Wicked Appetite (8 page)

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.

“Sonovagun,” he said. “He feels real.”

“Is that a ghost-o-meter?” I asked.

“The best money can buy,” the Spook Patroller said. “It measures three different kinds of energy, plus humidity.”

He pointed the gizmo in my direction, and it gave off a couple wimpy beeps.

Diesel grinned. “I guess we know who wears the pants in this partnership.”

I rolled my eyes, unlocked my front door, and the Spook Patrol rushed up to it.

“Hey,” I said, hand to the ghost-o-meter guy’s chest. “Back off. I’m not interested in ghost readings.”

“But what about the phenomenon?” he asked.

“He isn’t interested, either.”

I closed and locked the door behind us. I waited a couple minutes and looked out the front window. The Spook Patrol was hunkered in, huddled in a clump by their vans.

“Do something,” I said to Diesel.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Use your phenomenal powers to get rid of them. Vaporize them, or something.”

“I’d need special permission to vaporize.”

“Really?”

Diesel grinned wider and slung an arm around my shoulders. “I like a woman who’s gullible. It makes everything so much easier.”

Cat 7143 swaggered into the living room and sat his rump on Diesel’s shoe. “Rhowl,” Cat said.

“I can’t be all bad,” Diesel said. “Cat likes me.”

“This cat has one eye and half a tail. I’m guessing in the past he hasn’t made good character assessments.”

“I’m guessing he was a brave defender of a defenseless lady cat,” Diesel said.

I bent to pet the defender. “I’m afraid your Romeo days are over, but I see a lot of whipped cream and rotisserie chicken in your future.”

Cat looked like he was willing to consider the trade-off, and he and Diesel followed me into the kitchen.

My kitchen wasn’t large, but it was thoughtfully planned out. The inexpensive refrigerator and stove worked just fine. The floor was wide plank yellow pine. The over-the-counter cabinets were painted Wedgewood blue, with glass-paned doors. The sink was porcelain, with only a couple chips in it. The countertops were red Formica. I’d added a small butcher-block work island and two wooden bar stools. My pots and pans hung over my workstation on hooks screwed into the low ceiling.

Diesel hit his head on a fry pan and put out a couple good cuss words. So much for the superior sensory perception.

“I need to work on a muffin recipe today,” I told Diesel. “You and Cat can watch television.”

“Nothing on.”

“How about you read a book.”

“Not in the mood.”

I set a couple bowls, measuring cups, and measuring spoons on the counter next to the sink.

“Here’s the thing,” I told Diesel. “You need to get out of my kitchen. You’re big. You take up too much space.”

Plus, he made it hard for me to keep my mind on my cupcakes. When he got close, his heat was contagious, warming my skin, seeping into my chest and, against my best efforts, working its way south.

“I like watching you,” Diesel said, sliding onto a stool.

“Yes, but you’re distracting, and I really need to fix my muffin recipe, so
go away
.”

“No.”

“No? That’s it?
No?
Criminy, you are
so aggravating
. I can’t make you do anything. I have no control over you.”

Diesel sat with one foot on the floor and one on the lower rung of the stool. “You have more control than you realize.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means, the more I like you, the more vulnerable I become.”

Whoa. That caught me by surprise. I put my hands flat on the island to steady myself and looked at him. “You don’t seem like you would ever be vulnerable to anything.”

“The list is short.”

I didn’t know what to say. Under normal circumstances, this would lead to romance, but there was nothing normal about any of this.

“No need to panic,” Diesel said. “There are limits to how far I can go with you.”

I should have asked about the limits, but I was too distracted by the possibility that he couldn’t read my mind after all. If he’d been reading my mind, he would have known I was mush inside. I wasn’t feeling panic. I was feeling gut-twisting attraction. The knowledge that Diesel liked me enough to be vulnerable had me in a knot.

“Probably, I should get on with my muffins,” I said.

All right, I know it was lame, but it was all I could manage. For my entire life, I’ve eased myself over crisis situations and disastrous, embarrassing moments by making muffins and cupcakes.

I hauled a bag of flour out of the cabinet and opened my notebook to the recipe for gingerbread muffins.

“What’s wrong with the recipe you already have?” Diesel asked.

“It’s okay, but I think I can make it better. I’d like to punch up the flavor and improve the texture.”

I lined my muffin pan with three different-colored wrappers and whipped up the base batter. I fiddled with three variations, poured them into the muffin tin, and slid the tin into the oven. I changed the recipe on the base batter and
repeated the process. By the time the first batch of muffins was ready to come out of the oven, the entire house smelled like cloves and ginger.

I slid the second batch into the oven and set the first on a wire rack to cool.

“You can be my guinea pig,” I said to Diesel. “Tell me which muffin you like the best.”

By the time Diesel was done, he’d eaten six muffins, and Cat had eaten one. Cat sat back and groomed himself. Diesel stood and scratched his stomach. “Ahhhhh,” he said.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Which muffin was best?”

“They were all great. What happens when you get all your recipes together?”

“I hope by then I’ll have sold the book, and the publisher will take over.”

“Have you sent it out to anyone yet?”

“I’ve been sending a query letter with a sample chapter. So far, there haven’t been any takers, but some of the rejection letters have been encouraging.” I pulled a shoe box from under the counter and opened it. It was crammed with responses from editors and agents.

Diesel picked a letter off the top and read aloud. “This is a great idea, but it won’t fit into our publishing program at this time.” He chose another. “This is not for us, but we wish you the best of luck placing it elsewhere.” He pawed through the
rest of the box. “Here’s one written in crayon on a cocktail napkin.”

