“I’m going to alley-oop you into the next yard,” Diesel said.
“No!”
Too late. I was over the fence. Diesel came next. Same deal. No way out.
“This is ridiculous,” Diesel said.
He opened the back door to the house and the alarm went off. We raced through, found the front door, and walked out of the house.
“That was easy,” he said.
Diesel took the 1A all the way into Salem and drove to the bakery. I’d called to check on Clara and found she was at her sister’s house for the night. Glo was off on a date with the bellringer, and no one knew if Deirdre Early was still in the parking lot.
“What are we going to do if she’s still there?” I asked Diesel.
“We’re going to ignore her, break into the bakery, and get something to eat. I’m starving.”
He turned the corner, his headlights flashed on the lot, and the lot appeared to be empty, with the exception of a grotesque, twisted, large black piece of metal.
“What is that?” I asked.
“I think it’s your car,” Diesel said.
“It can’t possibly be my car.”
Diesel parked, we got out, and looked at the charred mess.
“I’m pretty sure it’s your car,” Diesel said. “I can see part of the license plate.”
“I loved that car!”
“No you didn’t,” Diesel said. “It was one step away from scrap metal.”
“Yes, but now I have
“Let’s think about what we have here,” Diesel said. “Someone torched your car and Early’s town house. Probably the same person. Possibly Early, although I don’t know why she’d burn down her own house.”
“Because she’s insane?”
“Yeah, that could be one possibility.”
“And then we also have a
“I’m going with the spell didn’t stick. I can’t imagine anyone wanting Deirdre Early.”
“Bottom line is I have no idea what the hell’s going on,” Diesel said. “Are we raiding the bakery or do you have something better to eat at your house?”
“I doubt there’s anything left here. We mostly do doughnuts and cookies on Sunday, and Clara isn’t opening for business tomorrow.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Cat was waiting for us when we walked into the house. I scratched him behind his ear and apologized for leaving him alone all day. I think he might have rolled his eyes at me, but it’s hard to tell, since he only has one that works. I gave him a can of cat food and pulled stuff out of the refrigerator for a frittata.
I’d had a chance to look at the plaque on the way home. There were some markings on the back that looked like hieroglyphics and random letters. I could feel a little heat and a mild vibration, but nothing to make my hair curl.
Diesel was in the living room with the plaque and my computer, and I could hear the television droning in the background. Undoubtedly some sort of sporting event.
I brought him a beer and some cheese and crackers to hold him until the frittata was out of the oven. “How’s it going? Any ideas?”
“The original owner of The Key House, Malcom Key, and the architect, William M. Butterfield, belonged to the Boston Society of Natural History. They would have known Monroe Tichy, and most likely one or both of them was a follower of Lovey, or at least knew him. So maybe the Society is the common denominator. I’m guessing Duane and an early owner of the Van Gogh painting were also Society members.”
“And either Lovey or one of the Society members had the unique ability to energize an object in such a way that another kind of energy would trigger a message.”
“Yup.”
“Do you know where any of this takes us next?”
“No. It would help if something magically appeared on the plaque.”
We looked at the plaque but nothing appeared.
“It’s always something different,” I said. “The first clue was visible to Glo. The second clue was produced by the tone of the bell. The third clue responded to Carl. And the fourth clue was produced by the key.”
“I have no basis for thinking this, but I can’t shake the feeling that the writing on the back of the plaque is the clue.”
I left Diesel to study the clue he’d copied onto paper and returned to the kitchen. I didn’t have fresh greens for a salad, but I had some frozen French bread I could defrost, and there were vegetables in the frittata.
The towels and sheets were still on the windows, and not doing a lot for my decorating scheme or my mood.
“Someone toasted my car,” I said to Cat. “I think it might have been Deirdre Early. She’s a really mean person.”
I took the frittata out of the oven, gave a slice to Cat, and plated the rest for Diesel and me, along with the bread. I brought the food into the living room and we ate in front of the television.
“I found a connection,” Diesel said. “In 1885, a secret society, Sphinx, was founded at Dartmouth College. In 1903, the society erected a Sphinx Tomb on a small piece of land on Wheelock Street on the Dartmouth campus. William M. Butterfield was the architect for the Tomb. I downloaded a picture of it, and it’s hard to be sure, because the resolution isn’t as sharp as I’d like, but I think there are markings on the Sphinx cornerstone that resemble the hieroglyphics on the back of the plaque.”
I looked at the downloaded picture and gave an inadvertent shudder. “Whoa, this is solemn. It actually looks like a tomb.”
It was a windowless gray stone structure with stone steps leading up to a large solid door that was bordered by columns reminiscent of Egyptian temples. Difficult to tell how large the building was from the photo.
“Does this mean we’ll be going to Dartmouth?” I asked.
“It’s the best lead I have so far.”
“Are we going tonight?”
“No. You have to get naked tonight.”
“In your dreams.”
“Frequently,” Diesel said. “You look good.” He stared down at his empty plate. “Is there dessert?”
“Fruit.”
“Fruit isn’t a dessert unless it’s in pie crust.”
I had my cell phone clipped to my jeans waistband, and I felt it buzz. I looked at the readout and saw Glo’s number.
“Hey,” I said. “What’s going on?”
“He wants the Lovey key,” Glo said.
“Who?”
“Wulf. He has me, Lizzy. I don’t know where I am. It’s dark and it smells like dirt, and Hatchet is here and he has knives. And he cut me, and I’m bleeding.”
Her voice was shaking, and I could hear she was crying.
“How bad are you bleeding?”
“Not bad, but it hurts. And he says he’ll cut me more if you don’t bring the key.”
“Is Wulf there?”
“He was, but he left. And now I’m alone with Hatchet.”
