Wicked Business

  The house is on the fringe of Harvard’s campus in a neighborhood that I suspect is, to a large extent, faculty housing, just as it was in the 1800s. The homes are modest but sturdy. Not many are as old as Tichy House.

  I turned just before going through the house’s front door and caught a glimpse of a car as it drove past. It was a beat-up junker, and Hatchet was behind the wheel. He was focused on the road ahead and didn’t notice us. Probably running down all the Tichy leads, like we were doing.

  The two front rooms of the house held displays of Tichy memorabilia. Framed awards and diplomas, bound professional papers, photographs of Tichy and his family, some personal treasures. Threadbare Oriental rugs covered the wide plank floor. A woman who looked as old as the rugs sat behind a spindle-legged writing desk.

  “May I help you?” she asked. “Feel free to look around.”

  “Is the rest of the house open to the public?” I asked her.

  “Yes, but it’s not historically interesting. The upstairs rooms are empty. The kitchen and bathroom were renovated in 1957. The last Tichy to live in the house moved out in 1962, and the house was turned over to the Trust.”

  Diesel and I walked through the house, studied the mementos in the downstairs rooms, left a donation, and returned to our car.

  “Next stop is Tichy Street,” Diesel said.

  “I think that little museum was our best shot at finding a clue, but I touched everything in there, and nothing registered.”

  Diesel headed back to Massachusetts Avenue. “I saw Hatchet drive down the street just as we were going into the Tichy House. He could have gone through ahead of us and taken something.”

  “That’s a depressing thought.”

  We traveled the length of Tichy Street and briefly got out and looked at the Tichasaurus Armatus. It was a fun replica, but it wasn’t enchanted, and I couldn’t find any hidden messages.

  “I have one more stop,” Diesel said. “Mount Auburn Cemetery. Tichy’s buried there.”

  “I’m trying to forget I was threatened with death today. Visiting a cemetery isn’t going to contribute to my mental health.”

  “Just think of a cemetery as a history book with grass.”

  “What about the ghouls and ghosts who live there?”

  “No different from anyplace else.”

  “And your opinion on death?”

  “I think it’s to be avoided. Beyond that I have no opinion.”

  “How about life? Do you have an opinion on life? What do you value?”

  “Honor, duty, sex, and the NFL. Not necessarily in that order.”

  “What about love and friendship?”

  “Girl stuff.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yeesh.”

  Diesel gave a bark of laughter. “I don’t know how you’ve survived this long, considering how transparent and gullible you are,” he said.

  I punched him in the arm. “Jerk.”

  Diesel followed his GPS southwest, skirting Harvard Square, hooking up with Mount Auburn Street. Mount Auburn Cemetery is for the most part located in Watertown, but its granite Egyptian Revival entrance is in neighboring Cambridge. It’s bordered by other cemeteries and by densely populated neighborhoods of the living.

  The cemetery was founded in 1831 and was the first garden cemetery in this country. Its 174 acres of rolling hills are heavily forested in parts with native trees and bushes. The graves and monuments are scattered throughout, accessible by a system of roads and meandering footpaths.

  Diesel drove into the heart of the cemetery, following instructions from his assistant. He parked on the side of the paved road, and we took a footpath to the Tichy family plot.

  Peder Tichy was buried in 1862 on a grassy hillside now shaded by mature oak trees. The granite monuments around Tichy were worn by age and weather, but the inscriptions were still clear, and we went headstone by headstone, reading names, looking for Tichy.

  “I found him,” Diesel said, squatting in front of a headstone with a cross carved into the top. “Peder Tichy, survived by his wife, Mary, and his children, Catherine and Monroe.”

  I joined Diesel and looked at the headstone.

  “No message,” I said.

  “None that I can see.”

  “This is getting old. At the risk of being a whiner, I’d rather be home taking a nap.”

  A flash of silver caught my eye, and I looked beyond Diesel to a heavily shrubbed area toward the top of the hill.

  “I see feet,” I said. “In running shoes. They’re sticking out of the bushes, and they aren’t moving.”

