Melody unclasped the chain and placed the necklace in my hand. I felt the warmth radiate from my open palm and up my arm. The bee glowed gold, orange, and finally bright red.
I nodded to Diesel. “This is it.”
“I know this is special to you,” Diesel said to Melody, “but it’s very old and should be returned to the rest of the collection.”
One of the toddlers spotted Carl hanging back by the door. “Goggy!”
“Eep!” Carl said, turning tail and scurrying out of the house. Two dogs raced through the living room and ran out after him. There was a lot of monkey chatter and barking from the front yard, and the toddler screwed up its face and started crying.
“About the necklace,” Diesel said.
“Take it,” Melody said. “I appreciate the help with Sir Hatchelot, but honestly, I could do without this additional drama. Close the door on the way out, and don’t forget your monkey.”
I thanked Melody, pocketed the charm, and peeked outside to see if Hatchet was still looking like roadkill on the front lawn. Fortunately, Hatchet and his wreck of a car were nowhere to be seen.
Diesel closed the door on Melody and her brood, and we crossed into the neighbor’s yard, where the dogs had Carl treed.
“It’d be so easy to leave him here,” Diesel said, looking up at Carl.
“Would you really do that?”
“No.”
Diesel whistled to Carl, and Carl dropped onto Diesel’s shoulder.
“You’re such a softy,” I said to Diesel.
“Yeah. I’m a pushover for monkeys.”
We walked back to the sidewalk and found that the monkey-barf car had disappeared, and in its place sat a king-size white sedan.
“What is it?” I asked Diesel.
“It’s a Lincoln Town Car. An old one.”
“It’s really long.”
“Yeah. And really white,” Diesel said.
He opened the back door, and Carl jumped in and bounced around on the big bench seat.
“Chee, chee, chee,” Carl said.
I slid onto the front passenger seat and ran my hand over the white upholstery. “I feel like I should be in a wedding or going to a prom,” I said to Diesel.
“I hate to disappoint you, but they’re not on the schedule.”
It was almost two o’clock when Diesel parked the Lincoln in front of my house. It was a balmy seventy degrees, and the sun was bright in a blue sky. General Eisenhower was on his stoop, taking in the day. Aside from the general, the street was deserted. Two blocks away, at the foot of the hill, locals were buying flats of pansies at the little flower shop, sitting on city benches with their coffee and chai, and heading for Crocker Park with their golden retrievers and baby carriages.
“This is a nice family neighborhood,” I said to Diesel. “Doesn’t it make you want to have a baby?”
“No,” Diesel said. “Not at the moment.”
I rolled out of the Lincoln and checked my mailbox. Two pieces of junk mail, my credit card bill, and a letter from an agent. I tore the agent letter open and read it. Short and sweet. No thanks.
“Damn, damn, damn!” I said. “I?
?ve had it. I’m done. What the heck do you have to do to get published anyway? I bet this guy didn’t even read my proposal. I hate him. I don’t even know him, and I hate him. I hate the whole publishing industry. And I hate this money-pit, broken-down house. I should never have left New York.”