by Ami Diane
“What was that loud noise a few minutes ago? Everything okay?”
Libby panicked, her brain seizing the first thought. “I accidentally set off the security alarm.” She wasn’t even sure the house had one. Hm, that was something a responsible homeowner should probably know.
“A security alarm? Was the volume set on high?”
With a last glance back at the kitchen in shambles behind her, she sucked in a breath, shoved aside the slats for the curtain, and opened the sliding door.
“Good afternoon, Deputy. What can I do for you?” She shot him her most dazzling smile.
He stared, his mouth agape. “You can start by putting on clothes.”
Libby swore and covered her undergarments as she darted behind the curtain. The only thing in sight she could use to cover herself was the tablecloth.
She yanked it from under a bowl of plastic fruit like that party trick, only, the bowl and fruit came along for the ride. They crashed to the floor, an orange rolling to a stop against the chandelier.
She wrapped the stiff cloth around her like a burrito then presented herself to the deputy.
“Better?”
He seemed about to protest that a strip of fabric wasn’t much of an improvement then thought better of it. “Everything alright?”
“Just fine. As I said, I accidentally set off the security alarm.”
“Dogs the next county over are barking from that racket. I’m surprised your windows aren’t blasted out.”
“Yeah, it must be hooked up to a stereo system or something.” She gave a half-hearted shrug that said, What are you going to do?
“And you’re naked because…?”
“Not naked. I’ve got my skivvies on. Who do you take me for?”
He closed his eyes a moment, seeming to collect patience.
“Hey, how’s the investigation coming along? Any leads on who whacked John?” She winced at how calloused that sounded.
He reopened his eyes. “Some, but it’s ongoing so I can’t comment.” He took a deep breath. “If you could just—is that a chandelier on your floor?”
“Chandelier? What chandelier?”
“That chandelier. I’m pointing at it.”
Libby maintained a neutral, almost bored expression and glanced back over her shoulder. “Oh, that chandelier. Yep.”
“How? Why? I just—” His mouth snapped shut. Shaking his head, he turned on his heel and strode back across the lawn towards his house without so much as a sayonara.
Just before he reached the tree line, his voice drifted across the yard, “Get that alarm fixed! And put some clothes on!”
CHAPTER 11
LIBBY AWOKE EARLY the next day, Friday, to allow herself as much time to tackle the Pet Whisperer potion as possible. Her first attempt singed the hair off of her arms. The second attempt was like a flash grenade and blinded her for half an hour.
She was currently on her third attempt, her tongue sticking out in concentration, as she slowly turned down the heating mantle below the round-bottom flask, keeping an eye on the thermometer. This time, she was confident she hadn’t wavered from the recipe an iota.
When the lavender liquid reached the exact temperature designated on the yellowed paper, she loosened the clamp and lowered the mantle while holding her breath.
Standing back, she mopped her brow and stared at the beautiful potion, scarcely believing. She’d done it. She’d actually—the liquid turned an angry yellow. It expanded rapidly in some kind of chemical reaction she didn’t understand, foaming up in a column, then shot up with the force of a fire hydrant. An ancient memory flashed through her frantic mind of her grade school science class when Mr. Weeks had dropped a Mento into a bottle of Coca-Cola.
Panicking, she scooped up handfuls of sand from a bucket labeled Spill Mix that she’d located earlier and threw it at the potion, hoping her suspicions about the sand were correct and she wasn’t adding fuel to the fire.
Her hunch proved right, and the eruption smothered out. What potion remained in the flask returned to that pastel lavender it had been before going rogue.
Libby stared at the mess a full minute. From now on, she’d just start off wearing a hazmat suit or poncho when making potions if she was going to be this bad at it.
Her jaw clenched as her frustration boiled to the surface in a similar fashion as the potion now covering her work table had. She kicked the nearby cauldron without thinking, leaving her hopping on her good foot, holding the one with the stubbed toe up in some sort of awkward jig.
Libby dropped to the cold metal floor and fought back tears. How was she ever going to catch her mother’s killer?
She allowed herself a full ten minutes of moping, a few tears, and a string of swear words before she climbed to her feet. After drying her eyes, she cleaned up the mess.
Whatever explosions came, whatever torrents of geysers flooded her laboratory, she would make this potion. Day or night, she wouldn’t stop until she held it in her hands.
Julie looked up from her phone as Libby stepped into Mother Nature’s Apothecary. A few customers loitered, scanning the shelves and picking up bottles. In the corner, Marge was explaining a sleeping drought to a customer. From the effects, it sounded like the one she’d given Libby.
Libby hesitated then retreated back towards the front door. She’d return when the shop wasn’t so busy.
“Red? What’re you doing here?” Marge seemed to read Libby’s expression. Turning back to the customer, she said, “That about all, Harold? If you need something stronger, come back and see me, and I’ll mix something special up.” She gave the older gentleman an amiable tap on his shoulder before he hobbled over to the register.
Marge tipped her head towards the hall and her office. Following, Libby dragged her feet over the floor, and she dropped into one of the now-familiar chairs in front of the desk.
“I’ll only be a minute. I know you’re busy.” She gave the Reader’s Digest version of her potion attempt.
