Wicked Appetite (Lizzy and Diesel 1)

“Are you really a ninja?” I asked him.

No answer.

“I guess I didn’t expect you to tell me,” I said to Cat. “It’s all pretty far-fetched anyway.”

I finished the kitchen and went to the living room with a clean quilt and pillow for my father. I looked out the window and checked the street. No Spook Patrol. No Hatchet. No Diesel. I told myself it should feel good to be free of Diesel, but truth is, I missed him. Thank goodness he wasn’t around to hear me think it.

“How’s the game?” I asked my dad.

“Tie, but Baltimore’s gonna win.”

Carl gave my father the finger. Carl obviously wasn’t an Orioles fan.

“Maybe you shouldn’t tell Mom about Carl,” I said to my dad.

“Too late. I already sent her a picture. I got a new cell phone, and it’s got a picture function. It’s magic. It’s your brother who’s gonna be upset. You just replaced him as family goofball.”

“He worked for years to keep that title.”

“Yep,” my father said. “And you just kicked him to the curb. All his tattoos and loud motorcycles and bad table manners can’t compete with your monkey.”

“I was afraid you might not understand.”

“What’s not to understand? You have a monkey who gives people the finger.”

“He’s only temporary,” I said.

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“Your brother will be relieved.”

Carl burped and scratched his butt.

“It’s like he’s human,” my father said.

“If it’s okay with you, I’m going to skip the game. I have work to do on the computer.”

“Don’t stay up late. I know you go to the bakery early. And don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine here on the couch.”

“One more thing. My water heater conked out today. I’m getting a new one tomorrow, but in the meantime there’s no hot water.”

Rain drummed on the roof and ticked against the window over my desk. I’d put in a solid hour of work, and I’d finished the final edit on the part of the cookbook dedicated to entrees. I’d answered some e-mails from friends in New York, and I’d read through two news sites. Cat was curled in the worn-out easy chair alongside my desk. He looked relaxed and asleep, but his ears were pricked forward in listening mode.

“Bedtime,” I said to Cat.

His eyes opened, and he stood and arched his back in a stretch. He followed me out of my office and into my bedroom. The television was still on downstairs, so I closed my door to muffle the noise. A sticky note had been left on my pillow.

Be extra careful. I’m not there to protect you.

The mystery wasn’t who wrote the note, but how the heck Diesel got it onto my pillow and then left the house without being seen. I looked in my closet, under the bed, and in the bathroom, checking behind the shower curtain, just to make sure he wasn’t lurking somewhere.

Ten minutes later, I was in bed, and Cat was sitting on my chest.

“I suppose you’re protecting me ninja-style,” I said to Cat. “Or maybe you’re just trying to keep warm. Either way, I can’t breathe. You have to get off my chest.”

He didn’t move, so I lifted him off and set him next to me. When I woke up the next morning, he was back on my chest.

“You’re killing me,” I said to Cat. “I’m lucky I didn’t die in my sleep. Maybe I should cut back on the cat food. You weigh a ton.”