Wicked Charms

  “Do you have Devereaux’s number?” Diesel asked Josh.

  “Sure. We’re practically friends now. He’s called a couple of times asking about the coin.”

  Josh punched in the number. Devereaux picked up, and Josh put him on speakerphone.

  “We’re in your office,” Josh said. “Where are you?”

  “I had to leave. Why did you come to see me?”

  “We had a question about the pieces of the coin.”

  “Are you still in my office?”

  “Yes.”

  “You need to leave. It’s dangerous for you to stay. Run. Get out! I can’t talk now. I’ll call back.”

  We exchanged a look, and we didn’t exactly run, but we didn’t waste any time leaving. We hurried out of the building and stood in the middle of the grassy quad, looking up at Devereaux’s office window.

  “Maybe we’ve been punked,” Josh said.

  Barooom! Flames shot out of the open window, and the fire alarm went off.

  “I was wrong,” Josh said. “That’s not the work of a punker.”

  The alarm was blaring, people were pouring out of the buildings, sirens screamed in the distance, and Josh’s phone buzzed.

  “I can’t hear you,” Josh yelled into the phone. “Can you repeat that?”

  We all stared at Josh.

  “It was Devereaux,” Josh said, sliding his phone back into his pocket. “I couldn’t get everything, but he wanted us to meet him at the museum ship. The Friendship of Salem.”

  We made our way around the clumps of gawkers and first responders, loaded ourselves into Diesel’s orange Charger, and Diesel drove us off campus.

  “I don’t want to take everyone onboard the Friendship,” Diesel said to Glo and Josh. “I’m going to drop both of you off first.”

  —

  The Friendship of Salem was the name of the replica frigate docked at Derby Wharf and used as a museum. We drove to the wharf, left the car in the lot, and walked toward the frigate. It was early evening, and the sun was low on the horizon. The tall masts and rigging were dark against the sky. The squat Derby lighthouse flashed red at the end of the wharf.

  The gate at the end of the gangway was unlocked. Diesel opened it, and we stepped onto the empty deck of the Friendship. Ropes creaked with the movement of the ship, but all else was silent. We prowled from one end to the other, found an open hatchway, and went below. Diesel flipped a light switch, and we were transported from the eighteenth century to the twenty-first century. We were in a shining white room filled with state-of-the-art navigation equipment and a complicated-looking control panel. Professor Devereaux was at the consul.

  “What’s up?” Diesel said.

  “Are you alone?” Devereaux asked. “Did anyone follow you?”

  “Yes, we’re alone. And no, we weren’t followed,” Diesel said. “And, by the way, someone blew up your office.”

  “Bastard,” Devereaux said. “Was anyone hurt? Did the building burn down?”

  “Not sure if anyone was hurt,” Diesel said. “It looked pretty well contained to your office.”

  “It’s Martin Ammon,” Devereaux said. “He hates me. He sent one of his goons to tell me to stop looking for the treasure. I told him I wasn’t looking for it, that I was merely a historian. And he said historians are the worst treasure hunters of all. And then he said he was going to make sure I understood the consequences of my actions. I assumed he was going to break my arm or slash my face, and I was about to call for security when one of my colleagues came in, and Ammon’s thug left. When you called I was worried you would get caught in the crossfire. It didn’t occur to me that he would blow up my office.”

  “Why did you come here?”

  “I was in the middle of some research, and I didn’t feel safe in my office or my apartment. I knew I could use the equipment here and be undisturbed. As you know, I have a history with the ship. I’m no longer officially involved, but I still return on the sly from time to time.”

  “Why does Ammon hate you?” Diesel asked.

  “Ammon inherited a diary that belonged to Palgrave Bellows. The diary spoke of a fabulous treasure that had been plundered from the Mughal ship Gunsway. Problem was, Ammon didn’t know how to find the treasure. It wasn’t enough to just have the diary. The treasure was hidden and could only be found with the help of a map and a coin.

