Wicked Appetite

  Clara looked over at me. “Is that true?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “Did you know you were an Unmentionable?”

  “No. I thought bras and panties were unmentionables.”

  Glo slipped her purple Dazzle’s Bakery smock over her long-sleeved T-shirt and buttoned up. “I bet there are lots of Unmentionables in Salem. Some of the Dazzles might even have been Unmentionables.”

  “It’s possible,” Clara said.

  “How about you?” Glo asked Clara. “Do you have a secret Unmentionable ability? Mrs. Morganthal said you used to be able to bake bread just by touching it.”

  Clara snapped her glove off. “Mrs. Morganthal has conversations with vegetables.” She removed her apron. “I’m going to run out to the store. I’ll be back in a half hour.”

  Even in a white chef coat, Clara is startling, with her electric hair and sharp features, and it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to imagine her as a sorceress of some sort.

  Glo manned the counter, and I returned to the kitchen. I filled the big pastry bag with vanilla butter cream and swirled the icing on three different batches of cupcakes. I decorated the tops with flowers, multicolored sprinkles, miniature edible gold stars, and chocolate jimmies. I pulled Clara’s loaves of raisin bread out of the oven and set them on racks to cool.

  At precisely ten o’clock, Glo rushed into the kitchen. “Shirley’s here! She’s standing in front of the bakery with her back to the window, waving her arms and talking to herself.”

  “What’s she saying?”

  “I don’t know. The door’s closed. I can’t hear her. What should I do?”

  “Has she got a gun?”

  “Not that I can see, but she has her purse. She could have the gun in her purse.”

  The bell tinkled when the bakery door opened, and Glo and I froze.

  “Eeek,” Glo whispered.

  “Stay here,” I told her. “I’ll bring the cupcakes out.”

  I wrapped my arms around Shirley’s cupcake boxes, plastered a smile onto my face as if nothing unusual was going on, and I walked out of the kitchen and up to the counter.

  “Hi!” I said.

  Shirley pressed her lips together and passed me a piece of paper with crayon drawings of two cupcakes. One was obviously my Sunflower Lemon and the other looked like my Dazzling Red Velvet.

  “Do you want these cupcakes?” I asked her.

  She nodded.

  I reached into the display case for a cupcake and she shook her head. “Go go,” she said.

  “More than one?”

  She nodded.

  “A dozen?”

  She nodded again.

  “Of each? Are you sure you want to do that?” I asked her. “It’s a lot of cupcakes.”

  Shirley nodded her head.

  I ran to the kitchen and shoveled a dozen Sunflower cupcakes into a box. “Shirley’s getting an extra two dozen cupcakes,” I told Glo.

  “The spell’s broken? She can talk?”

  “No. She gave me a note.”

  I filled a second box with the red velvets and carried them to the counter just as Clara walked in.

  “Hello,” Clara said to Shirley. “How are you today?”

  Shirley bit her lip. “Hmmp,” she said.

  Clara leaned forward. “Excuse me?”

  Shirley swiveled her head in my direction. Her eyes were approaching frantic. “Mmmph.”

  “Shirley isn’t talking today,” I told Clara. “It’s hard to explain.”

  Shirley vigorously nodded her head.

  “That’s a lot of cupcakes,” Clara said, eyeballing the two extra boxes. “You must be having a party.”

  More head nodding.

  Glo peeked out from the kitchen, and Shirley spied her.

  Shirley sucked in air, her eyes narrowed, and her lips squinched tight together.

  “Oops,” Glo said.

  Shirley pointed her finger at Glo. “Butter turd blaster.”

  “Tell you what,” I said to Shirley. “The extra cupcakes are on the house.”

  Shirley snatched her boxes up. “Briggum.”

  “You’re welcome,” I told her.

  Clara put her hand on Shirley’s arm. “Are you all right?”

