“Let me in,” I said to him. “Open the door.”

“Yeah, right,” Lula said. “As if his little pea brain could understand you.”

Carl gave Lula the finger again. And then Carl threw the deadbolt, opened the door, and stuck his tongue out at Lula.

“If there‘s one thing I can‘t stand,” Lula said, “it‘s a show-off monkey.”

I did a fast walk-through of the house. Not much to see. Two small bedrooms, living room, single bath, small eat-in kitchen. These houses were built by the button factory after the war to entice cheap labor, and the button factory didn‘t waste money on frills. The houses had been sold many times over since then and were now occupied by an odd assortment of se nior citizens, newly marrieds, and crazies. Seemed to me, Munch fit into the crazy category.

There were no clothes in the closet, no toiletries in the bathroom, no computer anywhere. Munch had cleared out, leaving a carton of milk, some sprouted onions, and a half-empty box of Rice Krispies behind.

“It‘s the strangest thing,” Lula said. “I got this sudden craving for coffee cake. Do you smell cinnamon? It‘s like it‘s mixed up with Christmas trees and oranges.”

I‘d noticed the scent.

And I was afraid I recognized it.

“How about you?” I asked Carl. “Do you smell cinnamon?”

Carl did another shrug and scratched his butt.

“Now all I can think of is cinnamon buns,” Lula said. “I got buns on the brain. We gotta go find some. Or maybe a doughnut. I wouldn‘t mind a dozen doughnuts. I need a bakery. I got cravings.”

Everyone vacated the kitchen, I closed the back door, and we all piled into the Jeep. I found my way to Hamilton and stopped at Tasty Pastry.

“What kind of doughnut do you want?” I asked Lula.

“Any kind. I want a Boston Cream, a strawberry jelly, a chocolate-glazed, one of them with the white icing and pretty colorful sprinkles, and a blueberry. No, wait. I don‘t want the blueberry. I want a vanilla cream and a cinnamon stick.”