Wicked Charms by Janet Evanovich Page A

Saturday,” Ammon said. “Something to do with the environment, I believe. You’re invited. In fact, I would like you to make the desserts. We’ll have media there, and it will make a good launch opportunity for the Lizzy Tucker brand.” He checked his watch. “I have to run. Rutherford is circling the block. There’s no place to park in this neighborhood. The city should bulldoze some of these dilapidated houses and put in some parking.”
    “This is the historic section of town. These houses are hundreds of years old.”
    “Obviously.” He tapped his finger on the contract. “Have you finished reading yet?”
    I scanned the document and saw that the ultimate payment was circled in red. Five hundred thousand dollars. I signed.
    —

    Ammon left and Clara called ten minutes later.
    “I’ve been thinking about the poem,” Clara said. “I wrote out the version Gramps always repeated, and I looked up the original version. There are several differences. Not sure if the differences are significant, but Glo’s going to bring both versions to you when we close the shop.”
    I thanked Clara and disconnected.
    “What do you think?” I asked Cat. “Are the clues to the treasure hunt found in Gramps’s poem?”
    Cat looked uncertain.
    “Here’s a bigger question,” I said to Cat. “Is any of this going to lead us to a SALIGIA Stone?”
    Cat stared at me.
    “Exactly,” I said. “There’s no guarantee, right? We could be on a big wild goose chase.”
    I shared some apple slices with Cat and began a list of repairs I would be able to make on the house. A new roof was the top priority.
    “I love my house,” I said to Cat, “but I can’t really afford it. Even without a mortgage payment, the taxes and maintenance bills are killing me.”
    Cat’s ear pricked forward, and he gave a low growl. The back door opened, and Carl bounded in, followed by Diesel. Cat looked them over, decided they were no threat, and hunkered down with his half tail tucked in.
    “How’d it go with the monkey-napper sleuthing?” I asked.

    “The guy’s name was Bernie Weiner, and he happens to be the detective that Ammon hired to find the coin. After some digging I located his ex-wife. I thought we could go talk to her.”
    “Now?”
    “Yeah. It won’t take long. She lives in Lynn.”
    Lynn is a little southwest of Marblehead and has a lot of hardworking people in it, plus some people who don’t work at all. Weiner’s ex lived in a small house in a modest neighborhood. There was a Big Wheels trike in the minuscule front yard. The woman who answered the door looked exhausted. She had a baby balanced on her hip and a toddler wrapped around her leg.
    “What?” she said.
    Diesel introduced himself as an insurance investigator and told her he was doing some background work on Bernie.
    “I haven’t got a lot of time,” she said. “The baby is teething, and the toddler has the poops. Bernie was an idiot. I don’t know what else to tell you. I wasn’t that surprised to hear he was…you know. He could get talked into anything. He should never have taken that job for Martin Ammon. It became an obsession. He thought he was Indiana Jones off looking for some holy relic. If he spent as much time with me as he did looking for that stupid coin, we’d still be married.”
    “Thanks,” Diesel said. “This has been helpful.”

    “I don’t suppose there’s any money in this for me?” she asked. “Did he have a policy? Was I listed?”
    “I don’t have that information,” Diesel said. “I hope it works out for you.”
    We returned to the car, and Diesel drove back to Marblehead.
    “That was depressing,” I said. “I feel bad for her.”
    “It looks like she’s struggling with the money, but she has two healthy kids, aside from the poops, and I bet she’s a good mom,” Diesel said. “She’ll be okay.”
    “According to Nergal, Bernie’s last thought was that he regretted going off on his own. So it sounds to me like