  Diesel walked up the hill, reached the feet, and stepped into the rhododendron thicket.

  “It’s Hatchet,” he called down to me.

  “Is he dead?”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  I scrambled up to Diesel and watched him pull Hatchet out of the bushes.

  “Are you sure you should drag him out by his feet like that?” I asked. “What if he has a broken back or something?”

  “His problem, not mine.”

  I looked down at Hatchet and a wave of nausea rolled through my stomach. Hatchet had a handprint burned into his neck.

  “Oh boy,” I said. “Why would Wulf do this to his own minion?”

  “It wasn’t Wulf,” Diesel said. “The print is too small.”

  “I thought Wulf was the only one who could burn people.”

  “Apparently not.”

  Diesel prodded Hatchet with his foot. “Hatchet! Wake up.”

  “Unh,” Hatchet said, eyes closed.

  Diesel kicked him in the leg.

  “Thank you, sire,” Hatchet said.

  Diesel shook his head. “That’s sick.”

  Hatchet’s eyes opened and took a moment to focus. “What?” he said.

  Diesel grabbed Hatchet by the front of his tunic and hoisted him to his feet. “That’s my question. What happened?”

  “I know not. I was investigating the grave site, and that’s all I remember.” He touched his neck. “Ow!”

  “It’s burned,” Diesel said. “In the shape of a hand.”

  Hatchet looked confused. “Why?”

  “Did you remove anything from the Tichy House?” I asked him.

  “Nay. ’Twas junk and not worth taking.”

  “That burn’s going to blister,” I told him. “You need to put some aloe on it.” I looked more closely at his face. He had a huge red splotch on his nose and another on his forehead. He scratched the one on his forehead.

  “Are you okay?” I asked him.

  “’Tis as if the foul farts have turned to these beastly hives. I rid myself of one plague only to acquire another.”

  “If you still have them tomorrow, you might want to talk to Glo about it.”

  Hatchet scratched his leg and his butt. “Might she find some spell to cure this?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “In the meantime, you could try calamine lotion.”

  “You have been most kind,” Hatchet said, “but I will still smite thee down if I must. I will slice off your ear, run my sword through your liver, boil you in a cauldron of oil if you attempt to slow me on my quest.”

  “Wonderful,” I said. “I’ll add that to the list of things I can look forward to.”

  “I think I doth got carried away with the oil,” Hatchet said. “It would be difficult to procure such an amount of oil.”

  He scratched his crotch and under his arm, and he limped down the hill toward the road.

  Diesel and I took one last futile look around, saw nothing that would indicate the presence of a clue, and followed Hatchet.

  “I’m pretty sure there weren’t any other cars on the road when we parked,” I said to Diesel. “How did he get here? And how is he getting home?”

  “Methinks we’ll find out,” Diesel said. “It appears he doth stand by my SUV.”

  “Where’s your car?” I asked Hatchet.

  “Stolen,” Hatchet said. “This day doth suck.”

&n
bsp; Diesel took Hatchet’s sword so he wouldn’t be tempted to run it through my liver, and we loaded him into the back of the SUV.

  “Where do you want us to drop you?” Diesel asked.

  “Put me in a sack and throw me into the river,” Hatchet said.

  “Not my thing,” Diesel told him. “Pick something else.”

  “A pharmacy.”

  Diesel found one on Massachusetts Avenue. He pulled to the curb, gave Hatchet his sword back, and watched him get out of the SUV.

  “Do you want me to wait?” Diesel asked.

  “Nay. I will find my own way.”

  Diesel slipped back into traffic, continued down Massachusetts, and called Wulf.

  “Yes,” Wulf said.

  “Hey, cuz, just wanted you to know Hatchet is in the CVS in Cambridge. He’s getting ointment for a handprint burn on his neck. And he’s without transportation. Someone stole his car.”

  There was a silent pause and a disconnect.

  “Why are you helping Hatchet? Isn’t he the enemy?” I asked Diesel.

  “Yes, but it annoys Wulf when I’m nice to Hatchet. And I need to protect Hatchet to some degree. Wulf would be more determined to capture you if he didn’t have Hatchet.”

