“I’ve got this, dear,” she said. I watched as she shook soil into each pot. “If they sit out in the air too long, they’ll dry up and they won’t grow.”
I took a mental note. I wasn’t sure when the next time I’d be re-planting BubbleBlob cacti, but I figured it might happen one day.
“There,” she said once she’d set down the bag. She brushed her gloved hands together. “Are you going to go talk to him?” she asked. “Geoff, that is?”
I nodded. “I have to talk to several people today.” I grimaced at the thought of it. I wished that the weekend was unfolding in some other way. Interviewing suspects was the last thing I wanted to be doing.
“I’m so sorry dear,” she said, reading my expression. “I know how much you were looking forward to actually attending some of the lectures.”
She flew over to another tall shelf, and this time hovered near a plant with tall stalks and bright orange flowers. “You know, this might help you collect information,” she said.
She reached for one of the orange flowers. It was shaped like a tiny tulip. From the center of it, she plucked out something that looked like a pearl. Then she plucked out another, and another. She held them away from her as she flew over to me. “I’m highly allergic,” she said. “If I so much as breathe in the pollen, my throat will start to itch, and if I actually swallow one of these berries, I’d have a mighty hard time breathing.”
“Oh dear,” I said, eying the three iridescent white berries in her hands warily.
“Take them dear,” she said.
I did.
“They're truth berries,” she said. “They dissolve in liquid, which is handy if you want to spike someone’s drink. Just one berry per drink will do the trick, and they work instantly, which is quite convenient. No waiting around.” She gave me a wink.
“Truth berries...” I said thoughtfully. “You mean like truth serum, that they use on television shows?”
“Only stronger,” she said. “One berry will have a person tell the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, for at least four hours straight. You can ask them anything, and they won’t have any option but to be honest. I imagine that might help with ferreting out a killer.”
“Thank you,” I said as I tucked the little berries into my vest pocket.
“My pleasure,” she said. “Now... I’d better get to weeding the chamomile... those little dears seemed quite jealous when I spent so much time with the peppermint yesterday evening. I know they’re anxious for a little TLC today. I promised...” As she busied herself once again, I bid her goodbye.
The sun was a touch higher in the sky, and the air was warmer than when I’d entered the greenhouse. It was still chilly, but had a bright quality.
I headed for the center.
I knew just who I wanted to give the truth berries to. Suspect number one: Asti Rose.
Chapter Eight
I headed right for one of the large gathering rooms on the second floor, where I knew Asti was about to begin her ten a.m. lecture, “Seeing the Space Between Things.”
When I entered the room, I saw several guests milling about, including Gordon Groover. Justin wasn’t in the mix, and I wondered what Skili had found out by trailing him. Though I still felt it was a violation of Justin’s privacy, I couldn’t help but feel curious.
I considered reaching out to Skili telepathically to ask her, but then I thought better of it. Skili doesn’t like to be contacted unless it’s urgent, and that’s a two-way street. We both value the quiet of our minds, and we don’t like interruptions. I decided I could wait to learn more about what she’d overheard, if anything.
Asti was at the front of the room, setting out various supplies, like paint, brushes, and a stack of canvases. There were chairs scattered around the room in pairs, facing each other. Each chair had an easel in front of it.
Bits and pieces of conversation from the guests floated around me.
“...not such a waste of time, I suppose. That soak really did work miracles on my neck muscles... hadn’t realized how tight I was.”
“...will improve my productivity when I return to the lab, I think. I do feel rejuvenated after sleeping so soundly last night.”
“It is quite a restful atmosphere. But I have to admit, I was too distraught over Robert Elgin’s passing to sleep soundly.”
“That nasty business. Who do you think did it?”
I made my way past several clusters of beings who were still sipping tea and coffee from the brunch buffet. The general atmosphere seemed to be pretty positive, and I was glad about that. I saw that Asti also had a bottle of water near where she was working. Once in a while she lifted the drink to her lips and took a sip.