I knew that one by heart. All it said was
NO!
I closed the box up and put it away.

“The important thing is that I stay positive,” I told Diesel. “I read a book about getting published, and it said persistence would pay off.”

Diesel grabbed me and kissed me on the top of my head. “Works for me.” His phone buzzed, and he opened the connection. “Yeah?” He stood and listened for a couple minutes, staring down at his shoe. He glanced over at me, not looking happy. He nodded in silent confirmation to whatever the caller was telling him. “I’m on it,” Diesel said. And he disconnected.

“Bad news?” I asked him.

“When Wulf feels the need to kill, he uses an ancient Chinese technique called Dragon Claw. To my knowledge, he’s the only human alive who kills like this. We can both channel energy to our hands, but Wulf can channel enough to burn flesh. You already know this. His signature move is to break his victim’s neck and simultaneously brand him with his handprint. The man assigned to guard Steven Hatchet, your crazy counterpart in Florida, was just found stuffed into a trash can. His neck was broken, and he was branded with a handprint. And Hatchet is missing.”

I felt myself sway, and I reached for Diesel. The blood had all rushed out of my head and settled in my feet, and there were a lot of cobwebs and clanging noises in my brain.

“Good night,” I whispered.

Diesel sat me down on a bar stool and forced me to bend at the waist. “Head lower than your heart. Keep breathing,” he said. After a minute, he pulled me up by the back of my shirt and looked at me. “I get this reaction a lot from women. Are you okay?”

I nodded. “The burning flesh thing got to me.”

“You wouldn’t mind if he used his skills on a pot roast,” Diesel said. “Think pot roast.”

“How about if I think
this is a nightmare
?”

“Think what you want, but we need to wrap it up here and get over to Shirley’s. My source said it looked like Hatchet was snatched this morning. That means Wulf could be back in the area with him by now. We need to talk to Shirley before Wulf gets to her.”

“Shirley can’t talk.”

Diesel had me by the hand, tugging me to the door. “We’ll work around it.”

I dug my heels in. “I need to put my muffins in a container.”

Diesel yanked me forward. “Later.”

The Spook Patrol was still on the sidewalk in front of my house when Diesel shoved me out the door. They were joined by the guide from the ghost tour and four senior citizens who I assumed were with the guide.

“It’s the ghost man!” one of the old people said.

Everyone went cameras-up and took Diesel’s picture.

It was almost four o’clock when Shirley opened her door to us.

“Frack,” Shirley said, holding a three-pound roasted turkey leg.

I looked over her shoulder into her apartment. “Are you alone?”

Shirley nodded and gnawed on the leg.

“We’d like to talk to you.”

“Hah!” Shirley said. “Grape lucky.”

“Has a guy named Wulf been here?” I asked her.

Shirley looked confused.

“Gerwulf Grimoire,” Diesel said. “My height, long black hair, pale skin, smells like fire and brimstone.”

Shirley shook her head no.

“You have something he wants,” Diesel said. “And we need to get it before he does.”

“Dog off,” Shirley said. And she slammed the door closed and threw the bolt.

Diesel put his hand to the door, the bolt slid back, and he pushed the door open.

“Nice,” I said.

“Yeah, it’s good to be me,” Diesel said.

Shirley stared at her dead bolt. “Quack?” she asked. “How stucky rag it?”

“I don’t know,” Diesel said. “It’s a mystery.”

Shirley turned to me. “Quack?”

“No clue,” I told her.

“If you can’t talk, you at least need to listen,” Diesel said to Shirley. “This is important.”

Shirley vigorously shook her head no. “Da, da, da,” emphasizing the last
da
by poking Diesel in the chest with her turkey leg.

“I could be laying in the sun on a beach somewhere, but no, I have to save the world,” Diesel said, snatching the leg.

Shirley reached for her turkey leg, and Diesel held it high over her head. “No talk, no turkey.”

Shirley kicked him in the knee and ran to her refrigerator. Diesel beat her to the refrigerator and held the door shut.

Shirley narrowed her eyes at Diesel. “Duck pecker.”

“Sticks and stones,” Diesel told her.

I grabbed the turkey leg from Diesel and gave it back to
Shirley. “Here’s the thing,” I told her. “Diesel thinks you have an object in your possession that has special power. This object represents gluttony, and it might be the reason you’re hoarding food.”

That got Shirley’s attention. “Greely?”

“Problem is, we don’t know what this thing looks like. Do you have any ideas?”

Shirley made a zero with her thumb and forefinger.

“Let’s start with the secret inheritance,” Diesel said. “Was it money? A car? A necklace?”

Shirley made a sign like she was locking her lips and throwing the key away.

Diesel was hands on hips. “You gotta be kidding.” He looked at me. “She’s kidding, right?”

“Guess she believes in the bad luck thing,” I said.

Shirley nodded.

“So you have eternal bad luck if you reveal the inheritance,” I said. “Suppose someone guessed it? That wouldn’t exactly be revealing it.”

Shirley shrugged.

I was sure I’d previously fondled everything in her apartment. The object, if it existed, had to be on her.

“Let me see your necklace, your ring, and your watch,” I said.

Shirley took them off and put them in my hand. Nothing. I returned her jewelry, and I saw Shirley’s eyes flick to her purse on the kitchen table.

“Your purse,” I said.

Shirley handed it over, and I dumped everything onto the counter. Seven Snickers bars, lipstick, compact, wallet, pack of tissues, hairbrush, hand sanitizer, three Peppermint Patties, keys, notepad, pen, a handful of Hershey’s Kisses, a crumpled Whopper wrapper.