Janet Evanovich: Wicked Appetite

Cat sneezed and shook his head.

“Should there be a sign that it worked?” I asked Glo. “Like a flash of light or a bell ringing?”

“ Ripple’s didn’t say anything about that.”

“What was the powder?”

“I don’t know exactly. I got it from the Exotica store. It’s supposed to be a spell enhancer.”

We stood for a couple beats, waiting for a sign, but no sign was forthcoming.

“I hope it worked,” Glo said.

“Me, too.”

“It’s a little scary, since in the past some of my spells haven’t turned out perfect.”

That was a gross understatement. I searched my brain for a change of subject and settled on her broom.

“How’s the broom doing?” I asked her.

“It’s a process,” Glo said.

The door opened and Clara rushed in. “I just saw Shirley. She’s three blocks away, and my guess is she’s headed for the bakery, and she’s going at it like Godzilla storming Tokyo.”

“Oh no!” Glo said. “Lock the door. Does she have a gun?”

“Not that I could see,” Clara said. “You didn’t do any more reading from Ripple’s, did you?”

“It was just a teensy spell,” Glo said. “And it was a do-good spell, I swear.”

Clara looked around. “Were there any explosions? Fire? Did anyone get shingles?”

“Yipes! There she is!” Glo said, spotting Shirley through the window.

Shirley threw the door open, and Glo ducked down behind the counter.

“Ta da,” Shirley sang, making an expansive gesture. “I’m not gobbling anymore.”

Glo peeked over the counter.

“I owe you all an apology,” Shirley said. “The whole gobbledegook thing wasn’t your fault at all. I went to the doctor yesterday after I visited the cemetery, and he decided to take me off the blood pressure medication. He said it was possible that I was talking funny from the medication, plus the power of suggestion. And he was right. It just kicked in. I was walking down the street, coming to the bakery to buy bread, and I felt something go ding in my head, and it was like this week never happened.”

“Gee, that’s great,” I said to Shirley. I looked over at Glo. “Isn’t that great, Glo?”

“Yeah,” Glo said. “That’s great.”

Clara moved behind the counter. “What kind of bread do you want?” she asked Shirley.

“Rye without the seeds.”

Clara bagged a rye bread and handed it to Shirley. “It’s on the house.”

The back door opened and closed, and Diesel and Carl moseyed in.

“Shirley can talk,” I told him. “It just happened.”

“Congratulations,” Diesel said.

“Sorry I went goofy at the cemetery,” Shirley said. “What was it you wanted to ask me?”

“I wanted to know about Phil’s funeral.”

“It was just an ordinary funeral,” Shirley said. “A short ceremony at the funeral home chapel and then a few words at graveside. I didn’t know any of the people.”

“Was anything buried with Phil? A keepsake or a photo?”

“Not that I know, but it was a closed casket. The viewing was closed casket, too. I guess he left really specific instructions about all that. I barely got here in time. He died, and the next day I was on a plane. The lawyer sent me a ticket. And then Phil had an evening viewing, and he was buried the next morning.”

“Do you remember the funeral home?”

“It was Chippers, but they’re not here anymore. Old Mr. Chippers died last year, and his kids sold the business.”

“Anything else?”

Shirley took a moment. “That’s all. Except he had a special casket. I guess he picked it out himself and had it waiting. I think that’s kind of gruesome, but it seems Uncle Phil had his quirks.”

“Can you describe the casket?”

“Dark wood. Like mahogany. And lots of carvings. Vines, flowers, bugs. Very ornate. And a big eye on the top of it.”

Shirley left with her bread, and Clara, Glo, and I exchanged looks that said What the heck am I supposed to think now?

“I suppose it could have been the blood pressure medicine,” Glo finally said.

“You never know how people are going to react to medicine,” I said.

“Anything’s possible,” Clara said.

Diesel put his hand to my neck and squeezed a little. Not hard enough to leave a bruise, but hard enough to get my attention. “You weren’t supposed to go out of the house without me.”

“No. That’s not entirely accurate,” I said. “You told me not to go out alone. And I’m not alone. I brought Cat.”

“Cat doesn’t count,” Diesel said.

Cat jumped to his feet, arched his back, and hissed at Diesel, showing dagger-sharp fangs.

“I stand corrected,” Diesel said.

It was seven o’clock, and Cat and Carl were back in front of the television. Diesel was on a stool in the kitchen, one leg extended, one leg bent, arms crossed over his chest, watching me work.

I was rearranging my pantry, checking expiration dates, lining up cereal boxes and jars of jelly. It was a lame attempt to convince myself I had some control over my life. Okay, so I might not be able to get rid of Diesel and his save-the-world deal, but dammit, I could set my pantry in order. And when I was done with the pantry, I was heading upstairs to the sock drawer.

“I’m surprised you’re hanging out,” I said to Diesel. “Shouldn’t you be thumb wrestling Wulf for the last charm?”

“Yes, but it’s more fun watching you decide if the jelly should be color coordinated or alphabetized. And when you reach for stuff on the top shelf, I get to see skin between your shirt and your jeans.”

“I didn’t know you were interested in fun.”

“Honey, I’m all about fun.”

“It looks to me like you’re all about responsibility.”

Diesel stood and took his cell phone out of his pocket. “It’s a phase. And you’re right about Wulf. I should be thumb wrestling with him.” He tapped a number into his phone and waited while the connection was made. “We need to talk,” Diesel said into the phone. He listened for a long moment and stared down at his shoe. “Understood,” he said. And he hung up.

“Is he going to give you the last charm?” I asked.

“I’ve never understood the function of the charms, only that they would either lead us to the Stone or that in some magical way they would become the Stone. Apparently, that’s Wulf’s ace in the hole. Wulf figured out that the charms were keys. And he knew what the keys opened. And unfortunately, he has that object in his possession.”

I had a horrifying flash of insight. “Uncle Phil’s casket.”

“Yes.”

It took Diesel twenty minutes to collect the three charms. Just enough time for me to finish straightening my sock drawer. I’d tried my best to stay calm by keeping busy, but my stomach was churning. Carl and Cat had refused to stay behind, so we had them with us in the Lincoln.

The sun was setting on Salem when we rolled into town with the windows down, the idea being that the rush of air might save me from going gluttonously nutty.

“How are you doing?” Diesel asked me.

“Doughnut,” I said.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m fine,” I told him. “I’ve got it under control. Hot dog.”

Crap! Did I just say hot dog?

“Try to hold it together,” Diesel said.

“You know how you get that tickle in the back of your throat when a killer cold is coming on? I have that tickle everywhere.”

The address Wulf gave Diesel was close to Pickering Wharf Marina. It was a two-story, warehouse-type building with a corrugated metal roof and cinder-block sides. FRUG SEAFOOD STORAGE had been painted onto the cinder block. The lettering was weathered and faded. There was a FOR LEASE sign in the small downstairs window beside the front door. Diesel parked in the adjacent lot, and we all trooped into the building.