Wicked Business

by Janet Evanovich

  I peeked out the front window at my car. It was sitting under a streetlight only a few steps from my door. No sign of Wulf or Hatchet. Houses were dark across the street. Most of Marblehead was still asleep. Cat was leaning against my leg.

  “What do you think?” I asked Cat. “Is it safe?”

  Cat blinked, and I took that to mean yes.

  I opened the door and cautiously stepped outside. I had a plan. If someone came rushing at me, I’d hit him with my purse and kick him in the crotch. I suppose I should also scream, but I hated to wake my neighbors. I locked my door, quickly walked to my car, and jumped behind the wheel. No one came rushing at me. But Wulf appeared out of nowhere, standing motionless, holding my door open, looking down at me.

  I couldn’t muster enough air to scream, and kicking Wulf in the crotch wasn’t an option.

  “This isn’t a safe place for you,” Wulf said, his voice soft and seductive. “And this life you’ve chosen has limitations. If you played for my team, you would have no limitations. I could give you a new car, your own bakery, a house that doesn’t lean downhill.” He paused and his eyes softened a little. “I could give you normalcy.”

  My upper lip broke out in a cold sweat. How did he know I craved normalcy? I reached for the car door and found myself staring at Wulf’s perfectly pressed pants. Not a wrinkle in sight. My eyes were at package level, and it was like Baby Bear’s bed, not too big and not too small. It looked just right.

  “Thanks,” I said, forcing my attention to move to his eyes. “I’m good.”

  Thirty minutes later, I rolled into the small lot behind the bakery and parked. Light poured out the open back door of the building and flour floated in the light like fairy dust. Clara was already at work.

  Clarinda Dazzle is the latest in a long line of Dazzles who have operated the bakery, stretching back to Puritan times. She owns the historic building, and she lives in a small apartment on the second floor. She’s forty years old. She’s twice divorced, currently single. She’s my height at 5′5″, but she seems taller, in part because of her hair. My hair is blond and straight as a pin. Clara’s hair is black, shot with gray, possibly shoulder-length, but it’s difficult to tell due to the frenzied curls and sheer mass of it all. She’s part Wampanoag Indian, but it’s a very small part.

  I exchanged my sweatshirt for a white chef coat and wrapped a chef apron around my waist.

  “It’s our usual Monday,” Clara said. “Extra pretzel rolls and strawberry cupcakes.”

  I was already measuring out flour. “I’m on it.”

  Clara and I don’t talk a lot in the morning. Machines whir and hum as bread dough is mechanically kneaded and cake batter is mixed. I move from collecting ingredients to preparing baking pans to shaping yeast dough, my mind focused on the task at hand and the day all bright and shiny in front of me. Usually. Hatchet and Wulf were intruding today. My thoughts kept turning to swords and keys and ugly threats and perfectly pressed pants.

  “Are you okay?” Clara asked. “You’re talking to yourself, and you’re glaring at the sweet roll dough.”

  “I had a disturbing night. Do you remember Steven Hatchet?”

  “Wulf’s medieval minion.”

  “Yeah. I have a key he wants.”

  “And you don’t want to give it to him?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then,” Clara said. “Case closed.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Glo swung into the kitchen at precisely eight o’clock. She parked her broom in the corner, and set her messenger bag on a shelf.

  “The most amazing thing happened last night,” she said. “I met this guy online, and he’s perfect. I think he’s the one. And I definitely think he might be a wizard. He didn’t come right out and say it, but I got a total vibe.”

  I looked over at Clara and saw she was working hard to squelch a grimace. Glo was always meeting perfect guys who had the promise of wizardry. I admired her optimism but thought her dating criteria could use some adjustment. None of the guys ever turned out to be a wizard. And some of them were downright scary.

  “I’m meeting him for drinks tonight,” Glo said. “I have high hopes.”

  Clara pulled a tray of croissants out of the oven. “The last time you said that, the guy had forty-three piercings and a snake tattooed onto his forehead.”

  “He was sweet,” Glo said. “I’d still be dating him, but he always wanted to wear my clothes, and sometimes he’d wear them home and never return them. I don’t mind sharing, but a girl has to draw the line somewhere.”

