Wicked Appetite (23 page)

“Gobble!” Shirley said to Phil’s headstone. She stuck her tongue out at it and made a face. “Gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble,” she said, her voice rising to a pitch that could break glass.
“Gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble!”
She jumped up and down on the boxes of crackers and bags of candy. Her face turned red, and she worked up a sweat.
“GOBBLE, GOBBLE, GOBBLE, GOBBLE, GOBBLE!”
She stopped to catch her
breath, and she looked at the mess of smashed food and boxes. “Hmph,” she said. She tipped her nose up, spun around on her heel, and without giving us so much as a glance, she swished off down the hill.

“Hey,” I called after her. “You can’t just leave this stuff here. It’s littering.”

“Gobble gob,” Shirley said, and kept going.

“At least she’s venting,” I said to Diesel. “That’s healthy, right?”

Carl wandered onto the grave site and picked through the massacred junk, testing out peanut butter cups, jelly beans, and pretzel nuggets. He stuffed an unscathed box of Pop-Tarts under his arm, and he latched onto a can of Easy Cheese.

“I need to talk to Shirley,” Diesel said, heading for the lot.

“Good luck with that.” Unless he spoke
gobble,
he was going to have a problem.

Shirley was at her car when Diesel and I caught up.

“I need to talk to you,” he said. “It’s important. Is there anything else you can tell us about your uncle or the inheritance?”

Shirley looked at him like he was from Mars.

“Okay, so you can only gobble,” Diesel said. “We can communicate in writing.”

Shirley took a pad and pen from the glovebox, scribbled something, tore the paper off, and handed it to Diesel.

“What does it say?” I asked Diesel.

Diesel read from the paper. “Gobble. Gobble. Gobble.”

“Are you kidding?” I asked Shirley.

Shirley sucked in air, her mouth compressed, and her eyes shrunk to the size of little ball bearings. “Gobble,” she growled. And then she launched herself at me, wrapped her hands around my neck, and took me down to the ground, where we rolled around slapping and shrieking.

Diesel stepped in and separated us, dragging me to my feet, keeping Shirley at arm’s length. “If you’re not going to do this in Jell-O, it’s not worth watching,” he said to me.

“Crikey,” I said to Shirley. “You need to get a grip on yourself.”

Shirley wrenched away from Diesel and dusted herself off. “Grmmph,” she said. And then she deflated like a balloon with a leak. And a tear slid down her cheek.

“I guess this has been a hard week,” I said to her.

Shirley took a tissue out of her pocket and dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose.

“We’ll figure it out,” I said. “We just have to find the right spell.”

Shirley nodded, still looking deflated. She slumped into her car, cranked the engine over, and drove away.

“I was trying to be positive,” I said to Diesel, “but honestly, I’m not sure we can un-gobble Shirley.”

Diesel watched her leave the lot. “I’m not sure we want to. I don’t want to hear what she has to say if she ever goes normal again.”

A light rain was sifting down on us, and the cloud cover was the color and texture of wet cement. Not ideal weather for a cemetery visit. Not ideal weather for
anything.
Diesel and I climbed into the SUV, and Carl scampered in after us. Carl’s movie had run its course, but he had a cache of food to occupy him.

“Did you feel anything at all when you were on Phil’s grave?” Diesel asked.

“No.”

“Feeling something would tell us a lot. Feeling nothing tells us nothing.”

“Do you really think Phil might not be there?”

“The grave has been disturbed, and grave robbing isn’t beyond Wulf.”

“Why would Wulf want Phil?”

“Don’t know.”

“And where would he put him?”

“Don’t know that, either.”

“You don’t know much, do you?”

“I know you’re going to be my downfall,” Diesel said.

“And yet you persist in hanging around.”

“I have no control over it,” Diesel said. “It’s my destiny.”

“You’re the moth, and I’m the flame?”

“Yeah. It’s damn pathetic.”

