Wicked Business

by Janet Evanovich

  “It’s all together,” Diesel said, securing the last dowel. “Let’s see how it works.”

  He set the silver ball in motion, it hit the first bell with a pretty ding, the first bell hit the second bell with a lower-register dong, the second bell hit the third bell with a muffled kunk, and the third bell hit the fourth bell, producing another pretty chime.

  “The third bell doesn’t ring,” I said.

  Diesel got a soda from the refrigerator. “You try it.”

  I set the ball in motion and got the same result. The third bell didn’t ring, and no magic message appeared. I touched each of the bells and got heat and vibration from only the third bell.

  “The third bell is definitely charged with a different energy,” I said. “We just have to figure out how to set it free.”

  “Maybe we need Glo,” Diesel said.

  I called Glo, asked her to come over, and I made grilled cheese sandwiches while we waited. We stood in the kitchen eating our sandwiches, taking turns with Monroe’s Motion Machine.

  “It’s clever,” I said.

  “It would be even more clever if it gave us the next clue.”

  “Someone, probably Lovey, had a very unique talent.”

  Diesel finished his sandwich and put his plate into the dishwasher. “I don’t know of anyone today who can duplicate this. These objects were programmed to respond to a basic personality characteristic, like believing in true love. Or in the case of the church bells, to respond to a specific tone played in a prescribed order. That’s very different from spewing out enough energy to bend a spoon or open a lock.”

  “It’s magic.”

  “Magic is something you don’t understand and can’t explain. But yeah, it’s magic,” Diesel said.

  Cat ate half a grilled cheese sandwich, got bored with the machine, and padded off to look for a spot to nap. Carl stayed fascinated. He was still intently watching the machine when Glo came into the kitchen.

  “I know this machine,” she said. “They have one exactly like it in a glass case in the Science Museum.” Her eyes got wide. “Omigosh, this is it, isn’t it? You snitched this from the museum.”

  “It accidentally got into Diesel’s backpack,” I told her. “I think there’s a clue attached to the third bell, but we can’t get it to appear. We thought it might work for you.”

  Glo set the silver ball in motion and three of the bells sang out, but the third bell only made the soft kunk sound. We closely watched the bells for a sign, but nothing happened.

  “The history of Tichy persuades when innocence prevails,” Diesel said.

  Glo giggled. “Guess I flunked that test. It’s hard to stay innocent when you’re on the hunt for true love.”

  “In this case, I don’t think he was equating innocence with abstinence,” Diesel said.

  I made Glo a grilled cheese, and she tried Monroe’s machine a couple more times, but it was always the same.

  “I have to go,” Glo said. “I’m meeting the bellringer for coffee tonight instead of tomorrow.”

  “Thanks for coming over. Sorry to make you go out of your way for nothing.”

  “No problemo,” Glo said. “I was going into Boston anyway, and I got a grilled cheese out of it.”

  I walked her to the door, waved her off, and went into the living room to watch television with Diesel. I settled next to him on the couch, and I heard the bells chime in the kitchen.

  “Carl!” Diesel yelled. “Knock it off with the bell machine. That’s museum property.”

  “I heard four different bells,” I said to Diesel.

  He hit the mute button on the television.

  Ding, dong, dong, ding.

  “He never listens to me,” Diesel said. “It’s like pissing into the wind.”

  I was on my feet. “Four bells.”

  We went into the kitchen and watched Carl. He was enthralled with the game, swinging the silver ball, fascinated that it would make the bells chime.

  “This is the innocent?” Diesel asked. “A monkey? Are you kidding me? And it’s not just any monkey. It’s my evil monkey.”

  Carl kept his attention on the Motion Machine, but he gave Diesel the finger.

  “He isn’t exactly evil,” I said.

  Diesel looked over at him. “He’s in the ballpark.”

  Ding, dong, dong, ding.

  “There’s writing on the third bell,” I said to Diesel. “You have to look closely. It’s swirling around it.”

  Diesel put his hands flat to the counter and studied the third bell. “Those whose minds are shaped by selfless thoughts give Joy when they speak or act. Joy follows them like a shadow.”