“Without knowing the recipe, I’m just going to take a few guesses.” Marge’s eyes unfocused, and she tapped a finger over the desk’s marred surface. “Your goal is to speak with Orchid, right? What did you use for the base ingredients?”
Libby squinted as she recalled the list. “Powdered huckleberries… two drops of water from the Mediterranean… distilled oil from broccoli blooms… three centipede legs, which is three legs too many if you ask me. That’s it.”
A coy smile played at Marge’s lips. “I think we’ve found the problem. Remember the base ingredients are the body, the backbone, of the potion? In this case, with you wanting to communicate with an animal, you must have something in the base layer that correlates with the animal. I suggest trying again, but this time, add some of the cat’s fur or a whisker.
“Keep in mind, base ingredients are more forgiving with quantity and substance—but not much. You’ll have to play around with it, but know that the sample, most likely, will be a larger quantity than anything else in the other two layers.”
A seed of hope took root in Libby’s heart again. “If that’s what I’m missing, then how come it’s not listed on the recipe?”
Marge shrugged. “It’s possible Arlene hadn’t had a chance to add it once she’d figured it out.”
Libby stood, feeling lighter than when she’d come in. “Thank you.”
“Anytime, Red.”
Outside, the sun poked out from behind a cloud, warming the sidewalk. It was turning into a beautiful day. The scent of freshly-baked cinnamon rolls rode on the air, and she followed her nose towards its source.
The door to Thanks a Latte stood open, taunting passersby with its heavenly aroma and beckoning them inside like a siren calling to sailors. Libby’s willpower crumbled. Just a quick snack, then she’d hustle back to her laboratory.
After ordering an almond milk latte and grabbing a cinnamon roll the size of her face, she sat outside at one of the bistro tables decorating the sidewalk. The stro
ng, sweet flavors of cinnamon and cream cheese frosting burst in her mouth, and a moan threatened to escape her lips.
As she was sipping the dark brew, two shadows fell over her. She peered up into the open face of Marty and the glowering face of Rich.
The taller journalist growled, “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be out casting spells or something?”
How on earth did Rich know she was a potionist? Perhaps it was her association with Marge or her purchase of Arlene’s estate. “I would, but I forgot my magic wand at home.”
He sneered. “Is that a confession?”
“You can think whatever you want. But would you mind moving? You’re blocking my light, and I need more vitamin D.”
“I’m surprised you don’t smoke and burn up from the sun’s rays.”
“That’s vampires, numbnuts.”
The reporter’s neck turned crimson. “Better watch yourself, witch.” He stormed off down the sidewalk.
Libby allowed herself a satisfied smirk and said to the man’s coworker, “Your friend’s not very creative with his insults.”
For his part, Marty had one of those faces that was forever open and earnest, like that of a child. It gave him the impression of being friendly and youthful, but also round like a chubby cherub.
“That’s why the editor doesn’t pick many of his articles for print. He’s not very creative with…”
“Words?”
“Yeah, that. And he’s not my friend.”
Libby searched out his eyes which were swimming in the shadows cast by his hat. Using her foot under the table, she pushed out the companion chair opposite her.
The reporter picked up on the unspoken invitation and shrugged out of his trench coat before sitting. “The name’s Marty Parker.”
His hand shot out in a way that said, put ‘er there. She gave it a clammy shake, not bothering to wipe the cream cheese frosting off her fingers before doing so.
“Libby Slade.”
He took up a napkin and subtly swiped his palm. “Where are you from, Libby?”
“Oregon. Salem area. Are you from Oyster Bay?”
He nodded. “Born and raised.” His eyes were always scanning, his fingers always twitching as if constantly taking notes. “You’re the one who discovered John Waters, weren’t you?”
Libby hesitantly confirmed that she was.
“I’d love to interview you for a story.”
“I’d rather not relive that moment.” Just the memory of tripping over the unfortunate realty agent’s body made her shiver. “You must have your ear to the ground, Marty, being a journalist and all. Do you have any idea who’d want Mr. Waters dead?”
Marty’s fingers drummed on the table. He seemed to be considering how much to tell her. “Nobody, really. He didn’t have family unless you count that one estranged son, and nobody local had any beef with him, except for Stacy Cartwright.”
“Yeah, I’m familiar with Stacy.” She took a long drink from her cup. “You’re a member of the AWC, right?”
He stiffened, his body stilling for the first time. “Maybe. What’s it to you?”
“I was just wondering. Your… organization likes to follow people around, yes?” She leaned forward, catching his arm as he started to get up. “That’s not an accusation. I need your help.”
Slowly, Marty lowered to his seat again. “Help with what?”
“I bought Arlene’s house. That’s why I was the one who found Mr. Waters’s body.” She decided to leave out Marge. “What if his death had more to do with Arlene than him? What if he was just at the wrong place at the wrong time?”
They exchanged a knowing look. She knew she was revealing too much, practically admitting that she was now a potionist, but it was a fact he would, no doubt, discover sooner or later. And she needed answers.
Something settled in his features as if she confirmed a suspicion of his. “Nobody in the coalition would kill to expose Arlene’s secret if that’s what you’re asking.”