I’ll drop one berry into her bottle, I thought. I sidled up to the table. Asti had her head down and was focused on sorting tubes of paint. I dropped the truth berry into her water before she looked up.
“Hey Asti!” I said, quickly tucking my hands back into my vest pockets, as though they’d been there the whole time. Squish. I felt my fingertip jab into a truth berry. It popped, and I felt my fingertips become wet.
Oops! So much for being careful with them, I thought.
My fingertips began to tingle, and I felt a warm sensation travel up through my hands, arms, shoulders, and into my head.
Hm. That’s strange, I thought.
“Oh, yum!” Asti said, as she took a sip of her drink. “Marley, did you add a truth berry to this?” she asked.
My eyes widened. She knew?
Without hesitation or thought, I answered. “Yes. 17 seconds ago,” I said.
17 seconds? Where did that come from? I wondered. Why did I say that?
I went on. “I feel bad about drugging you, but I need answers.”
My hands flew up to my mouth. I wanted to stop talking, but I couldn’t. It occurred to me suddenly that the juice from the popped berry in my pockets must have drugged me, too.
My motor mouth kept running. “You’re my number one suspect, because you used to date Robert. Did you kill him?” My words were muffled, since my hands were over my lips, but Asti seemed to understand what I’d said. Yet she wasn’t upset at all, as Margie had been.
She remained calm and composed as she lifted her water bottle to her lips and drained it. She smiled as she swallowed the last drops. “Ahh! I just love the flavor of truth berries. I usually spike my tea at least once a week. It keeps me honest.”
She set her bottle down. She’d polished off her berry-infused drink, and I remembered that Margie had said that the effects were instantaneous. I felt sure that whatever was about to come through her lips next would be the honest truth.
“You want to know if I killed Robert,” she said. “I didn’t. You said it happened right after we talked about my paintings. After our discussion, I went right to the bathroom. Remember, you told me where they were located? I must have been in there while he met his demise.”
Well, that was that. She’d consumed the berry-spiked water; she was telling the truth, and she said she didn’t kill the man. I had to believe her.
She went on. “I want to know who killed him as much as you do. For one thing, I don't want him to attack me. Even in ghost form, I’m sure he could do some damage. But also, we had some unfinished business, Robert and I. I’m upset that the opportunity to make amends with him was taken from me. I’d like to see justice served.”
“Do you have any suspicions about who killed him?” I blurted out. “Maybe someone you’re afraid to tell me about?”
The truth berries made it so that there was no time between when I had a thought, and when I spoke it aloud. It was a strange sensation for me, since usually I thought a good deal before using my voice.
“No,” she said. “I’m not holding anything back from you, Marley. If I had thoughts about who killed him, I would tell you.”
I felt stumped for a minute. Then a thought occurred to me. Of course, I voiced it aloud as it bubbled up in my mind, thanks to the berr
y juices now running through my veins.
“You told me he was in OAA—the Order of Anti Art,” I said. “I did some digging, and it turns out, he was doing some OAA business up on the roof. He was trying to sabotage this weekend. Do you think that upset someone?”
“I should think it would upset you,” Asti said.
“Yeah, but I didn’t kill him,” I responded.
“Then maybe one of your friends stepped in to help you out?” Asti suggested.
“I don’t think they would do that,” I said. “I trust my witch sisters. We’ve developed a very close bond since we started studying magic together. If one of them was feeling guilty right now, I’d know it.”
“Yes, but that’s your witch sisters,” Asti said. “Don’t you have other friends who want to protect the center? Maybe a boyfriend who wants to see you succeed?”
My mind flitted to Justin. “I have a boyfriend, but he’s not the murdering type,” I said.
“That’s probably what all girlfriends of murderers say,” Asti said.
I shook my head. “No. No way. Justin has a good heart. I wouldn’t be with him otherwise.”
