“This is ridiculous,” Diesel said.
He opened the back door to the house and the alarm went off. We raced through, found the front door, and walked out of the house.
“That was easy,” he said.
Diesel took the 1A all the way into Salem and drove to the bakery. I’d called to check on Clara and found she was at her sister’s house for the night. Glo was off on a date with the bellringer, and no one knew if Deirdre Early was still in the parking lot.
“What are we going to do if she’s still there?” I asked Diesel.
“We’re going to ignore her, break into the bakery, and get something to eat. I’m starving.”
He turned the corner, his headlights flashed on the lot, and the lot appeared to be empty, with the exception of a grotesque, twisted, large black piece of metal.
“What is that?” I asked.
“I think it’s your car,” Diesel said.
“It can’t possibly be my car.”
Diesel parked, we got out, and looked at the charred mess.
“I’m pretty sure it’s your car,” Diesel said. “I can see part of the license plate.”
“I loved that car!”
“No you didn’t,” Diesel said. “It was one step away from scrap metal.”
“Yes, but now I have no scrap metal.”
“Let’s think about what we have here,” Diesel said. “Someone torched your car and Early’s town house. Probably the same person. Possibly Early, although I don’t know why she’d burn down her own house.”
“Because she’s insane?”
“Yeah, that could be one possibility.”
“And then we also have a missing Early. Which could be that either the spell didn’t stick or else someone stole her.”
“I’m going with the spell didn’t stick. I can’t imagine anyone wanting Deirdre Early.”
“Bottom line is I have no idea what the hell’s going on,” Diesel said. “Are we raiding the bakery or do you have something better to eat at your house?”
“I doubt there’s anything left here. We mostly do doughnuts and cookies on Sunday, and Clara isn’t opening for business tomorrow.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Cat was waiting for us when we walked into the house. I scratched him behind his ear and apologized for leaving him alone all day. I think he might have rolled his eyes at me, but it’s hard to tell, since he only has one that works. I gave him a can of cat food and pulled stuff out of the refrigerator for a frittata.
I’d had a chance to look at the plaque on the way home. There were some markings on the back that looked like hieroglyphics and random letters. I could feel a little heat and a mild vibration, but nothing to make my hair curl.
Diesel was in the living room with the plaque and my computer, and I could hear the television droning in the background. Undoubtedly some sort of sporting event.
I brought him a beer and some cheese and crackers to hold him until the frittata was out of the oven. “How’s it going? Any ideas?”
“The original owner of The Key House, Malcom Key, and the architect, William M. Butterfield, belonged to the Boston Society of Natural History. They would have known Monroe Tichy, and most likely one or both of them was a follower of Lovey, or at least knew him. So maybe the Society is the common denominator. I’m guessing Duane and an early owner of the Van Gogh painting were also Society members.”
“And either Lovey or one of the Society members had the unique ability to energize an object in such a way that another kind of energy would trigger a message.”
“Yup.”
“Do you know where any of this takes us next?”
“No. It would help if something magically appeared on the plaque.”
We looked at the plaque but nothing appeared.
“It’s always something different,” I said. “The first clue was visible to Glo. The second clue was produced by the tone of the bell. The third clue responded to Carl. And the fourth clue was produced by the key.”
“I have no basis for thinking this, but I can’t shake the feeling that the writing on the back of the plaque is the clue.”
I left Diesel to study the clue he’d copied onto paper and returned to the kitchen. I didn’t have fresh greens for a salad, but I had some frozen French bread I could defrost, and there were vegetables in the frittata.
The towels and sheets were still on the windows, and not doing a lot for my decorating scheme or my mood.
“Someone toasted my car,” I said to Cat. “I think it might have been Deirdre Early. She’s a really mean person.”