I didn’t feel like a flame. I felt like an idiot. I had grass stuck to my shirt and dirt smudges on my jeans from rolling around with Shirley. I’d been so panicked, I could barely remember
anything, except that I’d done a lot of ineffective slapping and screaming. If Diesel hadn’t stepped in, I’d be just another body rotting in the cemetery.

Diesel stopped for a light and grinned over at me. “You were holding your own.”

“I was terrified. That was the first time I’ve been in a fight. I’ve never even
seen
a fight in real life. I was just trying to keep her away from me.”

“Next time open your eyes.”

“First off, there isn’t going to be a next time. And second, I didn’t want to see her hit me in the face.”

“It’s been my experience that women don’t hit. They claw and kick and gouge. And the really nasty ones bite.”

“I didn’t want to see any of that, either. Do you have a history of duking it out with women?”

“No, but this wasn’t the first time I’ve had to wade into a catfight.”

The wind picked up and the light drizzle turned to a steady rain that slashed across the windshield. Diesel was moving south from the cemetery, following a side street through the center of Salem. A lone figure stood on the sidewalk half a block away. She was drenched to the skin, looking up into a tree.

“It’s Glo,” I said to Diesel. “Pull over.”

Diesel rolled to a stop beside Glo, and I lowered my window.

“What’s going on?” I yelled.

“It’s my broom. It’s stuck in the tree.”

I looked at the tree, but I couldn’t see a broom. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. I saw it blow past the shop, so I ran out and followed it down the street. And now it’s stuck in the tree.”

Glo was wearing a short denim jacket, a short black skirt, black tights, and black motorcycle boots. Her red hair was plastered to her head, and water dripped from the hem of her skirt. She shielded her eyes from the rain with her hand and pointed to mid-level on the tree. “It’s a little more than halfway up,” she said.

“I have to see this,” Diesel said, cutting the engine, unbuckling his seat belt. “I know it’s pouring rain, but I’ll always wonder if I don’t see for myself.”

We both got out and stood in the rain, next to Glo. We followed her line of sight, and sure enough, there was a broom stuck in the tree.

“If you could boost me up, I could get the broom,” Glo said to Diesel.

Diesel lifted Glo to the first branch, and Glo scrambled the rest of the way. She reached the broom, wrapped her hands around it, and tugged.

“Shoot,” she said.

“What’s wrong?” I called up to her.

“It’s really stuck. It got rammed between two branches.”

“I’d go up and help her, but the branch she’s on wouldn’t support me,” Diesel said.

Glo did some grunting and swearing. “Ugh,” she said. “Double ugh!” She put her foot to the tree truck, leaned back, and pulled, but the broom didn’t budge. “I think it’s afraid to let go,” Glo said.

“Maybe it doesn’t
want
to let go,” Diesel said.

“What
ever
. I’m done. I’ve had it with this broom.” She turned around and climbed down the tree. “Honest to goodness,” Glo yelled, stomping back and forth in the rain, flapping her arms. “It is
so
annoying. This broom has been nothing but trouble. The heck with it. I don’t even want it anymore. It can stay in the stupid tree forever.”

Tree leaves rustled in the wind and rain, a branch creaked, and the broom fell out of the tree and hit Glo on the head. Glo staggered forward a little and stared down at the broom.

“I guess I loosened it,” she said. “And the wind did the rest.”

Diesel picked the broom up. “Do you want it?” he asked Glo.

“I suppose so,” Glo said, taking the broom. “I mean, I paid for it and all.”

“Where’s your car?” I asked her.

“It’s at the bakery. I saw the broom go by like a tumbleweed, and I took off after it.”

I opened the back door and scooped up Carl’s crumpled wrappers and rogue Froot Loops. “The bakery is almost a mile away. Get in and we’ll give you a ride.”

“I’m all wet,” Glo said. “I’ll make a mess.”

“I’m living with a monkey,” Diesel told her. “You couldn’t come close on your best day.”

Glo slid onto the backseat and set the broom next to the window. She slicked her hair back from her face and looked at Carl. “Wow, look at all the cool food,” she said. “You’re a lucky monkey.”

Carl gathered his food close to him and inched away from Glo. He leaned over and looked at the broom. “Eep,” he said.