“That must be the truth,” Asti said with a nod. “I see how flushed your face is, and your hands have berry juice all over them. Those berries can take effect transdermally you know—through the skin. Actually, the effects are even stronger that way. You're going to be stuck speaking nothing but the whole truth for the next four hours. I hope you’re ready for that.”
I’d removed my hands from my pockets. I looked down to my right hand and saw that it had silvery-white stains that covered my fingers.
I felt my cheeks flush even more. So it wasn’t just my imagination. The truth berry I’d squished really was affecting me.
“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Asti said. “Knowing that you can only speak the truth. You should stick around for my lecture. We’re going to do some painting, and I think you’d be surprised at how far a healthy dose of honesty can go in helping you produce good art. You might impress yourself with what emerges on your canvas.”
I nodded and headed for an empty chair. I felt that my visit with Asti had been productive. I could cross her off of my suspect list. That left Margie, Geoff, and perhaps Justin. Seeing as I’d just been so productive, I felt that I’d earned a little break.
Doing some art did sound fun, so when she instructed each person in the class to pick out one color of paint, a brush, a jar of water, and a canvas, I joined in the crowd by the supplies table and then set up my canvas.
As we all got settled, she began to speak.
“I could talk to you about art, but that would be nothing but a waste of my breath and your time,” she said. “Art is a process that absolutely can not be put into words. Creativity happens when you do the thing, not when you talk about it. So instead, I’m going to instruct you in a simple visual exercise. I want you to look at the person who is sitting across from you.”
I looked across at the person across from me. She was a heavyset woman with gray hair that fell around her shoulders, and some faded tattoos just barely visible under the flowing sleeves of her paisley blouse. I recognized a mer tattoo, so I figured she was a mermaid in her land-from. She had a squarish nose, a blunt chin, and soft gray eyes.
Asti went on. “Then I want you to stop looking at them, and rather look at the space around them. Feel the space between you and that person. Then paint that space.”
Usually, her statement would have confused me. But for some reason, the berry juice coursing through me helped me to understand.
I changed my focus.
I saw the space around the woman across from me. I saw the distance from the side of her face to the edge of the room. I saw the slice of air between her jawline and her shoulder.
I felt the space around her.
Asti spoke again. “Just paint the space. Let your hand move, don’t think about anything, just paint directly what you see—those precious gaps. Those gaps you thought were empty. That’s where relationships are. That’s where truth can be found. The biggest lie we tell ourselves is that the space is empty. It’s not—and a good artist knows that. She can see that. She can feel that.”
My hand started to move, and suddenly I was painting.
It was wonderful.
A shape emerged, and it was the woman across from me, though I continued to concentrate purely on the space.
Before I knew it, Asti informed us that two hours had passed, and that it was time to wrap up and move on to lunch.
I dipped my brush into the little jar of water I had in front of me and swished it around. I was putting the cap on my tube of paint when Asti spoke again. “In a moment, I’d like you all to return your supplies to the front of the room. Keep your painting—let it serve as a reminder of the experience we shared here today. But before you return your supplies, I want to take a moment to relate what we practiced here today to magic. After all, we’re all here to deepen our magical abilities, correct?”
A murmur of agreement rose up from the participants, including myself.
Asti went on. “The lies we tell ourselves block our magical abilities,” Asti said. “And the biggest lie of all is that we’re separated. The space between us is truly where we reside. The form is just a distraction. Stop looking at objects. Stop focusing on objects. Look at the spaces. Acknowledge the spaces. Feel the spaces. You’ll find that they’re not dead and empty—they’re full of life. This change of perspective will make your magic much more effective, I promise you.”
She looked right at me. I met her gaze.
“Test it out for yourself,” she suggested. “Before you leave this room, cast one spell. Feel your magic working more powerfully than ever before.”
Her gaze slipped away from me, and toward two of the non-magical participants, who were off to the far right of the room.
