Wicked Charms (9 page)

“Eeep!” Carl said.

“Oh crap,” I said. “The monkey is watching.”

“Ignore the monkey.”

“I can’t ignore the monkey. I feel like a porn star.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“It’s bad.”

Carl was sitting back on his haunches, three feet away, his eyes wide, taking it all in.

“Maybe we should do this some other time,” I said to Diesel.

“Honey, you’ve got me in launch mode.”

“Yeah, but you can abort the mission, right?”

Diesel grabbed Carl and locked him in the broom closet. He returned to me, pulled me close, and kissed me. His hand was under my shirt, his thumb traced a path across my nipple, and his tongue touched mine.

Bang, bang, bang!
Carl didn’t want to be locked in the broom closet.

“I can’t concentrate with all that banging,” I said to Diesel.

“Do you need to concentrate?”

“Yes!”

Diesel let Carl out of the broom closet, took my hand, and tugged me up the stairs to my bedroom. He closed and locked my bedroom door, leaving Carl on the outside.

“Are you sure this is going to be okay?” I asked him. “I don’t want to have to save the world all by myself.”

“We’ll only do certain things.”

“Does that include launching?”

“Yeah, we’re
both
going to launch.”

“Okay, but I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I’ve never had any complaints.”

CHAPTER NINE

My alarm went off as usual at four-fifteen. Diesel reached over me, grabbed the clock, and threw it across the dark room.

“If it’s broken you’re going to have to buy me a new one,” I said.

“If it
isn’t
broken I’m going to smash it with a hammer until it’s dead.”

I felt around under the covers. We were both naked.

“Uh-oh,” I said.

“If you keep feeling around like that you’re going to be late for work,” Diesel said.

“Are we…damaged?”

“I don’t feel damaged.”

I rolled out of bed and touched one of the pieces of coin that were on the nightstand. It vibrated under my touch.

“I’m okay,” I said.

“Honey, you’re way better than just okay.”

That was good to know. And it had me smiling. Still, I thought I should try to stay sober and not take a chance a second time. Not to mention it would be a disaster of major proportions if I should fall in love with him. And this morning I was thinking it would be easy to fall in love.

Twenty minutes later I was showered and dressed and only slightly hungover. The bed was empty when I came out of the bathroom. No Diesel. No Cat. No Carl. Everyone was in the kitchen waiting for breakfast.

I got the coffee brewing, filled the toaster with frozen waffles, scrambled up a bunch of eggs, and opened a can of cat food.

“I’m off to work,” I said to Diesel. “What’s your plan for the day?”

“I have the name of the monkey-napper. It made the local news this morning. They said he died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound and a broken neck. I’d like to get some background information on him.”

—

It had been a slow day at the bakery. This was bad for Clara, but good for me. I brought home a big bag of leftover meat pies, muffins, and cheese scones. My house felt benign when I rolled in. No overturned furniture. No bad guys lurking in closets. No monkey. I love Carl, but he creates chaos. I said hello to Cat and gave him part of a sausage turnover. The rest of the food went into the fridge.

I closed the refrigerator door, turned around, and bumped into Martin Ammon.

“Holy bejeezus!” I said, jumping away from him. “How did you get into my house?”

“You didn’t lock your door. Not smart in this day and age. Anyone can walk in.”

“No kidding.”

“I had a free moment this afternoon, so I thought I’d drop off your contract.”

“In person?”

He looked around. “I was curious to see how you lived. This is small, isn’t it? And your kitchen is quite antiquated. Do you actually cook here?”

“Occasionally.”

He pulled a multipage contract out of a slim briefcase and placed it on the counter with a pen. “You need to initial each page and sign on the back page.”

“I should read this first.”

“If you must,” he said. “It’s standard. Nothing unusual. I give you money, and you give me a cookbook. And also cupcakes. Cupcakes on demand. I trust you won’t mind that. I’m not here year-round.”

I started to read the first page and my eyes glazed over. “Is this written in English?”

“It’s lawyer talk. Perhaps you’ll want to engage a lawyer to translate it for you. Or you could sign with an agent. Most agents take fifteen percent.”