  The writing disappeared, Carl swung the silver ball against the first bell, the bells chimed, and the writing swirled around the bell again. Diesel read it aloud a second time, and I copied it down.

  “The J in Joy was capitalized,” Diesel said. “I imagine that’s significant.”

  “So Joy might be a place.”

  “Yeah, and I assume it’s in the Boston area. All the clues have led us to more Boston- or Cambridge-based clues.”

  He went to my computer and typed in Joy Boston.

  “I’m getting a law firm, a camp program, handbags, and a house for sale on Joy Street,” Diesel said.

  I thought Joy Street sounded promising. It ran perpendicular from Beacon Street up to the top of the hill at Mount Vernon. The Massachusetts State House was on the right-hand side of the street. And Joy was relatively close to Louisburg Square, where we found the first clue.

  “I like Joy Street,” I said. “I think we should go take a look at it.”

  “Now?”

  “Yeah.”

  “In the dark of night?”

  “Yeah.”

  Diesel grinned. “You want to do something that will delay going to bed. You’re afraid to go to bed because you have to get naked.”

  “I am not. That’s ridiculous.”

  “If you want to get it over with early, we could get naked now,” Diesel said. “Get all that awkward undressing stuff out of the way.”

  “And then what would we do?”

  “Watch television.”

  “Naked?”

  “Yeah. It could be fun.”

  “No one is sitting on my couch naked.”

  “Carl does,” Diesel said.

  That was a disturbing thought.

  “I’m going to make cookies,” I said. “There’s no naked. There’s only cookies. Take it or leave it.”

  “Cookies are good. And I’ll eventually get you naked.”

  “That is so arrogant,” I said. And so true, I thought.

  The bakery is open for a half day on Sunday. People stop in on their way home from church, on their way home from the dog park, on their way home from a morning run, bike ride, power walk. By one o’clock, everyone has gotten their sugar and gluten fix, and the bakery closes.

  I slipped out of bed at 4:15 A.M. and tiptoed in the dark to the bathroom. Cat watched me from the foot of the bed. Diesel was still asleep. I took a fast shower, blasted my hair with the hair dryer, and got dressed in my usual outfit of jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers. All was quiet downstairs. Carl was sleeping on the couch. I flipped the light on in the kitchen and got coffee brewing. Cat brushed against my leg, and I bent to pet him. I gave him fresh water and some crunchy cat food.

  Monroe’s Motion Machine was still sitting on my kitchen counter. It should get hidden away, I thought. Not only was it stolen, but there were other people who would love to get their hands on it. I carted it into my small laundry area, put it in my laundry basket, and covered it with dirty laundry.

  I now had a stolen painting under my bed, a stolen bell in my clothes dryer, and a stolen motion machine in my laundry basket. Not a comfortable situation.

  I returned to the kitchen, ate a strawberry yogurt, and chugged down a cup of coffee. I zipped myself into a hooded sweatshirt, grabbed my bag, and quietly let myself out. The rest of the houses o
n my street were dark. It was too early for even the early risers. The air felt frosty, and there was a sliver of moon in the black sky.

  I walked the short distance to my car, was about to unlock it, and realized that Wulf was standing very close to me, partially hidden by shadow. My heart stuttered in my chest, and it took a moment for me to regain control.

  “I thought you weren’t a morning person,” I said to him.

  “My morning begins at sunrise.”

  “You aren’t a vampire, are you?”

  “No,” Wulf said, “but I have some similar tastes.”

  I thought about Diesel, still asleep in my bed, and my line of vision moved from Wulf to my second-story bedroom window.

  “If my intent was to take you, we’d be gone by now,” Wulf said.

  “He’d track you down.”

  “No doubt.”

  “So you’re here why?” I asked him.

  “I was following Anarchy. She tried to recruit Hatchet and failed. He’s a fool, but he’s loyal. She’ll attack you next, and you’ll be more vulnerable than Hatchet. I doubt your pain threshold is as high as his.”

  “Where is she now?”

  Wulf went still for a beat, as if he was testing the air. “I’ve lost her, but I suspect she’s not far away. She’ll stick close to you, waiting for her moment.”

