Wicked Appetite (Lizzy and Diesel 1)

Diesel was watching, thumbs tucked into the pockets of his jeans, smiling. “Personally, I think you need more uppities.”

“No,” she said. “I read it perfectly.”

“Maybe you don’t have wings of magic,” I told her. “Or the heart of a believer.” Or how about this . . . how about the book is fiction.

“I’m pretty sure I have the heart of a believer. It has to be the wings of magic, but I might be able to compensate with the pixie dust.”

She took a pinch from the packet, repeated the spell, and sprinkled the pixie dust onto the top of her head.

Nothing happened.

“Pixie dust is supposed to sparkle,” Diesel said. “Your dust doesn’t have any sparkle.”

“It was on sale,” Glo said. “Maybe I didn’t use enough.”

She chanted the spell one more time and threw a handful of dust at herself. Some of the dust flew past her onto the gas range and ignited like a July 4th sparkler. Pop, pop, pop, pop. The pops turned into swoosh and a ribbon of flame raced along the top of the stove and set fire to a roll of paper towels. Diesel calmly grabbed the flaming towels and pitched them into the sink.

Glo looked dejected. “I suppose there’s no substitute for wings of magic.”

“Flying is overrated anyway,” Diesel said.

I removed the soaked towels from the sink and finished scrubbing my bowls.

“How do you know so much about sparkling pixie dust?” I asked Diesel.

“Tinker Bell.”

CHAPTER NINE

It was almost one when I cruised down Weatherby Street. The street was narrow and slightly winding, as befitting a road originally designed for horse traffic. Houses were close together. Windows were thrown open to catch the fresh air. Flowerpots had been crammed onto small front stoops. Paint schemes dated back to colonial days. Some houses were freshly painted and some had paint peeling. This was no Stepford neighborhood.

Diesel had driven Glo’s car to the bakery, so he was riding shotgun. I stopped at the entrance to my driveway, and we swiveled our heads toward the two vans parked in front of my house. Six men stood on the sidewalk beside the vans. Two of the men had Handycams. A third guy had a rolling hard-side suitcase. I parked, and we walked over to the men.

“What’s going on?” Diesel asked.

“Spook Patrol,” one of the guys said. “We’re here to investigate a sighting. Are you the home owner?”

“Nope,” Diesel said. “The ticked-off-looking blonde is the home owner.”

The guy plastered a smile onto his face and stuck his hand out to me. “Mel Mensher. We’d like to take a daytime and a nighttime reading.”

Mel Me

nsher was in his late twenties. He was slim, dressed in jeans and layers of shirts—T-shirt, flannel shirt, sweatshirt. His brown hair was receding at a good clip.

“There’s been a huge mistake,” I said. “There was no sighting. Just a nicotine addict dressed in black looking out my bedroom window.”

“That’s not what our ghost-o-meter says. We ran it across your front door, and it went off the chart.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I told him. “That’s impossible.”

“Not entirely,” Diesel said.

I looked up at him. “Anything you want to tell me?”

“It’s possible that Wulf and I have an unusual energy field.”

“There you have it,” I said to Mel Mensher. “The big guy here has an unusual energy field.”