Diesel came up with some loose change, a throat lozenge, and a set of car keys. “You’re lucky you’re not getting searched by my monkey.”
“No kidding?” Spencer said. “You’ve got a monkey? Do you got an organ to grind?”
“Doesn’t everyone?” Diesel said, moving on to another pocket. He pulled his hand out of the pocket and held a pie-shaped piece of a coin between his fingers. “Tell me about this,” he said to Spencer.
“It fell out of the cage,” Spencer said. “The one that held the body. When I was loading it into the truck, it fell out. I didn’t think it was worth anything. I only kept it as a good luck charm.”
Diesel flipped the coin to me, and I caught it with one hand and felt the vibration.
“This is it,” I said. “This is the second piece of the pie.”
The lights went out, and we were plunged into total blackness. I felt an arm wrap around my waist, I was lifted off my feet, and I was effortlessly swept across the room. Wulf’s voice whispered against my ear, his voice so soft it was barely above a thought.
“You’re still playing on the wrong team,” he said to me. “It won’t end well for you.”
He smelled faintly of cloves and woodsmoke. I felt his lips brush along my neck, and a chill ran down my spine followed by a rush of heat. His hand closed over mine, and I was no longer in possession of the coin.
“Hey!” I said.
There was a flash of fire, and after a beat the lights came on in the room.
Wulf was gone but Hatchet was still with us. He tipped his head up and sniffed the air.
“Sire?” Hatchet asked.
“He t-t-took the c-c-coin,” I said.
Diesel was hands on hips. “He should take his act to Vegas.”
CHAPTER SIX
Martin Ammon’s house on Marblehead Neck was ten minutes from my house, and I was going to arrive precisely on time. I’d combed most of the frosting from my hair, and I was dressed in my new clothes. I’d taken a moment to swipe on some mascara and lip gloss. I had butterflies in my stomach, and a nervous twitch in my left eye. My car’s gas gauge read empty, but the red light wasn’t on, so I felt pretty confident I could make it to the Neck and back.
The Neck was an island at one time, but now a road built on a causeway connects it to the mainland. There are a couple yacht clubs on the harbor side. The rest of the Neck is high-end residential. The oceanfront properties are especially pricey, and that’s where Ammon lived. His large stone house, with its multiple chimneys and turrets, was partially hidden behind a high stone wall. I pulled up to an intricately scrolled wrought iron gate. The plaque in the middle of it bore the name CUPIDITAS. A red light was blinking in a call box at the edge of the driveway.
“Lizzy Tucker to see Martin Ammon,” I said to the call box.
The gate slowly swung open, and I drove through to the house and parked in the circular driveway. The massive front door was opened by a man in a navy blazer, a crisp white dress shirt, and a red tie with the Ammon logo on it. I was afraid to ask if he was the butler, because if he said yes I might burst out laughing out of sheer nervousness.
He was somewhere in his thirties and slightly overweight, around five foot ten. He had mousy brown hair cut in a traditional square-back style, side part. Hazel eyes with skimpy mousy brown eyelashes and eyebrows. Thick lips and a nose that was almost too small for his face. If you saw him on the street you might think he reminded you of Practical Pig in a blazer.
“My name is Rutherford,” he said, smiling wide, showing lots of teeth. “I’m Mr. Ammon’s devoted assistant.”
Devoted assistant? Okay, that’s weird. Does that imply love? Sexual relationship? Minion status?
“Mr. Ammon is expecting you,” Rutherford said. “This way.”
I was led up a red carpeted staircase and down a cherry-paneled hallway to a set of double doors that looked like they belonged in Downton Abbey.
“This is Mr. Ammon’s home office,” Rutherford said. “It’s his private space, and not many people are privileged to see it. You must be quite special. I understand you’ve submitted a cookbook for Mr. Ammon’s consideration.”
The possibility of getting my cookbook published had me breathless. I was desperate for the money it might bring in. My house needed a new roof, and my car was ready for the junkyard. Diesel had used the cookbook and the cupcakes as a
ploy to get me into Ammon’s house, but what if Ammon really liked my book! Okay, take a step back, I told myself. It would be very cool to get the cookbook published, but let’s not lose sight of the true purpose for the visit. I needed to help Diesel find the stone, so I could get on with my life. That meant locating the map and the diary. Focus, Lizzy!
The home office was huge, and every wall was lined with bookshelves. The floor was glossy dark wood covered with Oriental carpets. The furniture looked comfortable. Overstuffed club chairs covered in burgundy chenille. Mahogany leather couches. A desk the size of a king-size bed. All right, maybe that’s an exaggeration, but not by much.
A massive stone fireplace dominated one wall. A black rose was engraved in the center of the mantel, with some Latin phrase carved underneath it. A framed piece of parchment hung over the mantel. The parchment was obviously important to Ammon since it held the place of honor in the room.