  “Why were you following her?”

  “She needs to be stopped. My semi-law-abiding cousin isn’t sanctioned to destroy her, but I answer to no one.”

  A light blinked on in an upstairs room across the street. Wulf stepped back into the shadows and silently disappeared.

  I thought about going into the house and waking Diesel, but I was running late, and what was the point. I didn’t want Diesel attached to me 24/7. And I didn’t know what to think about Wulf and Anarchy duking it out.

  I got into my car, locked the doors, and drove off, trying to push thoughts of Anarchy out of my head. Much better to think about cupcakes. Plus, it was Sunday, so we would be making apple-cinnamon doughnuts. Okay, so afterward I’d have to clean out the fryer, but it was worth it, because we produced happiness at the bakery. And that was a lot better than destroying people. What the heck did that even mean? Was that like a step beyond killing, where you killed someone and then ran over that person with a steamroller or forced them into a paper shredder?

  I crossed the bridge into Salem, making the trip in record time. No traffic at this hour on a Sunday. I parked in the lot and hurried into the bakery.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I said to Clara. “It was one of those mornings.”

  “No problem,” Clara said, adjusting the dough hook on the big mixer. “Everything’s on schedule here. I just turned the fryer on, and the dough’s rising nicely.”

  “Does Anarchy mean anything to you?” I asked her.

  “Political disorder?”

  “This Anarchy is a person. I ran into Wulf when I was leaving the house. He’s after a woman named Anarchy.”

  “I didn’t know you and Wulf were so chummy. Isn’t Diesel living with you?”

  “He isn’t living with me. He’s temporarily camped out in my house. Anyway, he was upstairs asleep, and Wulf was outside by my car.”

  “Holy cow.”

  I buttoned myself into my chef coat. “There’s something about Wulf that takes my breath away. He’s never done anything to actually hurt me, but he still scares the heck out of me.”

  “He burned you! You have a scar on your hand.”

  “Aside from that.”

  Glo walked in, set Broom in the corner, and hung her tote bag on a hook by the door. “I came in early for doughnuts. Who are we talking about?”

  “Wulf,” I told her.

  “He’s very hot,” Glo said. “He’s like a vampire. Dominant and sensual and scary. It’s like, have you ever been on the Hulk roller coaster at Universal? It’s terrifying and a total rush, and when you get off, your pants are wet and you can’t figure out if it’s because of this or that.”

  “Happens to me on the 1A when I have to go around those rotaries during rush hour,” Clara said.

  I didn’t have any comparable experiences to share, so I hauled out a bag of flour and set it on my workstation.

  “How was your date with the bellringer?” I asked Glo.

  “It was wonderful,” she said. “He’s so cute. And he’s smart. And he knows everything there is to know about bells. I think Broom liked him, too. Broom didn’t whack him or anything. I honestly think he might be the one.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  It was eleven-thirty, and there were no customers in the shop. Clara and I were done baking and starting final cleanup, and Glo poked her head through the doorway.

  “That scary woman is back,” Glo said. “The one who feels like Darth Vader. She wants to talk to Lizzy.”

  “Deirdre Early?” I asked.

  “Yes!”

  Early’s glossy black hair was perfect, swept back behind one ear. Her makeup was dramatic and flawless. Her red knit suit was probably designer, but I didn’t know which one. Her demeanor was ice queen.

  “We have a problem,” she said to me. “I’d like to speak to you in private.”

  “I’ll help Clara,” Glo said, escaping into the kitchen.

  I kept the counter between us. “What did you want to talk about?”

  “You’re still assisting Diesel, even after I warned you.”

  “I’m not assisting him,” I said. “We’re partners.”

  “Oh please, look at you. You bake cupcakes. You’re nothing more than a minion, like that idiot Hatchet.”

  “Is there a point to this?”

  Her eyes dilated black. “The point is that you have a choice to make. You can be my minion or you can die.”

  “Diesel wouldn’t be happy about either of those choices.”

  “When I get the stone, Diesel will be enslaved to me.”

  “And Wulf?”

