Wicked Appetite - By Janet Evanovich Page 0,18

had been crammed onto small front stoops. Paint schemes dated back to colonial days. Some houses were freshly painted and some had paint peeling. This was no Stepford neighborhood.

Diesel had driven Glo’s car to the bakery, so he was riding shotgun. I stopped at the entrance to my driveway, and we swiveled our heads toward the two vans parked in front of my house. Six men stood on the sidewalk beside the vans. Two of the men had Handycams. A third guy had a rolling hard-side suitcase. I parked, and we walked over to the men.

“What’s going on?” Diesel asked.

“Spook Patrol,” one of the guys said. “We’re here to investigate a sighting. Are you the home owner?”

“Nope,” Diesel said. “The ticked-off-looking blonde is the home owner.”

The guy plastered a smile onto his face and stuck his hand out to me. “Mel Mensher. We’d like to take a daytime and a nighttime reading.”

Mel Mensher was in his late twenties. He was slim, dressed in jeans and layers of shirts—T-shirt, flannel shirt, sweatshirt. His brown hair was receding at a good clip.

“There’s been a huge mistake,” I said. “There was no sighting. Just a nicotine addict dressed in black looking out my bedroom window.”

“That’s not what our ghost-o-meter says. We ran it across your front door, and it went off the chart.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I told him. “That’s impossible.”

“Not entirely,” Diesel said.

I looked up at him. “Anything you want to tell me?”

“It’s possible that Wulf and I have an unusual energy field.”

“There you have it,” I said to Mel Mensher. “The big guy here has an unusual energy field.”

“Lady, I’m talking full-blown spectral phenomenon.”

“Well?” I asked Diesel.

“I’m not spectral, but I’ve been told I can be pretty damn phenomenal.”

Of all the outrageous statements made today, this one I feared might be true.

One of the men approached Diesel with a handheld instrument. The machine clicked and hummed, and colored lights blinked. The guy reached out and touched Diesel.

“Sonovagun,” he said. “He feels real.”

“Is that a ghost-o-meter?” I asked.

“The best money can buy,” the Spook Patroller said. “It measures three different kinds of energy, plus humidity.”

He pointed the gizmo in my direction, and it gave off a couple wimpy beeps.

Diesel grinned. “I guess we know who wears the pants in this partnership.”

I rolled my eyes, unlocked my front door, and the Spook Patrol rushed up to it.

“Hey,” I said, hand to the ghost-o-meter guy’s chest. “Back off. I’m not interested in ghost readings.”

“But what about the phenomenon?” he asked.

“He isn’t interested, either.”

I closed and locked the door behind us. I waited a couple minutes and looked out the front window. The Spook Patrol was hunkered in, huddled in a clump by their vans.

“Do something,” I said to Diesel.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Use your phenomenal powers to get rid of them. Vaporize them, or something.”

“I’d need special permission to vaporize.”

“Really?”

Diesel grinned wider and slung an arm around my shoulders. “I like a woman who’s gullible. It makes everything so much easier.”

Cat 7143 swaggered into the living room and sat his rump on Diesel’s shoe. “Rhowl,” Cat said.

“I can’t be all bad,” Diesel said. “Cat likes me.”

“This cat has one eye and half a tail. I’m guessing in the past he hasn’t made good character assessments.”

“I’m guessing he was a brave defender of a defenseless lady cat,” Diesel said.

I bent to pet the defender. “I’m afraid your Romeo days are over, but I see a lot of whipped cream and rotisserie chicken in your future.”

Cat looked like he was willing to consider the trade-off, and he and Diesel followed me into the kitchen.

My kitchen wasn’t large, but it was thoughtfully planned out. The inexpensive refrigerator and stove worked just fine. The floor was wide plank yellow pine. The over-the-counter cabinets were painted Wedgewood blue, with glass-paned doors. The sink was porcelain, with only a couple chips in it. The countertops were red Formica. I’d added a small butcher-block work island and two wooden bar stools. My pots and pans hung over my workstation on hooks screwed into the low ceiling.

Diesel hit his head on a fry pan and put out a couple good cuss words. So much for the superior sensory perception.

“I need to work on a muffin recipe today,” I told Diesel. “You and Cat can watch television.”

“Nothing on.”

“How about you read a book.”

“Not in the mood.”

I set a couple bowls, measuring cups, and measuring spoons on the counter next to the sink.

“Here’s the thing,” I told Diesel. “You need to get out of my kitchen.