“If you’re new to magic,” she said, “I suggest doing a small experiment. Focus on your paint brush.” She held her brush up. “Then shift your perspective, and focus on the space between your body and the brush. Become that space, and feel it contract. The brush will bend effortlessly toward you.” As she said this, the brush in her hand bent to a ninety-degree angle.
She smiled. “Try it out for yourself!” she said. The brush snapped back into position.
I saw the non-magical beings begin talking excitedly amongst themselves. Then one held up a brush. It wilted ever so slightly, and she gave a squeal of delight.
I picked up my brush, and held it out in front of me. Though I wasn’t entirely new to magic, I wanted to try out the spell that Asti had demonstrated.
I was about to start concentrating on the space between my body and the brush, when a frustrated groan that sounded as if it was coming from a few seats to the right of me caught my attention.
I looked away from Asti toward where the groan had come from. I saw Gordon Groover struggling to put the cap on his tube of paint. He had saffron yellow paint all over his hands and splattered on his red leather jacket, as if the paint had decided to explode rather than be put away.
I quickly gathered up my supplies. Others were also moving about now, too. I walked over to where Gordon sat. He tried to use a rag now to wipe the paint from his jacket, but his efforts only made the paint spread around. He stood as I approached.
I smiled. “Hi Gordon,” I said. “You look like a mess.” Oops! I’d forgotten that the truth berry juice was still in my system.
“Gee, thanks,” he said sarcastically.
I hurried to make up for my insult. “How is everything going? I hope you had a nice night.” At least I could say that honestly—I really was hoping that Gordon enjoyed his stay at the center. An endorsement from him could do wonders for our brand.
He was so distracted by the state of his jacket that he barely acknowledged my presence. “Yeah, it was alright,” he mumbled without looking up at me, as he continued to wipe at his jacket.
“How did the painting go?”
I asked him. “Wasn’t that a trip? Asti’s a good teacher.”
“Ugh,” he said, as if disgusted by something. He finally looked up at me. There was a spark of irritation in his eyes. “That was the most frustrating two hours of my life. I couldn’t understand what she was talking about. Air is just air. Why would I paint the air? I can’t see it...”
He looked back down to his jacket. “Ruined,” he muttered. “It’s ruined. And to think I spent two grand on this thing...”
“I think the paints we used are water based,” I offered. “Maybe if you soaked it, the paint would—”
“I’m not going to soak this jacket,” he said with a huff. “It’s genuine leather. I don’t even let water get anywhere near it. I always have an umbrella with me when I go out, to avoid getting caught in a storm. I’ve never once gotten this designer jacket wet... I’m telling you, it’s ruined.”
“It’s just clothing,” I said. My eyes scanned the canvas that was propped on his easel. The figure he’d created with paint was very rudimentary—it actually looked like a stick figure that a six-year old child might draw.
“No reason to get upset,” I said. “I think you’re frustrated for some other reason. Like, maybe how your painting turned out.”
“What do you mean?” he asked. He looked up from his task to drill me with a stare. The look in his eyes dared me to say anything less-than-kind about his artwork.
On a normal day, I would have lied and complemented his work. But as it was, I was doomed to tell the truth. “It’s pretty bad,” I said bluntly.
His jaw dropped; he looked as if I’d just slapped him in the face. It made sense to me—he was famous. He was probably used to people bending over backwards to make him feel special.
I felt my cheeks burning, but no matter how much I tried to stop the words from coming out, they spilled forth. “It looks like a stick figure, with a huge head. Almost like a lollipop. A lollipop with arms.” I put my hands over my mouth. I felt so embarrassed for insulting his work. It really wasn’t why I wanted to talk to him.
“I can’t help it!” he said. “I forgot my glasses back in LA. And my neck is sore. And I couldn’t concentrate, because the stupid guy next to me was breathing so loudly. He had fur sprouting out around his ears, and on his neck—like he was about to turn into a wolf.”
The Artist's Alchemy Page 8