I was watching over my shoulder, and I swear the broom twitched.

“Maybe you don’t want to let Carl get too close to the broom,” I said to Glo.

“It’s just a dumb broom,” Glo said. “Carl can’t hurt it.”

“Yes, but I’m not sure the broom likes him.”

Diesel glanced over at me. “Are you okay?”

“It twitched,” I whispered to him.

Diesel looked in the rearview mirror at Carl and then at the broom. “I don’t see any twitching,” he said to me. “Maybe you just have low blood sugar. We’ll get you a cupcake when we drop Glo off.”

“Thanks,” I said, “but I don’t want a cupcake.”

“I
always
want a cupcake,” Diesel said.

He turned a corner, and the broom slid across Glo and whacked Carl before Glo had a chance to grab it and set it back in place.

“Eeep!” Carl said. And he shot goo from the Easy Cheese can at the broom. The cheese hit the broom mid-stick and stuck like snot. Carl shot some more, and it missed the broom and hit the window.

“Knock it off,” Diesel said to Carl.

Carl gave Diesel the finger and shot goo onto the back of his head and onto the dashboard. Goo was flying everywhere. Carl was in an Easy Cheese frenzy. I had goo in my hair and goo on my soaking-wet bandage.

Diesel pulled to the curb, got out of the SUV, yanked Carl out of his booster chair, set him on the roof rack, and got back behind the wheel.

“Omigosh,” I said. “You can’t leave him up there. He’ll blow away.”

“I’ll drive slow,” Diesel said. “I won’t go over fifty.”

Two blocks later, we were at the bakery. We all jumped out and looked up at Carl. He was soaking wet, gripping the roof-rack rail with his hands and tail. He sat up and gave Diesel the finger.

“It’s a good thing I’m not a violent person,” Diesel said, looking at Carl. “We’re going into the bakery,” he said to him. “Are you coming?”

Carl gave him the finger and stayed on the SUV roof, and the rest of us went inside. Clara was behind the counter, her face frozen into a grimace at the sight of three people and a broom dripping on her floor.

“I rescued the broom,” Glo said to Clara, setting it in the corner.

“Maybe you should put it in your car,” Clara told her. “I just fixed my window. In fact, maybe you should drive the broom back to the Exotica lady and trade it in.”

Glo got a box and filled it with cupcakes for Diesel. Water ran off her sleeve and puddled in the display case and at her feet. “I know this makes no sense at all, but I kind of like the broom. And I think it might be starting to like me.”

“No charge for the cupcakes if you promise to leave immediately,” Clara said. “I don’t want to have to explain the monkey on your car to my customers.”

We took our cupcakes and squished out of the bakery. It was raining hard, and Carl was hunched on the SUV roof looking half-drowned and cranky.

“Would you like to ride inside?” Diesel asked Carl.

Carl shrugged.

“I’m going to take that as a
yes
,” Diesel said, lifting Carl off the roof and stuffing him into the backseat.

I buckled myself in with the cupcake box on my lap and crossed my arms to keep warm. The wet was getting to me. “I’m done,” I said. “I’m soaked, and I’m cold, and I’m not having any fun.”

“Understood,” Diesel said. “We’re going home.”

Two blocks from the bakery, Diesel rolled the window down and squinted against the rain blowing in.

“I can’t stand it,” he said. “The car smells like wet monkey.”

Zzzzt
. Easy Cheese shot past Diesel’s ear and stuck to the windshield. I turned and glared at Carl. He was pressing the Easy Cheese nozzle, but nothing was happening. He was out of Easy Cheese.

“I told you not to put him on the roof rack,” I said to Diesel.

“My mistake wasn’t putting him on the roof rack,” Diesel said. “It was letting him back inside.”

We parked at the curb and walked around the house to the kitchen door. By the time we were inside, we were drenched again and dripping water by the bucketful. Cat came to welcome us, sniffed at Carl, and growled low in his throat. I couldn’t blame him. Carl smelled really bad. It turns out wet monkey isn’t a great aroma.