  “Squiggy wiggy,” Shirley said. “Spooner fig rot iggam jeepers.” She turned and pointed at Glo. “Bad bird beak. Booger bad.”

  Clara fixed her eyes on Glo.

  “I sort of messed up a spell,” Glo said to Clara. “I didn’t have any yak brain.”

  “Well, for goodness sakes, reverse the spell!”

  “That’s the sticky part,” Glo said. “I haven’t been able to find a reverse spell. I was hoping it would wear off all by itself.”

  Shirley set the cupcake boxes on the counter, opened the box of Sunflower cupcakes, and ate one. “Shum,” she said. And she ate another.

  “Are you sure it’s a spell?” Clara said. “Have you ruled out a medical problem?”

  “It was an instantaneous coincidence,” Glo said. “I’m pretty sure it was the spell.”

  Twenty-four hours ago, I wouldn’t have considered such a thing. Even now, after seeing it happen, I wasn’t entirely convinced. I mean, what do I really know about Shirley? It could all be a hoax. Or it could be a form of hysteria from seeing Diesel in her apartment.

  “Did you look through the whole book for reverse spells?” Clara asked Glo. “How about the store where you bought the book? Maybe the shopkeeper can help you.”

  Shirley shoved a third cupcake into her mouth and looked from me to Clara to Glo. Hopeful.

  “Worth a try,” Glo said.

  “I can manage on my own,” Clara said. “You guys go back to the store and see if you can get the spell reversed.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  We walked two blocks south and stopped in front of Glo’s spellbook store. Ye Olde Exotica Shoppe was written in gold script above the weather-beaten wood door. The sign in the grimy window said COME IN IF YOU DARE.

  “Unh,” Shirley said.

  My feelings exactly, but we went inside anyway. The store was small. The inventory was extensive. Every nook and cranny was crammed with who-the-heck-knows-what. Floor-to-ceiling shelves held jars labeled blue eyeballs, brown eyeballs, bullock nose hairs, rabbit gonads, milkweed pods, rotted monkey brain, pickled toes, gummy bears, Irish pixie dust, screech owl beaks, kosher salt, rat tails, beetle legs, pig ears, troll phlegm, candied earthworm.

  Shirley stopped in front of the gummy bears. “Chewy snot gobbers!”

  “Not now,” Glo told her, snagging her by the elbow, moving her to the back counter. “You can have all the snot gobbers you want after we talk to Nina. She owns the store, and she sold me the book of spells.”

  Nina was in her early sixties. She had frizzed white hair that hung halfway down her back, her face looked like it had been dusted with cake flour, and her fingers were long and boney and loaded with rings. She was wearing a frothy white gown that I was sure was previously owned by Glinda the Good Witch from The Wizard of Oz. The gown had been accessorized with brown Birkenstock clogs and wool socks. In my mind, not a good fashion mix.

  “So nice to see you again,” Nina said to Glo. “How are you getting along with Ripple’s spell book?”

  “Actually I’ve been having some issues,” Glo said.

  “It’s to be expected with a brand-new owner,” Nina said, “but practice makes perfect. You haven’t turned anyone into a roach, have you? I’ve been told the transformation spell on page 37 can sometimes go awry.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” I said to Nina. “I mean, this is just a fun shop filled with tourist trinkets.”

  Nina looked around her store. “Some of my merchandise is tourist-directed. They love the Harry Potter sorcerer’s wands and the pickled troll balls. But then, I stock other things that are historically important to Salem and necessary for brewing potions and stews. It used to be potions had fallen out of favor, what with needing
an iron cauldron and all, but it turns out a slow cooker works just fine. Just plug it in, and seven hours later, you’re in business. Of course, you need a good book of spells like Ripple’s.”

  I cut my eyes to Nina. “I’m having a hard time believing the whole book of spells concept.”

  “Well, a book of spells is nothing more than a cookbook. Over the years, recipes have evolved for sponge cake, lobster bisque, spontaneous combustion, cheese soufflé, levitation, enchantment. It’s really not rocket science. Needless to say, some recipes work better than others. Personally, I have a preference for Cooking Light.”

