Wicked Appetite

  I put together a box of meat pies and cupcakes, grabbed my purse and sweatshirt, and walked through the shop. Glo was behind the counter, reading Ripple’s, periodically glancing up to make sure no customers had sneaked in on her.

  “See you tomorrow,” I said to Glo. “I hope your broom comes back.”

  “Fat chance of that,” she said. “It hates me.”

  Diesel was parked at the curb, looking bored behind the wheel. Carl was in the backseat, sitting in a booster chair, strapped in, watching a movie on a small DVD player. He had a box of Froot Loops and a sport bottle of water on the seat next to him.

  “You’re spoiling him,” I said to Diesel, sliding onto the passenger-side seat.

  “I’m in survival mode. Since we can’t seem to get rid of him, I’m doing whatever it takes to neutralize him.”

  Carl looked up from his movie and gave Diesel the finger.

  “What’s he watching?” I asked Diesel.

  “Madagascar. He likes the monkeys.”

  I handed out meat pies and put the cupcake box on the floor between my feet. “We’re going home, right?”

  “Wrong,” Diesel said, pulling into traffic. “Mark was fried last night. I got the high points out of him, but I want to see if he remembers more now that he’s calmed down. I called him a couple minutes ago. He’s at Melody’s house.”

  “Mark gave up the charm. What else can he tell you?”

  “I don’t know, but it feels like there’s more.”

  Diesel went through three meat pies and two cupcakes en route to Melody’s house. He parked at the curb, behind Lenny’s Camry, and we got out and stood on the sidewalk, looking at Carl in the backseat.

  “He should be okay,” Diesel said, locking the Cayenne. “He’s got about forty minutes more on the movie.”

  Melody’s front door banged open and a kid stuck his head out.

  “Are you visitors?” he yelled.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I can’t let you in,” he yelled back.

  And he slammed the door shut.

  Diesel walked to the door and rang the bell.

  “What?” the kid yelled from inside.

  “I want to talk to your Uncle Mark,” Diesel said.

  “No.”

  Diesel opened the door and stepped into the house.

  “Help!” the kid yelled. “HELP! Burglar!”

  Three more kids ran in. One wrapped his arms around Diesel’s leg. Another bit Diesel in the ankle, and a third kid kicked Diesel in the back of the leg. Diesel picked the ankle biter up by the back of his shirt and focused on the kid who’d kicked him.

  “You do that again, and I’ll turn you into a toad,” Diesel said to the kicker.

  “Can you do that?” I asked Diesel.

  Diesel looked over at me, the ankle biter still dangling in the air. “Do you really want to know the answer to that question?”

  “No,” I said. “And don’t do it in front of me.”

  Mark walked into the living room. He held a clear plastic bag filled with bite-size candy bars. He shook the bag and the kids snapped to attention, all eyes on the candy bag.

  “What’s going on?” he asked the doorkeeper kid.

  “He’s a burglar. He’s gonna take our telebisions.”

  “This is Diesel,” Mark said. “He isn’t a burglar. He came to talk to me.”

  “Mom said don’t let anyone in when she isn’t home.”

  “It’s okay. I’m here.”

  “But Mom said . . .”

  Mark threw the candy bag into the dining room. “Fetch.”

  The kid took off after the candy, and the other kids followed. All but the kid hanging at the end of Diesel’s arm. His legs were running, but he wasn’t going anywhere. Diesel put the ankle biter down, and he went off like a shot after his siblings.

  “Do you have kids?” Mark asked Diesel.

  “No,” Diesel said. “I have a monkey.”

  Mark nodded. “How’s that working for you?”

  “Not all that good,” Diesel said.

  “Sorry about the charm,” Mark said, his hand unconsciously going to the burn marks on his neck. “I have a feeling I gave it to the bad guy.”

  “Where did Wulf take you?”

  “I don’t know. He walked up to me, and it was lights out, and then I was in a room that looked like it might have been a warehouse or a factory. Sort of a loft that had been cleaned up. The ceiling was painted black, with exposed air ducts, whitewashed walls. It had a cement floor. No windows. One door. I wasn’t there very long. He explained what he wanted. I said no. He burned my neck, and I gave him Uncle Phil’s bug. Next thing I know, I’m on the wharf.”

  “You didn’t tell him anything else?”

  “Nothing else to tell,” Mark said.

  “When your uncle was alive, did he ever talk about the charms?”

  “No.”

  “SALIGIA Stones?”

  “Nope.”

  “How about gluttony?” Diesel asked.

  “No. Uncle Phil was a scary old coot, but he didn’t have any obsessions like Lenny and me. Uncle Phil preached everything in moderation.”

  “Do you know where he kept the objects he distributed as inheritances?”