  “I’d received some publicity while I was working on the Friendship restoration, and Ammon approached me, offering to share the treasure if I could locate the map and the coin. It was the opportunity of a lifetime. I would have funding to research the lost Gunsway.

  “After almost a year of searching I ran across the map in a curio shop in Boston. I gave the map to Ammon and continued to search for the coin but had no luck. It was a total dead end. I was disillusioned by then anyway. In the beginning of our professional relationship I thought Ammon was a wealthy eccentric. As I got to know him better I came to realize he’s criminally insane. He has delusions of grandeur, and he’ll stop at nothing to get what he wants.

  “The diary listed, among other riches, the Avaritia Stone as part of the Mughal treasure. This was Ammon’s true reason for funding my research. Ammon had become obsessed with the idea that he might possess the Avaritia Stone. He’d begun to believe that he could awaken the sleeping Mammon within himself if he had the stone. He hates me because I know this about him, and because I don’t worship Mammon.”

  “Did you ever see the diary?”

  “Yes. I had an opportunity to read it, and I think Palgrave Bellows had his own streak of insanity running through him. I’m now told Ammon keeps the diary under lock and key, like it’s a sacred book.”

  “I believe I’ve seen the map hanging in Ammon’s office.”

  “It’s a lovely piece of history,” Devereaux said, “but worthless as a treasure map without the coin. Directions to the treasure are written in code, and the coin is the key to the code.”

  “And when we came to your office with a piece of a counterfeit coin you thought it might have been fashioned by Bellows.”

  “Exactly,” Devereaux said. “I didn’t know for certain, but I hoped I was finally seeing part of the coin. And because you are the one who found the fragment, I had hopes that you could find the rest. You have special abilities.”

  “How do you know about my special abilities?” I asked him.

  “It’s not exactly a secret,” Devereaux said. “People talk.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I keep hearing this.”

  In most places in this country people would roll their eyes and smile, and any rumor of my abilities would be filed away next to extraterrestrials landing in Arizona. This was Salem, however, and people were willing to believe just about anything.

  “Unfortunately, Martin Ammon, with all his fortune and influence, has eyes and ears everywhere,” Devereaux said. “When it was whispered that pieces of the coin had surfaced, it fueled his obsession to find the treasure.”

  “And he wants you out of the game,” I said.

  Devereaux nodded. “Yes.”

  —

  Devereaux left to check on his office, and Diesel and I were alone on the ship. I could hear voices in the distance. Quiet conversations carrying across the water to us from harborside restaurants. I looked out to sea and thought it would be nice to sail away and leave my strange, confusing life behind.

  Diesel slipped his arms around me and drew me in close against him. “You wouldn’t like it,” he said, reading my mind. “You’d get seasick. And you’d miss your purpose.”

  “Don’t you ever want to abandon all responsibility?”

  “Yeah, all day, every day.”

  “What keeps you in the game?”

  “You don’t wear responsibility like clothes. You can’t take it off and put it on when you feel like. You wear responsibility on the inside, and it isn’t that easy to remove. You have to learn how to live with it.”

  “Wow.”

  “Pr
ofound, right? How valuable is that nugget of wisdom? Will it get you undressed?”

  “No!”

  “In that case, it’s all bullshit. I stay in the game because at some level I enjoy it. I just don’t enjoy it at all levels.”

  I suspected both explanations were true for Diesel, and neither of them was true for me.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Glo bustled into the bakery exactly at nine o’clock. She had a newspaper in her tote bag and Broom stuck under her arm.

  “Did you see the paper?” she asked Clara and me. “The explosion made the front page. And it was on the news this morning on television.”

  Clara stopped working and looked at Glo. “You read the paper and listen to the news?”

  “No. I ran into Mr. Bork on the street, and he told me about the explosion story, so I bought a paper.” She pulled the paper out of her bag and laid it on a workbench. “There are pictures and everything. They said it was some kind of homemade bomb that had been set on a timer. Nobody was hurt, but there was a lot of damage.”

  Clara and I went to the workbench and looked at the pictures. I was relieved to find I wasn’t in any of them.