  “Wulf as well. Every man and woman on this planet will desire me to the point of insanity.”

  Oh boy, I thought, she was nutty as a fruitcake and probably a homicidal maniac.

  “You seem like a reasonable person,” I said to her. “Why don’t you let me give you a box of cupcakes, on the house, and you can go home and think about all this. I mean, you might not want me as a minion. I’m not that good at subservience.”

  She put her hands palms down on the glass display case and leaned forward, eyes narrowed, face totally drained of color. “Make your choice. My minion or death.”

  There were assorted bagels on a tray on the top shelf of the case and the bagels under her hands were vibrating.

  “Well?” she said.

  The bagels were dancing, rattling against the tray.

  “Would you mind stepping back?” I said. “You’re disturbing the bagels.”

  The bagels weren’t the only things getting disturbed. I was completely freaked. Early was emitting so much energy I was sure my hair was standing on end.

  “I demand an answer,” she said, raising her voice, her teeth clenched. “I command you to give me an answer now.”

  She pounded the countertop when she said now, and Zzing . . . a bagel jumped off the tray and flew the length of the display case.

  “Jeez Louise,” I said to her. “You need to relax. You’re leaking energy. You’re going to self-combust if you keep going like this.”

  Clara came into the shop. “Is everything okay out here?”

  “Leave this room,” Early said. “This is a private conversation.”

  “Excuse me? I own this room,” Clara said.

  “I will not tolerate insolence,” Early said, her voice a notch below a shriek. She grabbed a heavy glass jar off the counter, threw it at Clara, and hit her square in the forehead. Clara crumpled to the ground, and I went after Early, smacking her on the side of the head with a baguette. She growled and reached for me, and I threw a cherry cheese Danish at her. The cheese Danish caught her mid-chest,
leaving a gooey splotch on her suit jacket.

  “This is a St. John,” Early said, wild-eyed. “You do not do this to a St. John Knit!”

  Glo ran out of the kitchen with a ten-pound sack of flour. “I’m pretty sure I’ve enchanted this,” she said, shoving the flour at me. “Hit her with this, and she’ll turn into a rock. And then we can bury her, or throw her in the ocean, or something.”

  I pitched the sack of flour at Early, it hit her in the head, broke apart, and flour spewed everywhere.

  “Stand back,” Glo yelled to me. “Don’t get any of the flour on you, or you might turn into a rock, too.”

  I jumped away from Early, and Glo and I hid behind the counter, peeking over the top to watch the transformation.

  Clara was next to us, kneeling behind the display case, looking ashen with a gash in her head that was dripping blood.

  “What the . . .” Early said, taking stock of her St. John Knit suit.

  She was covered head to toe with flour, but she wasn’t a rock.

  “I was in a hurry,” Glo said. “I might not have done it exactly right.”

  Early wasn’t moving. She just kept staring down at her suit. I looked at her more closely and realized her eyes were darting around.

  “I don’t think she can move,” I said to Glo. “I think you made her like a rock.”

  “Bummer,” Glo said. “What should we do with her? I guess we could still throw her in the ocean.”

  I looked over at Clara. “We should get Clara to the hospital.”

  “Get her out of here first,” Clara said. “I’m not leaving my bakery unprotected with Nutso here in the front shop.”

  “Nutso looks to be stuck in one spot,” I said to Clara.

  “Yes, but the frickberry hasn’t come in yet,” Glo said. “So this might not last forever.”

  There was flour everywhere, and I wasn’t taking chances with it, so I snapped on rubber gloves and went over the entire room, including Deirdre Early, with the Shop-Vac.

  “How are you holding up?” I asked Clara.

  “I’m okay. Get me a towel so I don’t spew blood everywhere.” She looked down at her arm. “My arm is killing me. It feels like I twisted it when I fell.”

  Glo got a towel for Clara, and I put the Shop-Vac away and rolled the hand truck into the front shop. We loaded Early onto the truck, I rolled her through the kitchen, out the back door, and set her in the parking lot. Aside from not being able to move, she seemed in pretty good shape. She was making low growling sounds and rolling her eyes, but that was about all she could do.