  “We’re missing something with Tichy. I don’t feel like we’re even close.”

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

  “Maybe we’re not innocent enough.”

  “That’s a given for me.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Midway through the morning, the bell over the bakery’s front door jingled and Hatchet walked in. I was filling one of the large wire breadbaskets in the front of the shop, and Glo was helping a woman select several meat pies. We all gave a start when we saw Hatchet. His face and hands were dabbed with calamine lotion, his scraggly hair was greasy, and he was scratching like a dog with a flea infestation.

  “You,” he said, pointing to the woman buying meat pies. “Step aside. I need to speak to the witch.”

  The woman looked at Glo. “Are you a witch?”

  “Not exactly,” Glo said. “I think I might have some latent wizard abilities, and there’s a good possibility my broom is enchanted, but I’m pretty sure I’m not a witch.”

  Hatchet narrowed his eyes. “What part of step aside did thee not hear?” he said to the woman.

  “I was here first,” the woman said.

  Hatchet drew his sword. “Madam, I have hives in dark places, my balls are on fire, and I have little patience. Wouldst you die for your place in line?”

  “Hey,” Glo said. “You can’t talk to our customers like that.”

  “Do something, witch. Relieve this itch or I will smite thee down. I will cleave thee in two.”

  The woman turned and ran out of the store.

  Clara was in the doorway. “What’s going on out here?”

  “Hatchet threw a hissy fit and chased Glo’s customer away,” I said.

  Clara squinted at Hatchet. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Hives,” I said. “The farting stopped, but now he has hives.”

  “Omigosh,” Glo said. “Do you suppose it could be the ground salamander tail?”

  “Do you have any with you?” I asked.

  “No,” Glo said. “I would have to go to the Exotica Shoppe to get some.”

  Hatchet was clawing at his crotch. “Maybe if I take my clothes off,” he said.

  “No!” Clara said. “You can’t take your clothes off in my bakery. It’s not done. There’s an ordinance.” She turned to Glo. “Get him out of here. Take him to Exotica before he ruins me. Take Lizzy with you.”

  “I haven’t finished my cupcakes,” I said to Clara.

  “I’ll finish the cupcakes. Go with Glo, and make sure he doesn’t come back here. Do whatever you have to do.” Clara looked me straight in the eye. “Do anything.”

  Glo took Broom and her messenger bag, and we walked Hatchet out of the bakery.

  “It’s just a couple blocks,” Glo said to Hatchet. “Try to look normal and not scare anyone on the way.”

  “My cheeks are chafing, and I have hives in my nose, creeping to my brain,” Hatchet said.

  “Nobody likes a whiner,” Glo told him.

  “Sorry,” Hatchet said. “Wouldst thou like to beat me?”

  Glo declined, but I swear I saw Broom twitch toward Hatchet and Glo take a more firm grip.

  Nina waved to us from the back of the store when we entered. She was a puff of lavender cotton candy in a gauzy fluffy gown that Cinderella might have worn to a ball, complete with a froth of lavender tulle perched on her head.

  “I just got a shipment of Bavarian elf eyelashes,” she said. “Very special. Excellent for constipation and removing spells having Irish pixie dust as their main ingredient.”

  “I’m looking for ground salamander,” Glo said. “I did an undo spell yesterday, and it undid what it was supposed to but it might have produced hives. I thought it could have happened because I didn’t use the ground salamander.”

  Nina shook her finger at Glo. “It’s very naughty to cast spells with incomplete ingredients.”

  Glo pulled Ripple’s out of her bag. “I thought I’d just do the spell over with the salamander.”

  “That probably will work, since it was an undo spell,” Nina said, turning to a cabinet filled top to bottom with glass jars labeled Dandelion Fluff, Pickled Pigeon Feet, Scented Toadstool, Green M&Ms, Petrified Danish Quail Eggs. “Here it is,” Nina said. “Ground salamander. I sell a lot of this. It’s useful in so many spells.” She measured a small amount out, sealed it in a snack-size plastic bag, and passed it over to Glo.

