuria Stone?”

“People have chased after the stones for centuries, going on nothing more than blind faith that the stones exist, and they’ve done some horrific things to get them. It wouldn’t surprise me if Reedy was the latest victim in a long history of victims.”

We went silent at the sound of someone trying the doorknob. There was some scratching and jiggling. A pause. More scratching and jiggling. Another pause. Someone was trying to pick the lock and not having any success. Diesel went to the door, peeked out the security peephole, and turned back to me, smiling.

“It was Hatchet,” Diesel said. “It looks like he’s leaving.”

Steven Hatchet is a soft lump of dough with red scarecrow hair. He’s sworn allegiance to Wulf, dresses in full Renaissance regalia, and is off-the-chart crazy. He’s in his late twenties and is the only other human known to have an ability similar to mine. Supposedly, we can sense energy locked inside common objects. At first glance, it sounds like fantasyland to be able to do this, but I don’t imagine it’s much different from a farmer using a divining rod to find water underground. Although honestly, I’m not sure I believe in divining rods.

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.”

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.