Wicked Charms

  “I don’t know much about it. It was always there, hanging in the torture chamber. Been there forever. Or at least as long as I’ve been here. Which is since the 1980s, which might as well be forever.”

  “Why did you sell it?”

  “The Pirate Museum made me a good offer. I’m always open to a good offer. You see anything you want to buy? Make me an offer.”

  “I might be in the market for a coin,” Diesel said. “Even a piece of a coin. Do you have anything like that?”

  “Maybe. I got lots of coins. Exactly what kind of coin do you want?”

  “A sliver of a silver real. It has a picture of Charles III on one side.”

  “I’m a businessman,” the clown said. “What’s the going rate for one of them slivers?”

  We were all distracted by shouting in the hallway and the sound of someone running in our direction. We turned to the doorway, and Hatchet burst into the room, sword drawn.

  “Halt, rude and lowly beasts!” Hatchet yelled. “Hand over the coin before I cleave every one of you in twain and dance on your entrails.”

  Josh pulled out his cutlass and pointed it at Hatchet. “Stand down or feel the bite of my blade.”

  Hatchet was dressed in green tights, yellow Nike running shoes, and a white peasant shirt with a brown jerkin. Josh was wearing black Jack Sparrow–style boot covers over Converse sneakers, red-and-black-striped pants, a puffy white shirt, and a black tunic. It was like a fashion parade of crazies.

  Hatchet squinted at Josh. “What art thou?”

  Josh looked over at Diesel.

  “Go for it,” Diesel said.

  “I be a Buccaneer American,” Josh said. “What art thou?”

  “Hatchet is his liege lord and master’s faithful minion.” Hatchet waggled his sword at Josh. “Do you dare to match swords with me, peasant?”

  “Aye, sirrah, and I’ll rip you from belly to chin,” Josh said, waggling his sword back at Hatchet.

  Hatchet swung the bigger, heavier broadsword. Josh’s cutlass was short but curved to an angry point. What the cutlass lacked in length I thought it must make up for in maneuverability.

  “Methinks thou knows not about swordplay,” Hatchet said to Josh.

  “Thou thinks as a fool,” Josh said. “Me took a course in fencing at North Shore Community College.”

  Hatchet lowered his sword a bit. “How didst thou do?”

  “Sadly, this good and worthy buccaneer suffered the flu during final exam and dost got an incomplete.”

  “Seems unjust,” Hatchet said.

  “Aye. Much of the world is unjust.”

  “This is going nowhere,” Diesel said. “Maybe you two should take it outside so we can get on with business.”

  “I will smite thee down first,” Hatchet said, turning toward Diesel.

  “Back off,” Diesel said, “or I’ll turn you into a toad.”

  “Can you do that?” I asked Diesel.

  Diesel smiled. “I’d need permission.”

  Hatchet lunged at Diesel, and Josh whacked Hatchet on the back of his head with the flat of the cutlass. Hatchet stumbled, went down to one knee, and farted.

  “I believe I doth break wind,” Hatchet said. “Sincere apologies.”

  We all took a step back from Hatchet and fanned the air. Spencer bumped into me, and I felt a vibration.

  “The clown is vibrating,” I said to Diesel.

  Diesel grabbed Spencer and shoved his hand into one of the big pockets in the baggy checkered clown pants.

  “Hey, if I’m gonna get groped at least let the girl do it,” the clown said.

  Diesel came up with some loose change, a throat lozenge, and a set of car keys. “You’re lucky you’re not getting searched by my monkey.”

  “No kidding?” Spencer said. “You’ve got a monkey? Do you got an organ to grind?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?” Diesel said, moving on to another pocket. He pulled his hand out of the pocket and held a pie-shaped piece of a coin between his fingers. “Tell me about this,” he said to Spencer.

  “It fell out of the cage,” Spencer said. “The one that held the body. When I was loading it into the truck, it fell out. I didn’t think it was worth anything. I only kept it as a good luck charm.”

  Diesel flipped the coin to me, and I caught it with one hand and felt the vibration.

  “This is it,” I said. “This is the second piece of the pie.”