I looked at my decrepit stove and chipped Formica countertop. I didn’t want to give up 15 percent. I needed all the money Ammon was paying me.

“I’m having a fundraiser at my house on Saturday,” Ammon said. “Something to do with the environment, I believe. You’re invited. In fact, I would like you to make the desserts. We’ll have media there, and it will make a good launch opportunity for the Lizzy Tucker brand.” He checked his watch. “I have to run. Rutherford is circling the block. There’s no place to park in this neighborhood. The city should bulldoze some of these dilapidated houses and put in some parking.”

“This is the historic section of town. These houses are hundreds of years old.”

“Obviously.” He tapped his finger on the contract. “Have you finished reading yet?”

I scanned the document and saw that the ultimate payment was circled in red. Five hundred thousand dollars. I signed.

—

Ammon left and Clara called ten minutes later.

“I’ve been thinking about the poem,” Clara said. “I wrote out the version Gramps always repeated, and I looked up the original version. There are several differences. Not sure if the differences are significant, but Glo’s going to bring both versions to you when we close the shop.”

I thanked Clara and disconnected.

“What do you think?” I asked Cat. “Are the clues to the treasure hunt found in Gramps’s poem?”

Cat looked uncertain.

“Here’s a bigger question,” I said to Cat. “Is any of this going to lead us to a SALIGIA Stone?”

Cat stared at me.

“Exactly,” I said. “There’s no guarantee, right? We could be on a big wild goose chase.”

I shared some apple slices with Cat and began a list of repairs I would be able to make on the house. A new roof was the top priority.

“I love my house,” I said to Cat, “but I can’t really afford it. Even without a mortgage payment, the taxes and maintenance bills are killing me.”

Cat’s ear pricked forward, and he gave a low growl. The back door opened, and Carl bounded in, followed by Diesel. Cat looked them over, decided they were no threat, and hunkered down with his half tail tucked in.

“How’d it go with the monkey-napper sleuthing?” I asked.

“The guy’s name was Bernie Weiner, and he happens to be the detective that Ammon hired to find the coin. After some digging I located his ex-wife. I thought we could go talk to her.”

“Now?”

“Yeah. It won’t take long. She lives in Lynn.”

Lynn is a little southwest of Marblehead and has a lot of hardworking people in it, plus some people who don’t work at all. Weiner’s ex lived in a small house in a modest neighborhood. There was a Big Wheels trike in the minuscule front yard. The woman who answered the door looked exhausted. She had a baby balanced on her hip and a toddler wrapped around her leg.

“What?” she said.

Diesel introduced himself as an insurance investigator and told her he was doing some background work on Bernie.

“I haven’t got a lot of time,” she said. “The baby is teething, and the toddler has the poops. Bernie was an idiot. I don’t know what else to tell you. I wasn’t that surprised to hear he was…you know. He could get talked into anything. He should never have taken that job for Martin Ammon. It became an obsession. He thought he was Indiana Jones off looking for some holy relic. If he spent as much time with me as he did looking for that stupid coin, we’d still be married.”

“Thanks,” Diesel said. “This has been helpful.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any money in this for me?” she asked. “Did he have a policy? Was I listed?”

“I don’t have that information,” Diesel said. “I hope it works out for you.”

We returned to the car, and Diesel drove back to Marblehead.

“That was depressing,” I said. “I feel bad for her.”

“It looks like she’s struggling with the money, but she has two healthy kids, aside from the poops, and I bet she’s a good mom,” Diesel said. “She’ll be okay.”

“According to Nergal, Bernie’s last thought was that he regretted going off on his own. So it sounds to me like he might not have been working for Ammon at the end.”

“I had the same thought.”

—

Diesel parked in front of my house, and we migrated to the kitchen. I gave Cat and Carl a snack, and I watched Diesel place his five coin pieces on the counter and fit them together. Even though pieces were still missing it was clear that an image of a crown was engraved on one side of the coin. Diesel turned the pieces over, and I could see a face engraved on the other side. Charles III of Spain. Each of the pieces had a tiny hole punched into it.

Someone rapped on my back door, and Diesel opened it to Glo and Josh.

“Howdy,” Josh said. “How’s it going?”

“Slow,” Diesel said.

