CHAPTER SEVEN
Diesel took me back to my car and I went straight home. I made a grilled cheese for dinner, cleaned the kitchen, and threw some laundry in the washer. I surfed through a bunch of channels on television and gave up. Diesel was in his apartment reading the Goodfellow diary, and I was finding that while I’d wished for a quiet night to myself, it wasn’t working. I couldn’t get my mind off Gilbert Reedy, Deirdre Early, Lovey, and the Luxuria Stone. It was all in a mix in my head, going round and round. I called Glo and asked how late the Exotica Shoppe stayed open.
“Usually until nine o’clock,” Glo said. “Sometimes later in October because of Halloween. I could go with you if you’re thinking of shopping.”
“Don’t you have a date tonight?”
“No. He called to say he was being detained, and I didn’t have enough money to bail him out. I never bail someone out on the first date anymore. Been there, done that.”
Thirty minutes later, I had Glo and her broom in my car, and we were headed for the Exotica Shoppe.
“This is way exciting,” Glo said. “I wanted the sonnets because they were hot, but this is better. They’re like magical and mystical. And I’m really into this whole saving mankind from descending into hell. I mean, it’s one thing to go green, but rescuing mankind from Satan is big.”
Ye Olde Exotica Shoppe is located two blocks south of Dazzle’s Bakery. The name is written in gold script above the ancient wood door. The sign in the window reads OPEN and dares people to come inside. Exotica gets a lot of tourist trade, but believers in the occult and history buffs shop there as well. It’s a small store stocked floor to ceiling with who-knows-what. Jars are labeled for self-serve convenience. Pig ears, troll phlegm, dried dragon tongue, screech owl beaks, Gummi Bears, milkweed pods, bullock tails, kosher salt, Irish pixie dust, candied earthworm, rotted beetle brain, Belgian white rabbit gonads, and much, much more.
Nina Wortley is the owner-manager of Exotica. She’s in her early sixties. She has long, frizzed, snow-white hair. Her face looks like it’s been dusted with cake flour, and her bony fingers are loaded with all sorts of rings. She favors floor-length, silky, midnight blue capes and frothy white gowns that she gets from the overstock costume store two doors down. And she accessorizes this fantasy fashion ensemble with sensible wool socks and Birkenstock clogs.
Nina smiled when she saw Glo. “I was just thinking about you. I got in a new shipment of powdered orange spotted toad. I believe Ripple called for a smidgen in his recipe for controlling barking in enchanted objects.”
“Thanks,” Glo said, “but I don’t have a barking problem.”
Nina cut her eyes to Glo’s broom. “Has his mood improved with the extract of contented cow?”
“Maybe a little.”
“Well, if he starts barking, I have just the thing.”
After five minutes in the Exotica Shoppe with Glo and Nina, I was ready to start barking. Bad enough I had to deal with Diesel and the whole abilities beyond normal thing. Glo and Nina took suspension of disbelief to a whole other level.
“I want to talk to you about the Lovey book of sonnets,” I said to Nina.
“You’re the third person to ask about it since the professor was killed,” Nina said.
“We want to know everything,” Glo said. “We’re investigating, and we might save mankind from Armageddon.”
“That would be excellent,” Nina said. “Let me know if you need help. I have a few spells I’ve been saving for a special occasion . . . like doomsday.”
“Was Gilbert Reedy a regular customer?” I asked Nina.
“No. He happened to walk past the shop and saw the book in the window. He was very excited about it. He knew the entire history. He said it completed his collection.”
“Who else came in and asked about the book?”
“A vampire. He was supernaturally handsome. He had shoulder-length black hair, and deathly pale skin. He came in the same day the professor was killed. He wanted to know if the key had been sold with the book. And then a woman came in a day later and asked the very same question.”
“Do you know the woman’s name?”
“No. She was waiting outside for me to open the store. She was pacing and smoking. And her hair was every which way, as if she’d been running her hands through it.”
“Short black hair?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“My age?”
“Maybe a little older.”
“Pretty?”