  The lights went out, and we were plunged into total blackness. I felt an arm wrap around my waist, I was lifted off my feet, and I was effortlessly swept across the room. Wulf’s voice whispered against my ear, his voice so soft it was barely above a thought.

  “You’re still playing on the wrong team,” he said to me. “It won’t end well for you.”

  He smelled faintly of cloves and woodsmoke. I felt his lips brush along my neck, and a chill ran down my spine followed by a rush of heat. His hand closed over mine, and I was no longer in possession of the coin.

  “Hey!” I said.

  There was a flash of fire, and after a beat the lights came on in the room.

  Wulf was gone but Hatchet was still with us. He tipped his head up and sniffed the air.

  “Sire?” Hatchet asked.

  “He t-t-took the c-c-coin,” I said.

  Diesel was hands on hips. “He should take his act to Vegas.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Martin Ammon’s house on Marblehead Neck was ten minutes from my house, and I was going to arrive precisely on time. I’d combed most of the frosting from my hair, and I was dressed in my new clothes. I’d taken a moment to swipe on some mascara and lip gloss. I had butterflies in my stomach, and a nervous twitch in my left eye. My car’s gas gauge read empty, but the red light wasn’t on, so I felt pretty confident I could make it to the Neck and back.

  The Neck was an island at one time, but now a road built on a causeway connects it to the mainland. There are a couple yacht clubs on the harbor side. The rest of the Neck is high-end residential. The oceanfront properties are especially pricey, and that’s where Ammon lived. His large stone house, with its multiple chimneys and turrets, was partially hidden behind a high stone wall. I pulled up to an intricately scrolled wrought iron gate. The plaque in the middle of it bore the name CUPIDITAS. A red light was blinking in a call box at the edge of the driveway.

  “Lizzy Tucker to see Martin Ammon,” I said to the call box.

  The gate slowly swung open, and I drove through to the house and parked in the circular driveway. The massive front door was opened by a man in a navy blazer, a crisp white dress shirt, and a red tie with the Ammon logo on it. I was afraid to ask if he was the butler, because if he said yes I might burst out laughing out of sheer nervousness.

  He was somewhere in his thirties and slightly overweight, around five foot ten. He had mousy brown hair cut in a traditional square-back style, side part. Hazel eyes with skimpy mousy brown eyelashes and eyebrows. Thick lips and a nose that was almost too small for his face. If you saw him on the street you might think he reminded you of Practical Pig in a blazer.

  “My name is Rutherford,” he said, smiling wide, showing lots of teeth. “I’m Mr. Ammon’s devoted assistant.”

  Devoted assistant? Okay, that’s weird. Does that imply love? Sexual relationship? Minion status?

  “Mr. Ammon is expecting you,” Rutherford said. “This way.”

  I was led up a red carpeted staircase and down a cherry-paneled hallway to a set of double doors that looked like they belonged in Downton Abbey.

  “This is Mr. Ammon’s home office,” Rutherford said. “It’s his private space, and not many people are privileged to see it. You must be quite special. I understand you’ve submitted a cookbook for Mr. Ammon’s consideration.”

  The possibility of getting my cookbook published had me breathless. I was desperate for the money it might bring in. My house needed a new roof, and my car was ready for the junkyard. Diesel had used the cookbook and the cupcakes as a
ploy to get me into Ammon’s house, but what if Ammon really liked my book! Okay, take a step back, I told myself. It would be very cool to get the cookbook published, but let’s not lose sight of the true purpose for the visit. I needed to help Diesel find the stone, so I could get on with my life. That meant locating the map and the diary. Focus, Lizzy!

  The home office was huge, and every wall was lined with bookshelves. The floor was glossy dark wood covered with Oriental carpets. The furniture looked comfortable. Overstuffed club chairs covered in burgundy chenille. Mahogany leather couches. A desk the size of a king-size bed. All right, maybe that’s an exaggeration, but not by much.

  A massive stone fireplace dominated one wall. A black rose was engraved in the center of the mantel, with some Latin phrase carved underneath it. A framed piece of parchment hung over the mantel. The parchment was obviously important to Ammon since it held the place of honor in the room.