  Glo buttoned herself into a blue Dazzle’s smock and marched to the front door, where three people were already standing, waiting for the bakery to open. Two hours later, we were between customers, and Glo took the opportunity to box up orders for pickup. Clara was busy scrubbing down her work area, and I was piping frosting onto the last batch of cupcakes. The back door was still open, bringing fresh air and sunshine into the kitchen. A shadow fell across the floor, and we all looked up at Hatchet.

  “Let me guess,” Clara said. “Sir Hatchet.”

  “Nay,” he said. “Just Hatchet, in service to his lord and master.”

  “I’m afraid you’re in the wrong spot,” Clara said. “If you want to buy cupcakes for your lord and master, you need the shop entrance, off the street.”

  “My liege lord does not require anything so low as a cupcake,” Hatchet said. He looked at the tray of newly frosted chocolate cakes, his lips parted, and his eyes glazed over. “Although they doth look tasty.”

  “Get to the point,” I said to Hatchet. “What do you want?”

  He snapped to attention. “The key. I will die before I will disappoint my master.”

  “We could probably arrange that,” Clara said.

  Hatchet glared at her. “Do not scoff at me. I will have the key. And I will have these cupcakes as well.” He grabbed two off the tray and shoved them into his mouth. “Now the key,” he said.

  Glo had her nose wrinkled. “Dude, you shouldn’t talk with your mouth full. Your teeth are all full of chocolate smush.”

  “The key!” Hatchet said. “I demand that you give me the key!”

  “I don’t have it,” I told him. “Diesel has it.”

  He drew his sword. “Then I will take you hostage. And I will trade you for the key.”

  “Hey!” Clara said to Hatchet. “What’s wrong with you? You can’t go around waving your sword in here. This is a bakery. Have some respect.”

  “Yeah, and if you don’t behave, I’m going to get my broom, and he’ll give you a couple good whacks,” Glo said.

  “Your broom is no match for my sword,” Hatchet said. “I’m a skilled swordsman. My aim is deadly true.”

  “Well, I’m pretty sure my broom might be magic,” Glo said.

  Hatchet paused for a beat. “How magic?” he asked.

  “Real magic,” Glo said. “About as magic as a broom could get.”

  Hatchet cut his eyes to me. “I will retreat for now, but I will be back. I will pounce when you least expect it. And I will conjure my own dark powers to battle your evil forces. Stand back now while I take my leave, and thou willst give up these cupcakes.”

  He stiff-armed his sword in our direction, grabbed the tray of cupcakes, turned, and ran out of the kitchen. A car motor cranked over in the parking lot, and there was the sound of squealing tires on the pavement.

  “He needs a pill,” Clara said.

  Glo shouldered a cookie tray. “I think he’s kind of cute. He’s just a little misdirected. I might be able to find a spell to help him. I’ll have to look in Ripple’s tonight.”

  Oh boy, as if Hatchet wasn’t crazy enough, now Glo was going to help him.

  “What’s so special about this key?” Clara asked.

  “It’s the Lovey key,” Glo said. “Remember how I was saving up money so I could buy a book of sonnets, but someone bought it ahead of me? Well, there’s a little key that goes with the book, and Carl found it
and gave it to Lizzy. And the guy who bought the book, Gilbert Reedy, is dead.”

  “His death was on the news last night,” Clara said. “They said someone broke his neck and threw him off his balcony.”

  At one o’clock, Diesel showed up. He ambled into the kitchen, slung an arm around my neck, and kissed me on the top of my head.

  “What’s that about?” I asked him.

  “I like you.”

  “And?”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “For lunch?”

  “Yeah, that, too.”

  “There are some ugly meat pies in the fridge. Sausage, beef with curry, and roasted vegetable.”

  When a pie or a pastry didn’t turn out to be perfect and wonderful, we labeled them ugly and made them available for employee consumption. Diesel grabbed an ugly sausage pie and stood at the counter, eating it cold.

