Janet Evanovich: Wicked Appetite

“That’s a scramble spell,” Nina said. “There are many different kinds, and some are very powerful.”

“Prac,” Shirley said. “Rub a dub me.”

Glo bit into her lower lip. “I was hoping it would wear off all by itself.”

“Most temporary spells expire at twenty-four hours,” Nina said. “If the spell lasts beyond twenty-four hours, it’s likely to be permanent.”

“Maybe there’s a one-size-fits-all reverse spell,” I said. “Something generic.”

“I could look through The Big Book of Oaths and Potions,” Nina said. “It’s the definitive work. In the meantime, you can try to find the spell in Ripple’s.”

“One more thing,” Glo said. “I couldn’t fly.”

“Flying is tricky,” Nina told her. “You might want to add pixie dust to the base spell. I have some on sale.”

Diesel was lounging in front of the bakery when we returned.

“Hey,” he said to Shirley. “How’s it going?”

“Yellow apple crap,” Shirley said.

Diesel nodded. “I hear you.”

“We’re still working on finding the reverse spell,” I said to Diesel. “And Glo got some discounted pixie dust to help her fly.”

“To infinity and beyond,” Diesel said to Glo.

We pushed into the bakery and Shirley retrieved her boxes of cupcakes.

“Don’t worry,” Clara said to her. “We’ll get this straightened out.”

“Yeah, and be careful on your way home,” I told her.

Shirley gave a curt nod. “Hockey puck.”

Diesel followed me into the kitchen and swiped a cupcake. “Did you get a chance to talk to Shirley?”

“Shirley talks gobbledegook. The Exotica lady said if the spell was temporary, it would wear off in twenty-four hours. That means if we’re lucky, Shirley will be coherent at seven-thirty tonight. We can talk to her then. Unless it’s not really a spell at all, and she’s just yanking our chain. Or maybe she’s had a stroke. Do you think we should have taken her to the emergency room?”

“I think we should have signed her up for Cupcake Eaters Anonymous.”

I put my chef coat back on and rewrapped my apron around myself. I still had several dozen chocolate chip cupcakes to decorate before I could leave for the day. I filled the pastry bag with icing and went to work, with Diesel watching me.

“Don’t you have something important to do?” I asked him.

“I’m doing it. I’m protecting you.”

“You didn’t feel the need to protect me at five o’clock this morning.”

“I can’t see Wulf getting up at five. Wulf mostly goes to bed at five.”

I finished topping the cupcakes, sprinkled chocolate jimmies on them, and transferred them to the rolling rack, so Glo could box them for a party pickup.

“Now what?” Diesel asked.

“Now I clean up after myself, and then I can go home to work on my cookbook.”

“I didn’t know you were writing a cookbook.”

“I need money so I can fix my foundation. I had a good idea for a cookbook, but now I have to write it and sell it.”

“Is it a cupcake book?”

“Not entirely.”

I turned my back on Diesel and loaded the industrial-size sink with dirty mixing bowls and pastry bags. I didn’t want to get into cookbook details with him. The title of the book was Hot Guys Cooking for Hungry Women, and all the recipes would be presented by a hot guy. I thought it was a good marketing ploy, but I was worried about the message it might send to a man who was already way too comfy sleeping in my bed.

Glo came back with her book of spells and a packet of pixie dust. She placed the book on the work island, opened it to a marked page, and followed along with her finger.

“Uppity uppity rise thyself,” Glo read from the book. “Wings of magic, heart of believer, eyes open, spirit soar. Uppity uppity rise thyself.”

Nothing. She didn’t rise.

“Darn,” Glo said.

Diesel was watching, thumbs tucked into the pockets of his jeans, smiling. “Personally, I think you need more uppities.”

“No,” she said. “I read it perfectly.”

“Maybe you don’t have wings of magic,” I told her. “Or the heart of a believer.” Or how about this… how about the book is fiction.

“I’m pretty sure I have the heart of a believer. It has to be the wings of magic, but I might be able to compensate with the pixie dust.”

She took a pinch from the packet, repeated the spell, and sprinkled the pixie dust onto the top of her head.

Nothing happened.

“Pixie dust is supposed to sparkle,” Diesel said. “Your dust doesn’t have any sparkle.”

“It was on sale,” Glo said. “Maybe I didn’t use enough.”

She chanted the spell one more time and threw a handful of dust at herself. Some of the dust flew past her onto the gas range and ignited like a July 4th sparkler. Pop, pop, pop, pop. The pops turned into swoosh and a ribbon of flame raced along the top of the stove and set fire to a roll of paper towels. Diesel calmly grabbed the flaming towels and pitched them into the sink.

Glo looked dejected. “I suppose there’s no substitute for wings of magic.”

“Flying is overrated anyway,” Diesel said.

I removed the soaked towels from the sink and finished scrubbing my bowls.

“How do you know so much about sparkling pixie dust?” I asked Diesel.

“Tinker Bell.”

It was almost one when I cruised down Weatherby Street. The street was narrow and slightly winding, as befitting a road originally designed for horse traffic. Houses were close together. Windows were thrown open to catch the fresh air. Flowerpots had been crammed onto small front stoops. Paint schemes dated back to colonial days. Some houses were freshly painted and some had paint peeling. This was no Stepford neighborhood.

Diesel had driven Glo’s car to the bakery, so he was riding shotgun. I stopped at the entrance to my driveway, and we swiveled our heads toward the two vans parked in front of my house. Six men stood on the sidewalk beside the vans. Two of the men had Handycams. A third guy had a rolling hard-side suitcase. I parked, and we walked over to the men.

“What’s going on?” Diesel asked.

“Spook Patrol,” one of the guys said. “We’re here to investigate a sighting. Are you the home owner?”

“Nope,” Diesel said. “The ticked-off-looking blonde is the home owner.”

The guy plastered a smile onto his face and stuck his hand out to me. “Mel Mensher. We’d like to take a daytime and a nighttime reading.”

Mel Mensher was in his late twenties. He was slim, dressed in jeans and layers of shirts-T-shirt, flannel shirt, sweatshirt. His brown hair was receding at a good clip.

“There’s been a huge mistake,” I said. “There was no sighting. Just a nicotine addict dressed in black looking out my bedroom window.”

“That’s not what our ghost-o-meter says. We ran it across your front door, and it went off the chart.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I told him. “That’s impossible.”

“Not entirely,” Diesel said.

I looked up at him. “Anything you want to tell me?”

“It’s possible that Wulf and I have an unusual energy field.”

“There you have it,” I said to Mel Mensher. “The big guy here has an unusual energy field.”

“Lady, I’m talking full-blown spectral phenomenon.”

“Well?” I asked Diesel.

“I’m not spectral, but I’ve been told I can be pretty damn phenomenal.”

Of all the outrageous statements made today, this one I feared might be true.

One of the men approached Diesel with a handheld instrument. The machine clicked and hummed, and colored lights blinked. The guy reached out and touched Diesel.