Glo gave me the two versions of “Sea Fever.” “Clara said she picked out three discrepancies. She has them circled. She asked her gramps about the changes, and he said that’s just the way the poem was always said to him.”

Star
had been changed to
light.
Steer
had been changed to
guide.
To the
vagrant
gypsy life had been changed to the
dazzling
gypsy life.

“Do you think these changes are relevant?” I asked Diesel.

“The first two changes got my monkey back.”

We all looked over at Carl, and Carl gave us a hideous, teeth-baring monkey smile.

“These coin pieces have holes in them.” Glo said. “Is that normal?”

I shrugged. I didn’t know. Diesel didn’t know. Josh didn’t know.

“We could check in with the professor,” Josh said. “He might still be at work.”

CHAPTER TEN

Diesel parked in front of the Sullivan Building, we climbed the stairs to Devereaux’s floor, and I knocked on his closed door. No answer. Josh opened the door and we peeked inside. No one there.

“Do you have Devereaux’s number?” Diesel asked Josh.

“Sure. We’re practically friends now. He’s called a couple of times asking about the coin.”

Josh punched in the number. Devereaux picked up, and Josh put him on speakerphone.

“We’re in your office,” Josh said. “Where are you?”

“I had to leave. Why did you come to see me?”

“We had a question about the pieces of the coin.”

“Are you still in my office?”

“Yes.”

“You need to leave. It’s dangerous for you to stay. Run. Get out! I can’t talk now. I’ll call back.”

We exchanged a look, and we didn’t exactly run, but we didn’t waste any time leaving. We hurried out of the building and stood in the middle of the grassy quad, looking up at Devereaux’s office window.

“Maybe we’ve been punked,” Josh said.

Barooom!
Flames shot out of the open window, and the fire alarm went off.

“I was wrong,” Josh said. “That’s not the work of a punker.”

The alarm was blaring, people were pouring out of the buildings, sirens screamed in the distance, and Josh’s phone buzzed.

“I can’t hear you,” Josh yelled into the phone. “Can you repeat that?”

We all stared at Josh.

“It was Devereaux,” Josh said, sliding his phone back into his pocket. “I couldn’t get everything, but he wanted us to meet him at the museum ship. The
Friendship of Salem.
”

We made our way around the clumps of gawkers and first responders, loaded ourselves into Diesel’s orange Charger, and Diesel drove us off campus.

“I don’t want to take everyone onboard the
Friendship,
” Diesel said to Glo and Josh. “I’m going to drop both of you off first.”

—

The
Friendship of Salem
was the name of the replica frigate docked at Derby Wharf and used as a museum. We drove to the wharf, left the car in the lot, and walked toward the frigate. It was early evening, and the sun was low on the horizon. The tall masts and rigging were dark against the sky. The squat Derby lighthouse flashed red at the end of the wharf.

The gate at the end of the gangway was unlocked. Diesel opened it, and we stepped onto the empty deck of the
Friendship.
Ropes creaked with the movement of the ship, but all else was silent. We prowled from one end to the other, found an open hatchway, and went below. Diesel flipped a light switch, and we were transported from the eighteenth century to the twenty-first century. We were in a shining white room filled with state-of-the-art navigation equipment and a complicated-looking control panel. Professor Devereaux was at the consul.

“What’s up?” Diesel said.

“Are you alone?” Devereaux asked. “Did anyone follow you?”

“Yes, we’re alone. And no, we weren’t followed,” Diesel said. “And, by the way, someone blew up your office.”

“Bastard,” Devereaux said. “Was anyone hurt? Did the building burn down?”

“Not sure if anyone was hurt,” Diesel said. “It looked pretty well contained to your office.”

“It’s Martin Ammon,” Devereaux said. “He hates me. He sent one of his goons to tell me to stop looking for the treasure. I told him I wasn’t looking for it, that I was merely a historian. And he said historians are the worst treasure hunters of all. And then he said he was going to make sure I understood the consequences of my actions. I assumed he was going to break my arm or slash my face, and I was about to call for security when one of my colleagues came in, and Ammon’s thug left. When you called I was worried you would get caught in the crossfire. It didn’t occur to me that he would blow up my office.”