  “I haven’t read through everything yet,” he said, “but a couple interesting things have turned up. Shortly after Reedy got the Lovey book, he joined a dating service. He chose four women from the service because he felt they were looking for true love.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I found a list in the miscellaneous folder. Reedy called them True Love Seekers and sometimes Key Seekers.”

  “That sounds very adventuresome.”

  Diesel went back for a second pie. “The list was scribbled on the back of a professional paper written in 1953 promoting the hypothesis that the stones holding the seven deadly sins were originally virtuous. Gluttony represented joy for all things. The bearer of pride had an industrious spirit . . .”

  “And lust?” I asked him.

  “Supposedly the Luxuria Stone was originally the stone of true love. The author of the paper theorized that at some point in time, the stone was corrupted and turned sinful. There was an addendum to the paper speculating that a key might exist to find the stone.”

  “The Lovey key!” Glo said. “I bet Reedy was looking for his true love.” She clapped a hand over her heart. “That’s so romantic.”

  “Yeah, and he’s so dead,” Clara said.

  Ten minutes later, I was out of my chef clothes, following Diesel to his car.

  “I don’t understand why you feel compelled to talk to the four women,” I said to him. “It’s not like Reedy was in a relationship with any of them. How could this possibly help you find the stone?”

  “It’s a place to start,” Diesel said. “I’ve got home addresses and work addresses for all of them. Cassandra McGinty is the first on the list. She lives in Lynn, and she waits tables at a restaurant in Salem. I called the restaurant, and they said she doesn’t come in until four, so I thought we’d see if she’s home.”

  Lynn is on the North Shore, south of Marblehead. It’s a diverse seaside town with a sketchy history and a hardworking population. Cassandra McGinty lived in a big clapboard house on the west side of Lynn. The house had been converted to apartments, and Cassandra’s was on the third floor.

  I huffed and puffed up the stairs and stood back while Diesel knocked on the door. A woman with enormous breasts and short, punked-up white blond hair answered. She was early twenties, medium height, and slim except for her chest. She was wearing spike heels, tight jeans, and a spaghetti-strap tank top that showed a quarter mile of cleavage.

  Diesel checked out the breasts and smiled, his eyes locked in at nipple level. “I’m looking for Cassandra McGinty.”

  “Well, you’ve found her,” McGinty said, looking Diesel up and down.

  I wanted to kick Diesel in the back of his leg to see if I could knock his eyes loose, but I’d kicked him yesterday and didn’t want it to become habit-forming. So I stepped around him and extended my hand.

  “I’m Lizzy Tucker,” I said. “The stupid drooling guy is Diesel. We’d like to talk to you about Gilbert Reedy.”

  “Are you cops?” she asked. “I heard Gilbert tried to fly off his balcony and it didn’t turn out so good.”

  “Were you dating him?” I asked her.

  “Gilbert and I met for coffee, but that was all. I don’t know if you saw Gilbert before he turned himself into a pancake on the sidewalk, but he wasn’t exactly hot.” She did another full body scan of Diesel. “And I like hot men.”

  “Gee, too bad I don’t know any or I’d bring them around,” I said to McGinty. “Diesel here looks good, but he bats for the other team, if you know what I mean.”

  “Lucky them,” McGinty said.

  “We’re looking for a book of sonnets. It was missing from Reedy’s apartment.”

  “He had a book with him when we had coffee. It was real old looking, and he read this lame poem to me from it. Something about a hot eye.”

  “Do you remember anything else about the poem?”

  “Yeah. I remember wanting it to end. Gilbert Reedy was the king of geeks.”

  “He was looking for his true love,” I told her.

  “Me, too,” McGinty said. “But I want one with a big package.”

  We thanked McGinty for her help, trucked down the stairs, and got back into Diesel’s SUV.

  “I might have been her true love if you hadn’t ruined it with that fib,” Diesel said. “I have all the requirements.”

  “You were looking at her like she was a free pass to the Super Bowl. I was afraid you were going to step on your tongue.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Gail Danko was second on the list. She lived in a small, bedraggled bungalow a half mile from Cassandra McGinty. A black Sentra was parked in the driveway. It was showing some rust and a few good-size dents. A gray cat sat on the roof, enjoying the afternoon sun.

