I glanced over at Diesel and thought I’d rather have a charm that helped me ignore lust.
“I want to do some research on Gilbert Reedy,” Diesel said to me. “Is it okay if I use your computer?”
“Sure.”
“Who’s Gilbert Reedy?” Glo wanted to know.
“Dead guy,” Diesel said. “Took a swan dive off his fourth-floor balcony this morning.”
I set the dining room table for three. I was serving soup and fresh baked bread for lunch. Oatmeal cookies for dessert.
Diesel ambled in from the living room to join Glo and me, and Carl hopped onto the fourth chair.
“Chee?” Carl asked.
“No,” Diesel said. “It’s soup. Remember when you had the meltdown over mashed potatoes? Soup is worse.”
Carl gave him the finger, jumped off, scurried into the kitchen, and returned with a bowl. He set the bowl on the table and scrambled onto his chair. Too short. He could barely see over the table. He jumped down, ran to the closet, and came back with his booster chair. He climbed onto the booster and smiled his scary monkey smile at everyone. Hopeful.
“Isn’t that cute,” Glo said. “He wants soup.”
I’d seen Carl eat, and I agreed with Diesel. I didn’t think soup was a good idea. I put a slice of bread into Carl’s bowl and spooned a little broth over it. Carl pointed at my soup and pointed to his bowl. He wanted more.
“Not gonna happen,” Diesel said.
Carl threw his bowl onto the floor and glared at Diesel. Diesel blew out a sigh, plucked Carl off the booster seat, carted him to the back door, and pitched him out.
“What if he runs away?” Glo asked.
“Lucky me,” Diesel said.
“He’s not going to run away,” I told Diesel. “He’s going to stand out there in the rain until you let him come in, and then the whole house will smell like wet monkey.”
There was some scratching at the door, the lock tumbled, the door opened, and Carl stomped past us into the living room. He turned the television on, surfed a couple channels, and settled for the Home Shopping Network. We all rolled our eyes and got busy with our soup.
“Did you find anything interesting on Reedy?” I asked Diesel.
“He taught Elizabethan literature. He was single. Originally from the Midwest. Drove a hybrid. Forty-two years old. No indication that he was exceptional in any way.”
“Boy, that’s impressive,” Glo said. “Do you have to buy into a search program to find that kind of stuff?”
Diesel mopped the last of his soup up with a crust of bread. “No. It was on his Facebook page. He also had a blog where he wrote about finding a book of sonnets that was said to have magical powers.”
Glo went wide-eyed. “I bet he was talking about Lovey’s book! Is that where you found the key? Was the key on Gilbert Reedy?”
“Maybe,” Diesel said. “Maybe not.”
Carl walked into the dining room and mooned Diesel. It lost some impact, since Carl didn’t wear pants and his business wasn’t new to us.
“Dude,” Diesel said. “That’s no way to get dessert.”
Carl snapped to attention. “Eep?”
“Cookies,” I told him.
Carl jumped onto his booster seat, sat ramrod straight, and folded his hands on the table. He was a good monkey. I gave him a cookie, and he shoved it into his mouth.
“Manners,” Diesel said to him.