  “What is this?” I asked Rutherford.

  “It’s a treasure map,” Rutherford said. “Mr. Ammon is a history buff.”

  That had my full attention. This could be the map.

  “It doesn’t look like a treasure map,” I said. “It’s round.”

  “Yes, yes, that’s the amazing part of it. It’s unique. And so far it hasn’t given up its treasure, but Mr. Ammon has hopes of cracking the code someday. High hopes.”

  Hot damn, am I good or what? I only just got here and I might have located the map.

  On the other side, the room opened onto a porch with a spectacular view of the Atlantic. Martin Ammon was on the porch. He had a dazzling white smile, which was the result of either superior breeding or superior dentistry. His eyes were an unsettling pale blue in a narrow spray-tanned face. His frizzed bleached-blond hair was carefully combed over his balding head. His online biography placed him at fifty-two. He was slim and about five foot six in his expensive Italian leather boots. He was dressed in a gray suit, the jacket thrown casually over a wicker chair. In his tailored vest and blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, he looked like a movie star between takes. More Christopher Walken than George Clooney.

  Ammon was standing beside a glass-topped bistro table. A stack of dog-eared pages that I feared was my manuscript was on the table. Even from a distance I could see there was so much red ink on the top page that it looked like fresh roadkill.

  “Thank you for making the trip out here,” he said. “I have an office in Salem, but I rarely use it. I find it more efficient and enjoyable to work from Cupiditas.”

  “No problem. This is an incredible house. I can understand why you wouldn’t want to leave it.”

  “Truth is, I’m only here sporadically. It was fortunate that your manuscript was brought to my attention while I was in residence.”

  My heart did a flip. He said it was fortunate! That was good!

  “So you like my book!” I said.

  He looked down at the pages on the table. “No, I hate it. Actually I despise it. I thought it was ridiculous. The whole concept of it. Who wants to see hot guys cooking? I don’t. Guys don’t. Women don’t. They want to see someone like themselves cooking.”

  I’d had my share of rejections with this project, but they all paled in comparison to this. This was like getting hit in the face with a frying pan. The heck with the map and the diary and saving the world…this was freaking insulting. I sucked in some air and made an attempt to steady my voice.

  “Let me see if I have this straight,” I said. “You brought me here to tell me you hated my book?”

  “Yes, the book is trash.”

  He picked the manuscript up and heaved the pages over the railing, off into space. They fluttered in the breeze for a moment and then swirled gracefully to the ground in a paper blizzard. Rutherford and two housekeepers in gray dresses and white aprons ran out onto the lawn, gathered the pages up, and shoved them into garbage bags. I watched in frozen horror, and within minutes it was as if there had never been a manuscript at all.

  “Uh, gosh,” I said.

  “Much better,” Ammon said. “Now we can start fresh. I don’t want the book, but I do want you. I hated the concept, but I love your writing. You have a way of bringing cooking to life. It’s delightful. It’s conversational. It’s funny. It’s sexy. It’s like we’re right there in the kitchen with you, watching you create wickedly delicious dishes. I want you to start over with a new idea. We’re not going to publish just a book…we’re going to publish you. We’re going to push Lizzy Tucker as a brand. Lizzy Tucker is going to be the new millennium’s Martha Stewart and Rachael Ray and Julia Child all rolled into one.”

  “That’s a lot to roll into one.”

  “That’s just the beginning. We’re going to put you on television worldwide. You’ll be more famous than Santa Claus.”

  “I don’t think I want to be more famous than Santa Claus. And to tell you the truth, I don’t know if I have the time to write a new cookbook.”

  “It’s not just about cooking. If you don’t have time to start over I’ll hire someone to do it for you. This is going to be about Lizzy Tucker laundry baskets, and Lizzy Tucker crockpots, and Lizzy Tucker wine. I own a vineyard in New Zealand that’s begging for a brand.”

  “I’ll have to think about it.”

  “I’ll give you a five-hundred-thousand-dollar advance.”

  I went thumbs-up. “Let’s get started.”