  “Danko is a nurse, but she’s off on sick leave,” Diesel said. “Divorced. No kids.”

  He knocked on the door, the door opened, and a short, round woman with a big fluffy white cat under her arm and her foot in a cast looked out at us. “What?”

  “I’m looking for Gail Danko,” Diesel said.

  The woman’s eyes glazed over for a moment while she took Diesel in. “Mmmmm,” she said.

  Diesel smiled at her. “Why is your cat wearing pants?”

  “She’s a national champion, and she’s in heat. We’re going to breed her tomorrow.”

  The cat on the car gave a loud YOWL and the national champion jumped out of Danko’s arms and shot out the door.

  “Miss Snowball!” Danko shouted. “Help! Catch her! She can’t get pregnant from that alley cat!”

  In a flash, Snowball was out of sight, running as fast as she could in her cat diaper, the gray cat close on her tail. Gail Danko stomped onto her little porch with her plaster-coated foot and single crutch, but she clearly wasn’t going to catch Snowball.

  “Don’t worry,” I said to Danko. “Diesel will track Miss Snowball down. He’s good at this. He has special tracking skills.”

  “I don’t track cats,” Diesel said.

  “Of course you do,” I told him. “You have that whole energy sensitivity thing. That’s why you’re the bounty hunter.”

  “I can find people.”

  “Are you sure you can’t find cats? Have you ever tried to sniff one out?”

  “No,” Diesel said, “but Miss Whatever shouldn’t be hard to find. Speaking from the male perspective, they’re probably just around the corner in the bushes, trying to get her pants off.”

  He disappeared around the side of the building, and Danko and I stood waiting.

  “What happened to your foot?” I asked her.

  “Bunion surgery,” she said. “I’ve been sitting with the stupid thing elevated for two weeks, doing nothing but eating. I was struggling with my weight before the surgery, and now I’m totally fat. And if that isn’t bad enough, Miss Snowball’s going to get pregnant with that trailer-trash tomcat.” There was some god-awful screeching and howling, and Danko stumbled back and put her hand to her heart. “My baby!”

  “It might not be so bad,” I said. “She could be faking it. I mean, who hasn’t faked it once or t
wice, right?”

  A moment later, Diesel emerged from behind the house with Miss Snowball. The diaper was shredded but still attached, her fur was standing straight out, and her eyes were almost popped out of their sockets.

  “Was that you screeching and howling?” I asked Diesel.

  “Princess wasn’t happy with hotshot’s foreplay technique.” He handed Snowball over to Danko. “I hope the cat you’ve got coming tomorrow knows what he’s doing.”

  “We wanted to ask you about Gilbert Reedy,” I said to Danko. “I believe you dated.”

  “We met for coffee, but he started wheezing after five minutes. Turns out he’s allergic to cats.”

  “Did he say anything interesting in those five minutes?” I asked her. “Did he mention a key?”

  “No. He said on his form that he had the key to finding true love, but that was it. Hard to talk about keys and true love when you’re having an asthma attack.”

  Diesel backtracked to Salem and parked in the lot of the public library. “Sharon Gordon is third on the list. She’s a librarian. Thirty-six years old. She lives with her mother. And her Facebook page says she likes Nora Roberts, s’mores, and penguins.”

  “You can trust a woman who likes s’mores,” I said. “It’s the gooey factor.”

  “Something to keep in mind.”

  We entered the building and found Gordon shelving books in the children’s section. She was tall and slim, with brown hair pulled back in a clip at the nape of her neck. She was wearing a pale pink knit top, tan slacks, and flats.

  She gasped when she turned and saw Diesel. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m used to seeing short people in this room.”

  “We’d like to talk to you about Gilbert Reedy,” Diesel said.

  “Are you police?”

  Diesel picked a picture book about trucks off her cart and paged through it. “That’s a complicated question.”

  Sharon pushed her cart forward and placed a book on a shelf. “I met Gilbert through a dating service. He said he was looking for true love.”