  “You should have been there,” Glo said to Clara. “We were in Devereaux’s office, and Josh called him, and Devereaux told us to get out of the building, so we ran out, and BOOM! Devereaux’s office exploded. And then Josh got a phone call from Devereaux except he couldn’t hear what he was saying.”

  “Scary,” Clara said. “It would have been terrible if you hadn’t gotten out of the office in time.”

  “Who do you think would bomb an office?” Glo asked.

  The same person who just bought my cookbook, I thought. My phone chirped, and I checked my text messages.

  “What’s wrong?” Clara asked. “You look like someone just died.”

  “It’s a text from Martin Ammon reminding me that I’m supposed to cater a party at his house on Saturday. I’d completely forgotten about it.”

  “Do you need help with the party?”

  “Yes!”

  An hour later I took off for the Wednesday farmers’ market on Pleasant Street. We use local produce whenever we can, and this morning I bought apples for turnovers, herbs and onions for the meat pies, and I got a bargain on raspberries. I arranged for delivery, and on my way back to the bakery a hand grasped my shoulder from behind, and I felt a sharp stabbing pain in my butt cheek. I whirled around and saw Hatchet with a needle in his hand.

  “Surprise,” he said.

  —

  When I regained consciousness I was stretched out on a deck chair on a large yacht. The Salem waterfront was visible in the distance. Hatchet was at the rail. Wulf was seated at a small table nearby laid out with fresh fruit, croissants, and coffee.

  “I trust you’re well,” Wulf said. “Hatchet is an expert on paralytic poisons. You should have no ill effects from your nap. I’m having a late breakfast. Would you like to join me?”

  “Just coffee. And I’d like to know the reason for the drugging and kidnapping.”

  Wulf snapped his fingers and Hatchet rushed over, poured a cup of coffee, and handed it to me.

  “Cream or sugar?” Hatchet asked.

  I shook my head no.

  “I asked Steven to escort you to my boat,” Wulf said. “The method was his choice.”

  “He gave me a needle in the butt.”

  “Thee were moving,” Hatchet said. “Hatchet needed a large target.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “How’d you like me to punch you in the face?”

  “Thou art an impertinent shrew,” Hatchet said.

  Wulf cut his eyes to Hatchet, and Hatchet shrank back into the shadows of the salon entrance.

  “I’m sorry if this caused you discomfort,” Wulf said to me. “I wanted to speak to you about Martin Ammon. You signed a dangerous contract with him.”

  “How do you know about the contract?”

  “I know many things. For instance, I know that there are those who think Martin Ammon is Mammon. Martin is one of them.”

  “Do you mean Mammon-like or the actual Mammon?”

  “The actual Mammon.”

  “I realize when you add his first initial to his name it spells ‘Mammon,’ but I can’t see him as a prince of hell. I don’t think a prince of hell would get a spray tan.”

  “I’ve seen the contract you signed. Martin Ammon effectively owns you.”

  “My soul?”

  “No. Your livelihood. In perpetuity.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I want you to understand your position and the degree of evil you’re facing. Martin Ammon must not get his hands on the Stone of Avarice. He’s not interested in your cookbook. He’s using the book as a ploy to stay close and to control you with your own greed. He needs you to gather together the eight pieces of the coin. If he gets the whole coin he can use it to read Palgrave Bellows’s map. Once he reads the map it’s only a matter of time before he possesses the stone.”

  “If you’re so concerned, why don’t you snatch the map? You could sneak in like smoke, grab the map, and disappear in a flash of light.”

  “I appreciate the vote of confidence, but it’s not that simple. There are other forces at play in that house, and my annoying cousin is more suited for larceny.”

  “Are you suggesting that Diesel should steal the map?”

  “I’m suggesting that at all costs you should not help Martin Ammon.”

  Wulf snapped his fingers again, and Hatchet scurried over to us.

  “Miss Tucker would like to depart.”

  Hatchet whipped out a syringe.

  “If he takes a step in my direction I’m going to jump over the side and swim,” I said.

  “He loves his toys,” Wulf said.

