Wolf at the Door

chapter Twenty-three



At 5:59 P.M. central standard time, a blue Prius with rental plates pulled into the alley beside the Victorian. Rachael knew this because she had been sitting on the sherbet porch, chatting with her landlords and thinking about vampires.

From the little she’d seen, that was not a mansion filled with terrified minions. Or any minions, possibly. And the queen had seemed more annoyed by their antics than by a werewolf just dropping by. It was perfect camouflage. Or the queen really was that stupid and shortsighted. Not to mention easily distracted.

No, it was an act. Had to be. Because the alternative did not bear pondering. The alternative—

“That last cupcake won’t eat itself,” one of her landlords reminded her, so she (ever mindful of being a good houseguest) complied.

She liked Call Me Jim and his wife, Please Call Me Martha. They weren’t intrusive but did welcome questions about their own lives. They were both outstanding bakers—apparently they were retired, and their son (Turret Boy, whom she was cordially jealous of because of where he got to sleep) ran their business now.

Retirement did not keep them from baking pies and lemon bars and brownies. It did not prevent them from baking snickerdoodles and peanut butter cookies and coconut macaroons. It was no impediment to the baking of croissants and strudel and sticky buns and apple turnovers. Nothing stopped them from whipping up chocolate donuts and maple Long Johns and fried cinnamon rolls. Certainly nothing got in the way of their creating strawberry tarts and Svenska tortes and Boston cream pie (which they had made the day she moved in, in her honor!).

Because they were so busy ripping through pounds of flour every day, Rachael felt it was only the barest politeness to eat whatever they wished to offer her. She was merely being a good guest. A very good ravenous guest with an enormous capacity for pie.

Which is why Call Me Jim and Please Call Me Martha were sitting with her on the porch, watching with satisfaction as she sucked down the last of the devil’s food cupcakes they’d brought her.

“Young lady, damned if I know where you put it,” Call Me Jim observed. Amusement. Admiration.

“I used to be able to put it away like that, but then I had kids. Never have kids, Rachael.” Resigned. Amusement.

“Mmmph ggmmph unnph,” she replied. Umm. Homemade buttercream frosting, surely a gift from the gods.

“You stop that, Martha, you know you wanted kids more’n I did.” Call Me Jim was as weathered as a saddlebag but much friendlier and more talkative. He was slouching in his usual outfit of ancient jeans and a faded flannel shirt, long sleeves, black dress socks, and sneakers. Like the vampires, Call Me Jim was always chilly. “There wa’ant no shuttin’ you up ’til you caught preggers.”

“Says the guy who didn’t have seven months of morning sickness, not to mention eighteen hours of drug-free labor.” Irritation. Amusement.

“Good God, woman, it was thirty years ago! Let it go.”

“Twenty-nine and six months.”

“Nnnph gmmph,” Rachael added, feeling she ought to contribute to the conversation. And that was when Edward roared up. Well. Pulled up, though his little sewing machine car engine made it sound more impressive than it was.

“Hi!” he called, bounding out. Happiness. Happiness. He was carrying a large grocery bag stuffed . . . with what, Rachael could not guess. “Am I late?” Anxiety. Happiness.

She managed to swallow the last of the buttercream, and gurgled, “Not at all. You’re a minute early.”

“Traffic,” he said, and shrugged.

“These are my landlords. This is—”

“Call me Jim.”

“Please call me Martha.”

“Hi. Edward Batley.” He beamed and wrung their large wrinkled hands. Then winced as the bakers, made tremendously strong from years of slinging dough, wrung his back. “Ah. Ah! Oooh, that smarts. I won’t lie. Eesh.” He gingerly took his hand back and flexed the fingers.

She grinned to read his shirt: “I Appreciate the Muppets on a Much Deeper Level Than You.”

“What the hell is a muppet?” Call Me Jim asked, eyeing Edward’s proud logo.

“Oh, you know. That puppet show from the late seventies.”

“I didn’t watch puppet shows in the late seventies.”

“Well, if you did,” his wife reminded him helpfully, “you’d know what the boy’s shirt meant.”

“Hope you weren’t waiting long, Rachael.”

For twenty-nine minutes, actually. But it wasn’t Ed’s fault she got tired of waiting inside. Besides, she had told herself, he might get lost. I should be available in case he needs directions. He might drive right past and never realize.

Sure.

“It was too nice to wait inside,” she said, as likely an explanation as any. Too bad it was a lie. “Want to come in?”

“Sure!” He almost tripped coming up the porch steps but caught himself at the last minute. “Ah, man. I hate when that happens.”

“Boy’s got it bad,” Call Me Jim observed, and Rachael couldn’t help but laugh when Ed reddened.

He smiled and shrugged. “So? It’s the truth.”

Charmed, Rachael forgot all about vampires, baked goods, retired bakers, and the murders.

Too bad.