“You seem sure about that.”
“I am.” He resumed drumming the table, but the beat was slower, softer. “Perhaps it was one of your own. You consider that?” It wasn’t an accusation so much as a thoughtful observation. “Maybe someone wanted her secrets or maybe didn’t want John to stumble upon anything… untoward.”
“It’s possible,” she admitted. “Will you at least see if anyone watching her saw anything suspicious leading up to her heart attack?”
“I don’t have to. I know there wasn’t because I was assigned to watch her.”
Libby dropped the last bite of cinnamon roll that she’d just picked up. “Pardon?”
“I’m only telling you this because the AWC has nothing to do with John’s death, and I think you should look at your own house. Each one of us is assigned a person from your book club to investigate and keep tabs on—”
“You mean stalk?”
“Hey, we could discuss semantics ‘till the cows come home. You want the truth or not?”
Libby snapped her mouth shut.
“Thought so. Anyway, I was assigned to Arlene. I wasn’t there the night she died, which I regret. I can’t help but wonder if I’d been on site, maybe she could’ve gotten help that much sooner.”
He stared off into the middle distance at a memory before pulling himself out. “I would never admit this, but afterward, I poked around her place, searching for, you know, her secret. I never saw anything suspicious.” He blinked. “Actually, that’s not true.”
Reaching back to the jacket draped across his chair, he pulled out his notebook and began flipping through pages. “Here, see.”
He slapped the notebook on the table, and she squinted at the scratched marks that were supposed to be his notes. They were timestamped and had locations, such as the supermarket, Saturday market, and other society members’ names. Curiously, alongside each notation was a list of ingredients. The whole paper looked like a cross between a grocery list and a scavenger hunt.
He jabbed a finger at the note pad. “Arlene had always been more careful than any of your other counterparts. But during the week leading up to her death, she got sloppy. I don’t know what she was doing or making, but for a typically reclusive person to suddenly go to all sorts of places, buying up strange items, sent up a red flag.” He nudged the compartmented list of items for each stop on Arlene’s tour. “At the time, I dismissed the abrupt change as the craziness of your kind.” His cheeks reddened. “No offense.”
Her kind. She had a kind, now.
She filed away the thought to take out and dwell on later. She bit her lip as she ran a finger down the list of ingredients. If she didn’t know any better—and she usually didn’t—she’d think she was looking at the ingredients to a potion recipe. Just like the list of ingredients the thief had stolen from Caroline, these too seemed familiar. Actually, once rearranged, they were exactly the same items.
What had Arlene been up to? And why was someone stealing the same ingredients a month after the woman’s death?
A deeper concern grew, niggling at the back of her brain, one that she refused to entertain because it would mean that there was that much more darkness in the world. And she’d had about as much as she could handle.
CHAPTER 12
LIBBY LET OUT a frustrated growl, alternating between stuffing dinner—a burrito—into her mouth and using her free hand to search under beds and furniture for Orchid.
She’d prepared all of the ingredients to begin making the Pet Whisperer potion but was now missing the key component: the cat. She couldn’t even gather a viable enough quantity of fur from the pet brush to use.
Standing in the kitchen, shaking a bag of treats, she called for the Norwegian Forest cat. While visiting her mother over the years, she’d learned to love the cat like her own, so she had been more than happy to adopt the sweet thing when her mother passed.
But right now, that furry demon was testing Libby’s patience. Of all the times for her to wan
der off.
When shaking the bag of treats didn’t produce the feline, Libby tossed the sack across the counter, shoved the last bite of burrito into her mouth, and slumped onto a dining room chair.
There was nothing more to do but exercise patience until Orchid graced Libby with her presence.
The next room over, Jasper cawed, insisting it was time for his supper. She knew this because the feathery roommate made a raucous every night at the same time since she’d moved in, and he only stopped once she filled his feeder.
“I’m coming,” she muttered.
As she filled the tray with birdseed, her gaze landed on the collection of feathers on the wood floor, and she added cleaning to the top of her to-do list.
She froze. Should she…?
In the absence of Orchid, she could test Marge’s theory about the main base ingredient using a different pet. After all, the woman had insinuated it might take several tries to find the precise, best form of the ingredient.
Scooping up the black, glossy feathers, she ran to the greenhouse, her heart pounding in her ears.
“Ivy, door!”
She barely broke stride as she slid through the dark hole, flipping the light switch as she went. The moment her shoes slapped down on the corrugated metal, she set to work.
By now, she practically had the Pet Whisperer steps memorized, and it went much faster with all of the ingredients already prepped.
She hesitated, the feather in her hand, as she stared at her setup. Should she put the feather directly into a flask and use the captured vapors or should she boil it in water? Maybe even use the cauldron? The recipe hadn’t been specific on that part.
The thought of drinking degraded bits of raven didn’t appeal to her which settled the matter. Vapor it was. She just hoped she could collect enough to serve as the base of the potion—if not, who knew what the outcome could be?
Next time she saw Marge, she should ask the apothecary how many potionists had died in lab accidents, then she changed her mind, deciding in this instance, ignorance might be bliss.