  “He’s a nut job.”

  “We won’t be needing pharmacology,” Wulf said to Hatchet. “Drop Miss Tucker off at the wharf.”

  I followed Hatchet into the launch, and looked back at the yacht when the launch pulled away. Wulf wasn’t in sight. The name on the boat was Sea Wulf. I put as much distance as I could between Hatchet and me. When we pulled up to the wharf I carefully moved past him.

  “Is that a dolphin next to the boat?” I asked.

  Hatchet turned to look for the dolphin, and I hit him hard with my tote bag and knocked him overboard into the water. I scrambled out of the launch and walked off without a second glance at Hatchet.

  —

  Diesel and Carl were at the bakery when I returned.

  “The produce arrived a half hour ago,” Glo said. “We were starting to worry about you.”

  “I ran into Wulf.”

  “And?” Diesel asked.

  “And we had an interesting conversation. He said the contract I signed with Martin Ammon was not in my best interest. And then he said there were some who thought M. Ammon was actually Mammon. And that Martin was one of them. We sort of already knew all of that.”

  “Mammon is a demon,” Glo said. “I read all about him in Ripple’s Book of Spells. It has a chapter on devils and demons. Mammon is the demon of greed.”

  Diesel was slouched against one of the workbenches. “Wulf said he thought Martin Ammon was Mammon?”

  “Not exactly. He said, ‘There are those who think he’s Mammon.’ And he said there were ‘other forces at play’ in Ammon’s house.”

  “That’s a pretty cryptic message,” Diesel said. “Did Wulf say anything else?”

  “He said Ammon wasn’t interested in my cookbook. He said it was a ploy to get close to me and use my greed to find the eight pieces of the coin. Once Ammon gets the entire coin he can use it to read Palgrave Bellows’s treasure map, and the map will lead him to the Stone of Avarice. We knew this, too.”

  “It’s kind of cool that you know a demon,” Glo said to me. “Has he ever exhibited any demon behavior? Do his eyes glow? Does he have horn nubs?”

  “None of the above. He’s a strange, unpleasant man
with perfect teeth.”

  “And billions of dollars,” Clara said.

  We all went silent for a moment.

  “Mammon, the demon of greed,” Glo said. “Think about it.”

  “I personally know an elf and a tree fairy,” Diesel said, “but I’m having a hard time with the demon of greed.”

  “Wulf sort of suggested that you might want to steal the map,” I said to Diesel. “He said you’re better at larceny than he is.”

  “You could steal it on Saturday,” Glo said. “We’ll all go to the party disguised as dessert caterers.”

  “We are dessert caterers,” I said.

  “That’s why it’s the perfect cover,” Glo said. “Diesel can walk off with the map while everyone is snarfing down desserts.”

  “Do you have a license to steal?” I asked Diesel.

  “It’s more in the vicinity of vague permission.”

  “Aside from being fun, do you think there’s a reason for Diesel to steal the map?” Glo said. “It isn’t as if it’s any use to us. We only have five pieces of the coin. Wulf has one more, and nobody has any idea where to find the other two.”

  “Okay, let’s think about the last two pieces,” I said. “The pieces were hidden by Peg Leg Dazzle. Where would he hide them? He would have kept the last two pieces close, just like he did the other six. Two were on him. Two were with Gramps. Two were in the lighthouse.”

  Clara thunked the heel of her hand against her forehead. “The Dazzle Speakeasy! It’s been abandoned since Prohibition ended. Peg Leg practically lived there…at least until he disappeared. It was his pride and joy. You can get there through the Underground.”

  “What’s the Underground?” I asked.

  “It’s a series of tunnels built by smugglers. They run underneath the whole city. The rumrunners used them, but they date from way before that. Salem has a long history of civil disobedience. Most of the tunnels go back to the first Jefferson administration, when he imposed customs duties on molasses. One of the tunnels runs right under Dazzle’s. You can get there through that door right there in the back.”

  We all moved to the back of the kitchen. Diesel opened the door and stared down into the dark stairwell.