  “I had a small mishap with a truth spell,” Glo said. “I did it perfectly, except for the powdered yak brain.”

  Nina looked alarmed. “Oh dear. Don’t tell me you omitted the powdered yak brain!”

  “It didn’t seem like a big deal,” Glo said. “The thing is, the spell partly worked, but not entirely. And now I’d like to reverse it, but I can’t find a reverse spell.”

  “It isn’t that easy. If you left an ingredient out, you have an entirely different spell,” Nina said. “You have to find the appropriate spell before you can reverse it. What sort of spell did you cast?”

  “Beggar ass diddle piddle pot,” Shirley said. “Icky bickham red cracker.”

  “That’s a scramble spell,” Nina said. “There are many different kinds, and some are very powerful.”

  “Prac,” Shirley said. “Rub a dub me.”

  Glo bit into her lower lip. “I was hoping it would wear off all by itself.”

  “Most temporary spells expire at twenty-four hours,” Nina said. “If the spell lasts beyond twenty-four hours, it’s likely to be permanent.”

  “Maybe there’s a one-size-fits-all reverse spell,” I said. “Something generic.”

  “I could look through The Big Book of Oaths and Potions,” Nina said. “It’s the definitive work. In the meantime, you can try to find the spell in Ripple’s.”

  “One more thing,” Glo said. “I couldn’t fly.”

  “Flying is tricky,” Nina told her. “You might want to add pixie dust to the base spell. I have some on sale.”

  Diesel was lounging in front of the bakery when we returned.

  “Hey,” he said to Shirley. “How’s it going?”

  “Yellow apple crap,” Shirley said.

  Diesel nodded. “I hear you.”

  “We’re still working on finding the reverse spell,” I said to Diesel. “And Glo got some discounted pixie dust to help her fly.”

  “To infinity and beyond,” Diesel said to Glo.

  We pushed into the bakery and Shirley retrieved her boxes of cupcakes.

  “Don’t worry,” Clara said to her. “We’ll get this straightened out.”

  “Yeah, and be careful on your way home,” I told her.

  Shirley gave a curt nod. “Hockey puck.”

  Diesel followed me into the kitchen and swiped a cupcake. “Did you get a chance to talk to Shirley?”

  “Shirley talks gobbledegook. The Exotica lady said if the spell was temporary, it would wear off in twenty-four hours. That means if we’re lucky, Shirley will be coherent at seven-thirty tonight. We can talk to her then. Unless it’s not really a spell at all, and she’s just yanking our chain. Or maybe she’s had a stroke. Do you think we should have taken her to the emergency room?”

  “I think we should have signed her up for Cupcake Eaters Anonymous.”

  I put my chef coat back on and rewrapped my apron around myself. I still had several dozen chocolate chip cupcakes to decorate before I could leave for the day. I filled the pastry bag with icing and went to work, with Diesel watching me.

  “Don’t you have something important to do?” I asked him.

  “I’m doing it. I’m protecting you.”

  “You didn’t feel the need to protect me at five o’clock this morning.”

  “I can’t see Wulf getting up at five. Wulf mostly goes to bed at five.”

  I finished topping the cupcakes, sprinkled chocolate jimmies on them, and transferred them to the rolling rack, so Glo could box them for a party pickup.

  “Now what?” Diesel asked.

  “Now I clean up after myself, and then I can go home to work on my cookbook.”

  “I didn’t know you were writing a cookbook.”

  “I need money so I can fix my foundation. I had a good idea for a cookbook, but now I have to write it and sell it.”

  “Is it a cupcake book?”

  “Not entirely.”