  Glo had Ripple’s open on the counter. “Here goes,” she said.

  Hatchet stood in front of her, trying hard not to scratch.

  “Begone, begone all manner of enchanted suggestion,” Glo read. “Evil eye and witches brew, charmed touch, tainted blood.” She took a pinch of salamander out of the bag and threw it at Hatchet. “Foul drugged sleep forever leave this vessel, this Hatchet.” She snapped her fingers twice. “Turn around three times and clap your hands once,” she said to Hatchet.

  Hatchet turned around and clapped his hands.

  “Do you still itch?” Glo asked.

  “Yes!” Hatchet said.

  “The spell might take a while to kick in,” Nina said. She took another jar off the shelf and gave two capsules to Hatchet. “Take this in the meantime.”

  Hatchet swallowed the capsules. “What manner of magic was this?”

  “Benadryl,” Nina said.

  “Has the frickberry come in yet?” Glo asked.

  “Not yet,” Nina said. “I’m hoping Monday.”

  We all walked back to the bakery, and Hatchet stopped at a purple-and-yellow VW Beetle parked at the curb.

  “I will take my leave of thee here,” he said.

  “Omigosh, is this your car?” Glo asked Hatchet. “This is so cool. This looks like a big Easter egg.”

  Hatchet sighed and slumped a little. “My sword doth barely fit in this vehicle.”

  “That’s because you have such a big manly sword,” Glo said.

  Hatchet perked up at that. “’Tis true. My sword is big and manly.”

  I left on that note, not really wanting to dwell on Hatchet’s sword.

  Diesel was waiting for me in the bakery. “We need to go back to Cambridge,” he said. “I think I know what we were doing wrong.”

  “I have to work. I have cupcakes to frost.”

  “Not anymore,” Clara said. “He ate them.”

  “All of them?”

  “No. His monkey ate some.”

  I glanced over at Carl, sitting in the corner with his eyes half closed. “Looks like he overdid it.”

  “He has no control,” Diesel said.

  “And you?” I asked him.

  “I have control in spades.”

  “Go,” Clara said. “Take the monkey. Save the world.”


  We all went out to the SUV, buckled ourselves in, and Diesel headed for the 1A.

  “What’s the big revelation?” I asked him.

  “I think we were investigating the wrong Tichy. I went back to Reedy’s papers and found a letter to Lovey from someone named Monroe. Monroe was thanking Lovey for introducing him to his one true love, the woman he was about to marry. And there’s a brief mention of Monroe in the Goodfellow diary. Lovey felt that Monroe had a pure and innocent soul. Monroe’s last name is never given, but Peder Tichy’s headstone said he was survived by his wife, Mary, and his children, Catherine and Monroe.”

  “Monroe would be more of a contemporary with Lovey. He’d fit the profile better.”

  “When I started to research Tichy, it was Peder who kept coming up. Not a lot is out there about Monroe, other than his connection to the Boston Society of Natural History. At the time, the Society’s museum was located in Back Bay and was known as the New England Museum of Natural History. In 1951, it moved to its present location on the Charles River and became the Boston Museum of Science.”

  “The history of Tichy.”

  “Exactly. When we were at the cemetery, we only looked at Peder Tichy’s headstone. I thought it wouldn’t hurt to look at Monroe’s.”

  Almost an hour later, we were on Mount Auburn Street and Carl was asleep in the backseat. We entered the cemetery and saw lights flashing on the road ahead near the area where Tichy was buried. We got closer and realized that the road was clogged with police cars, cemetery maintenance vehicles, and satellite news trucks. Diesel pulled onto a cross street and parked, and we went on foot to the grave site.

  We moved through the crush of people and stopped a short distance from what used to be Peder Tichy’s last resting place. From my vantage point, it looked to me like Tichy was missing. His headstone was tipped over, and there was a big, messy hole in the ground where grass had grown yesterday.

  “What’s going on?” Diesel asked one of the cops.

  “A groundskeeper discovered this when he came to work this morning. Probably some fraternity had a scavenger hunt and it called for a body. You can’t imagine the stuff these kids do.”