  “No. The estate lawyer had a locked fireproof metal chest on his desk when we filed in. He unlocked the chest and took out the will and the inheritances. Each inheritance was in its own little box, tied up with a gold ribbon. We were told not to open the box until we were alone, at home. My box contained the dragonfly charm and a slip of paper with the bad luck warning.”

  “Do you still have the slip of paper?”

  “No. Instructions were to destroy it and never speak of it. And there was a short video that came out of the chest. The lawyer played it in his office. It was Uncle Phil, looking like he’d risen from the dead, repeating the bad luck warning. It scared the crap out of all of us, including the lawyer.”

  “Have you had any other dealings with the lawyer?” Diesel asked.

  “No. He died a few months after Uncle Phil. Secretly, I was half afraid it was because he talked about the inheritances. I know that’s stupid, but the whole thing was creepy. What’s this all about anyway?”

  “Your dragonfly was part of a larger treasure,” Diesel told him. “It probably doesn’t have a lot of monetary value, but it’s a collectible.”

  “Must be a heck of a collectible,” Mark said. “That Wolf guy isn’t normal.”

  He’d got that one right. Not normal was an understatement. Of course, if you wanted to get technical, it turns out I might not be entirely normal, either.

  “Uncle Mark,” one of the kids called. “Kenny pooped in his pants again.”

  “Trust me,” Mark said to Diesel. “You’re better off with the monkey.”

  “Hard to believe,” Diesel said. “Is there anything else you can tell us about the inheritance?”

  Mark shook his head. “Uncle Phil took his secrets to the grave.”

  “And that would be where?” Diesel asked.

  “His grave? There’s a family plot in the old cemetery next to the Presbyterian church on Oyster Hill Road.”

  A kid waddled to the edge of the living room. “I made poo,” he announced.

  I wasn’t crazy about cemeteries, but Phil’s grave held more appeal than Melody’s living room. I’d like to think I had maternal instincts locked away in me somewhere, but the truth is, at the moment, they for sure didn’t reach out to a kid who made poo.

  “Good idea,” I said to Diesel. “Let’s talk to Phil.”

  Diesel grinned down at me. “Abandoning Mark’s sinking ship?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Call me if you think of anything new,” Diesel said to Mark.

  “That was my last bag of candy,” Mark said. “I’m a dead man.”

  Carl was still watching the movie when we reached the Cayenne. The cupcake box was empty on my seat, and Carl had icing stuck in his fur.

/>   Diesel angled behind the wheel and rolled the engine over. “I was looking forward to those cupcakes.”

  “Take me home, and I’ll make more.”

  “I thought you were all hot to visit Uncle Phil.”

  “Well, yeah, who wouldn’t want to go to the cemetery and talk to a dead guy? It’s just that I thought you really wanted cupcakes, and I wouldn’t mind if you talked to Uncle Phil without me. That way, I could stay home and bake, and you could do your communing-with-the-departed thing.”

  Diesel drove out of Melody’s neighborhood and went south to Oyster Hill Road. “You aren’t afraid of cemeteries, are you?”

  “Of course not. I might not like them as much as a shopping center, but I’m not afraid of them. That would be dumb. I mean, it’s not as if zombies live there.”

  Oyster Hill Road runs up Oyster Hill and heads west. The cemetery and church are at the crest of the hill. The surrounding land is rocky, not lending itself to development. The small, white, steepled church is two hundred years old. The cemetery is much older. Witches were forbidden from resting in hallowed ground, but legend has it several were secretly buried in Oyster Hill Cemetery in the dark of night by grief-stricken relatives. I figured chances were good one of them was in the More family plot.

  Diesel wound his way up the hill and parked in the small lot next to the church. We were the only car parked. The church looked locked up tight. It was the middle of the day, but the sky was overcast, threatening rain.

  Carl glanced up from his movie and saw the boneyard. “Eep!”

  The cemetery was to the rear of the church. It covered a couple acres and was a jumble of centuries-old, weathered headstones hodgepodged in with new. The grass was trimmed. Not nearly golf course quality but not hardscrabble, either. A footpath led to an elaborate wrought-iron gate and continued on to the center of the cemetery. The gate was open, welcoming all who might enter. There was no fence attached to the gate. Just the gate. The three of us got out of the car and walked to the edge of the cemetery.

  “How are we going to find Uncle Phil?” I asked Diesel.

  “We’re going to wander around and look for him.”

  “Oh joy.”

  He tugged at my ponytail and took my hand. “Stick close to me, and I’ll keep the zombies away.”

  His hand was warm over mine, and the heat radiated up my arm and spread to my chest and headed south.

  “Jeez,” I whispered.

  Diesel looked down at me. “Are you feeling the heat?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Let me know when you decide,” Diesel said.