  —

  Martin Ammon looked at his watch. “I have an hour before I have to get dressed for a dinner engagement,” he said. “We can use the time to review your life story. My publicity and marketing department has already laid the groundwork of a bright young woman who goes to the big city and enrolls in a prestigious cooking school only to drop out due to sexual harassment.”

  “Actually I graduated and there was no sexual harassment.”

  “We might want to massage the truth a little. Everyone loves sexual harassment.”

  “I don’t think I can go there.”

  “No problem. We’ll skip over the sexual harassment and go straight to the fact that you saved Dazzle’s Bakery, singlehandedly making it a success with your magical cupcakes.”

  “It was doing just fine without me.”

  “We’ll smooth it out with editorial.”

  “Why me?” I asked him.

  “I told you. I like your writing style. And you’re cute. You’re going to look great on television, and you’ll package up perfect. You’re a twenty-first-century Doris Day.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “Exactly,” Martin Ammon said.

  He leaned close, and his strange pale blue eyes narrowed a little. “We’re going to spend some time together, Lizzy Tucker. I’m going to learn all about you. There will be no secrets.”

  Eek.

  “And now I have a surprise for you,” he said.

  Crap. I didn’t need another surprise.

  Ammon crossed to an elaborate silver and glass serving cart positioned against the wall. The serving cart held a single canister, which I now realized had my picture on it. Below the picture, in gold and black lettering, were the words LIZZY TUCKER GOODIES. Ammon lifted the lid of the canister and helped himself to a cookie.

  “Mint chocolate chip cookies,” Martin said, holding the cookie aloft. “From page 101 of your manuscript. As soon as I read that page, I had to try the cookies to see if they were really as good as the recipe looked.”

  “You made them yourself?”

  “Don’t be silly. I had my chef make them. But I told him to follow the recipe exactly, no embroidering, no improvising.” He took a bite. “Fantastic,” he said. “These cookies will be the first in our product line.” He smiled so wide I was almost blinded by the brilliance. “Lizzy Tucker, you’re going to be rich beyond your dreams. We’re going to be an unstoppable team.”

  I supposed this was good. This was sort of what Diesel wanted, right?

  I gave him a forced smile. “Yep, we’ll be a team.”

  “One
last thing,” he said. “The cupcakes. I probably wouldn’t have looked at your cookbook if I hadn’t eaten the cupcakes. They were wonderful. They made me feel happy. They were the best cupcakes I’ve ever had, and I fashion myself to be something of a cupcake expert. I had my chef make your cupcake recipe, but they weren’t the same. Did you leave out an ingredient?”

  “I left out the magic.”

  —

  Diesel and Carl were in my kitchen eating cookies when I rolled in. Diesel was eating Double Stuf Oreos, and Carl was eating Fig Newtons.

  “How’d it go?” Diesel asked.

  “Okay, I guess. It was weird. Not what I expected.”

  “How so?”

  “He hated my idea for a cookbook, but he liked my writing style. And he thought I was cute.”

  “And?”

  “And he offered me a big bag of money.”

  “What did he want you to do for the money?”

  “Rewrite the cookbook.”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

  I took a couple Oreos from Diesel. “It feels off. And I don’t like him. He’s creepy.”

  “From what I read, no one likes him.”

  “His butler likes him.”

  “He has a butler?”

  “Actually I don’t know what the guy is. His name is Rutherford, and he said he was Ammon’s devoted assistant. Devoted. Like he lived to suck Ammon’s toes.”

  Carl ate the last Fig Newton and stared into the empty bag. He turned the bag upside down and shook it. No Fig Newtons fell out. He looked over at Diesel and shook the bag some more.

  “You ate the whole bag,” Diesel said to Carl. “There aren’t any more.”

  “Eeep,” Carl said, and he gave Diesel the finger.

  I took another Oreo from Diesel’s bag. “I think I saw the treasure map. It was hanging over the fireplace in Ammon’s home office. The office is on the second floor, and it opens onto a wonderful balcony that looks out over the ocean.”

  “Did you see the diary?”

  “No. And there wasn’t an opportunity to insert it into the conversation.”

  “Clara’s going to take us to talk to Gramps tomorrow. Hopefully he’ll still have his piece of the coin.”