  I turned my back on Diesel and loaded the industrial-size sink with dirty mixing bowls and pastry bags. I didn’t want to get into cookbook details with him. The title of the book was Hot Guys Cooking for Hungry Women, and all the recipes would be presented by a hot guy. I thought it was a good marketing ploy, but I was worried about the message it might send to a man who was already way too comfy sleeping in my bed.

  Glo came back with her book of spells and a packet of pixie dust. She placed the book on the work island, opened it to a marked page, and followed along with her finger.

  “Uppity uppity rise thyself,” Glo read from the book. “Wings of magic, heart of believer, eyes open, spirit soar. Uppity uppity rise thyself.”

  Nothing. She didn’t rise.

  “Darn,” Glo said.

  Diesel was watching, thumbs tucked into the pockets of his jeans, smiling. “Personally, I think you need more uppities.”

  “No,” she said. “I read it perfectly.”

  “Maybe you don’t have wings of magic,” I told her. “Or the heart of a believer.” Or how about this . . . how about the book is fiction.

  “I’m pretty sure I have the heart of a believer. It has to be the wings of magic, but I might be able to compensate with the pixie dust.”

  She took a pinch from the packet, repeated the spell, and sprinkled the pixie dust onto the top of her head.

  Nothing happened.

  “Pixie dust is supposed to sparkle,” Diesel said. “Your dust doesn’t have any sparkle.”

  “It was on sale,” Glo said. “Maybe I didn’t use enough.”

  She chanted the spell one more time and threw a handful of dust at herself. Some of the dust flew past her onto the gas range and ignited like a July 4th sparkler. Pop, pop, pop, pop. The pops turned into swoosh and a ribbon of flame raced along the top of the stove and set fire to a roll of paper towels. Diesel calmly grabbed the flaming towels and pitched them into the sink.

  Glo looked dejected. “I suppose there’s no substitute for wings of magic.”

  “Flying is overrated anyway,” Diesel said.

  I removed the soaked towels from the sink and finished scrubbing my bowls.

  “How do you know so much about sparkling pixie dust?” I asked Diesel.

  “Tinker Bell.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  It was almost one when I cruised down Weatherby Street. The street was narrow and slightly winding, as befitting a road originally designed for horse traffic. Houses were close together. Windows were thrown open to catch the fresh air. Flowerpots had been crammed onto small front stoops. Paint schemes dated back to colonial days. Some houses were freshly painted and some had paint peeling. This was no Stepford neighborhood.

  Diesel had driven Glo’s car to the bakery, so he was riding shotgun. I stopped at the entrance to my driveway, and we swiveled our heads toward the two vans parked in front of my house. Six men stood on the sidewalk beside the vans. Two of the men had Handycams. A third guy had a rolling hard-side suitcase. I parked, and we walked over to the men.

  “What’s going on?” Diesel asked.

  “Spook Patrol,” one of the guys said. “We’re here to investigate a sighting. Are you the home owner?”

  “Nope,” Diesel said. “The ticked-off-looking blonde is the home owner.”

  The guy plastered a smile onto his face and stuck his hand out to me. “Mel Mensher. We’d like to take a daytime and a nighttime reading.”

  Mel Me
nsher was in his late twenties. He was slim, dressed in jeans and layers of shirts—T-shirt, flannel shirt, sweatshirt. His brown hair was receding at a good clip.

  “There’s been a huge mistake,” I said. “There was no sighting. Just a nicotine addict dressed in black looking out my bedroom window.”

  “That’s not what our ghost-o-meter says. We ran it across your front door, and it went off the chart.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I told him. “That’s impossible.”

  “Not entirely,” Diesel said.

  I looked up at him. “Anything you want to tell me?”

  “It’s possible that Wulf and I have an unusual energy field.”

  “There you have it,” I said to Mel Mensher. “The big guy here has an unusual energy field.”

  “Lady, I’m talking full-blown spectral phenomenon.”

  “Well?” I asked Diesel.

  “I’m not spectral, but I’ve been told I can be pretty damn phenomenal.”

  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.”