Wicked Appetite (Lizzy and Diesel 1)

“No way! That’s creepy and irreverent and sacrilegious.”

“It’s grass and dirt and none of the above.”

“Then why do you want me to stand on it if it’s only grass?”

“I want to know if something empowered was buried with Phil.”

“There’s five feet of dirt between him and me. I’m not going to feel anything.”

Diesel picked me up and set me down in front of Phil’s headstone. “Give it a shot.”

I sunk my teeth into my lower lip, stopped breathing, and concentrated.

“Well?” Diesel asked.

“This is icky.”

“Do you notice anything unusual about Phil’s grave?” Diesel asked.

I looked around. “No.”

“Look more closely. The sod has been cut. And some of the grass surrounding the grave has soil on top of it. Phil was buried seven years ago. This ground should be settled, but it has some give to it.”

“Which means?”

“I think Phil might have very recently gone for a walk.”

“Get out!”

There was the sound of a car turning into the parking lot. The engine cut off, and a door slammed. A moment later, a second door slammed shut. After a few seconds, a figure appeared at the edge of the cemetery. It was Shirley, and she was carrying a large cardboard box. She soldiered up the hill, head down, laboring. She raised her head when she was halfway up the hill and gave an audible gasp when she spied us at graveside. Her eyes narrowed, and she forged ahead.

Diesel draped an arm around me. “She doesn’t look happy to see us.”

“Gee, big surprise.”

Shirley stopped just short of Phil’s grave and pressed her lips together, her arms wrapped around the box.

“Hey,” I said.

“How’s it goin’?” Diesel asked Shirley.

“Gobble,” Shirley said. “Gobble, gobble.”

It was hard to believe Glo could quote a bunch of words from Ripple’s and turn Shirley into a turkey. My first instinct was to yell at Shirley and tell her to stop fooling around. My second instinct was to look for cover in case she started shooting.

“What’s in the box?” Diesel asked.

Shirley stepped forward, turned the carton upside down, and dumped a load of packaged food onto Phil’s grave. Opened boxes of cereal, Oreos, Wheat Thins, macaroni, saltines, taco shells. Bags of M&M’s, chips, popcorn, raisin bread, peanut butter cups, pretzel nuggets, jelly beans. Jars of spaghetti sauce, pickles, mayo, peanut butter, and grape jelly.

&n

bsp; “Gobble!” Shirley said to Phil’s headstone. She stuck her tongue out at it and made a face. “Gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble,” she said, her voice rising to a pitch that could break glass. “Gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble!” She jumped up and down on the boxes of crackers and bags of candy. Her face turned red, and she worked up a sweat. “GOBBLE, GOBBLE, GOBBLE, GOBBLE, GOBBLE!” She stopped to catch her breath, and she looked at the mess of smashed food and boxes. “Hmph,” she said. She tipped her nose up, spun around on her heel, and without giving us so much as a glance, she swished off down the hill.

“Hey,” I called after her. “You can’t just leave this stuff here. It’s littering.”

“Gobble gob,” Shirley said, and kept going.

“At least she’s venting,” I said to Diesel. “That’s healthy, right?”