  He led me through the gate and along the path, with Carl following close on our heels. We walked past the Hagard family first. Some of their stones were too old to read, the carving worn away by rain and time. Emily Hagard was missed by her sons. She died in 1817. Lily Hagard had an angel carved into her headstone. Lily was stillborn. The Ramsey family was farther up the hill. Again, some of the stones were rounded and worn smooth. Bernard Ramsey and his wife, Catherine, had an elaborate eight-foot-tall angel carved into granite looking out for them. Across the footpath, Elijah Beemer was also protected by a large winged angel.

  “Lots of angels here,” I said. “I like the concept of angels, but I have a hard time with the wings. Can you imagine growing something like that out of your back? You’d have to sleep standing up.”

  The More family plot was about twenty feet past Elijah Beemer’s angel, almost at the top of the hill, almost dead center of the cemetery. There were a lot of Mores crammed into the small space. Christian More, Marion More, Andrew More, Ana More, Harry More, and more Mores. Philip James More had the newest headstone. Cave Cave Deus Videt was carved into the granite.

  “Do you know what the inscription means?” I asked Diesel.

  “It’s Latin. Beware, Beware, God Sees. It’s from the Hieronymus Bosch painting The Seven Deadly Sins and the Four Last Things. Bosch completed the paint-on-wood panels in 1485.”

  “What are the four last things?”

  “Death, Last Judgment, Heaven, and Hell.”

  A chill ran through me. Cave Cave Deus Videt was a grim departing message. “Phil took his role as guardian of the sins seriously.”

  “Yes. And obviously there was no one next in line he felt he could trust with the power.”

  “Why didn’t he turn it over to your Marshalls?”

  Diesel shrugged. “He might not have known about the BUM. For that matter, I’m not sure he was an Unmentionable. The More family could have been guarding the Stone since the Middle Ages or before.”

  I looked around. “So some of the other people buried here might have been guardians.”

  “It’s possible,” Diesel said, reading the inscriptions on nearby gravestones, pausing at a stone that resembled Phil’s. “Harry More died in 1965, and he has the Latin warning on his stone. He could have been the one to pass the Stone to Phil.”

  “Here’s another,” I said. “Alicia More Riddley died in 1901. The warning is on her marker. Plus, there’s a very old stone next to hers that looks like it has the warning. The date of death was 1603 or 1608. The inscription is only partially visible.”

  “Interesting stuff, but it doesn’t help me,” Diesel said. “I was hoping Phil would talk to us.” He nudged me forward. “Stand on his grave and see if you get anything.”

  “No way! That’s creepy and irreverent and sacrilegious.”

  “It’s grass and dirt and none of the above.”

  “Then why do you want me to stand on it if it’s only grass?”

  “I want to know if something empowered was buried with Phil.”

  “There’s five feet of dirt between him and me. I’m not going to feel anything.”

  Diesel picked me up and set me down in front of Phil’s headstone. “Give it a shot.”

  I sunk my teeth into my lower lip, stopped breathing, and concentrated.

  “Well?” Diesel asked.

  “This is icky.”

  “Do you notice anything unusual about Phil’s grave?” Diesel asked.

  I looked around. “No.”

  “Look more closely. The sod has been cut. And some of the grass surrounding the grave has soil on top of it. Phil was buried seven years ago. This ground should be settled, but it has some give to it.”

  “Which means?”

  “I think Phil might have very recently gone for a walk.”

  “Get out!”

  There was the sound of a car turning into the parking lot. The engine cut off, and a door slammed. A moment later, a second door slammed shut. After a few seconds, a figure appeared at the edge of the cemetery. It was Shirley, and she was carrying a large cardboard box. She soldiered up the hill, head down, laboring. She raised her head when she was halfway up the hill and gave an audible gasp when she spied us at graveside. Her eyes narrowed, and she forged ahead.

  Diesel draped an arm around me. “She doesn’t look happy to see us.”

  “Gee, big surprise.”

  Shirley stopped just short of Phil’s grave and pressed her lips together, her arms wrapped around the box.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “How’s it goin’?” Diesel asked Shirley.

  “Gobble,” Shirley said. “Gobble, gobble.”

  It was hard to believe Glo could quote a bunch of words from Ripple’s and turn Shirley into a turkey. My first instinct was to yell at Shirley and tell her to stop fooling around. My second instinct was to look for cover in case she started shooting.

  “What’s in the box?” Diesel asked.

  Shirley stepped forward, turned the carton upside down, and dumped a load of packaged food onto Phil’s grave. Opened boxes of cereal, Oreos, Wheat Thins, macaroni, saltines, taco shells. Bags of M&M’s, chips, popcorn, raisin bread, peanut butter cups, pretzel nuggets, jelly beans. Jars of spaghetti sauce, pickles, mayo, peanut butter, and grape jelly.

&n
bsp; “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.”