by Ami Diane
But their visit to the pawn shop changed that opinion. The potion could be used to get real money, limited only by the number of pennies and quantity of potion. With that recipe, one could buy virtually anything. True, they’d have to hide once the potion wore off.
But a potion that could turn fake gold into real money? That was worth killing over.
CHAPTER 17
A COUPLE OF hours later, Libby pulled up to the front of her Victorian house. They’d been all over town and back again at least twice. The trail had led them to an empty parking lot of a grange hall, which happened to be the location of Oyster Bay’s Saturday Market.
The sky was turning a deeper shade of blue, so Marge and Libby made plans to follow the trail again as soon as the apothecary could whip up another batch of Pathfinder since they’d used up the last of it. She’d told Libby it might take a couple of days since Marge was out of lost socks. Whatever that meant.
Outside Libby’s house, the older potionist got out and walked to her car. It was well past five, and Libby’s stomach was as empty as store shelves on Christmas Eve. However, the thought of going into her kitchen and picking through the nearly-empty fridge didn’t appeal to her.
She nosed her Honda back down winding Cottage Grove Lane and drove the few minutes to the edge of town where she pulled into a pothole-ridden parking lot. With some fancy maneuvering and muttered swears, she backed into the last available parking space.
The hole-in-the-wall seafood depot had stood out to her every time she passed it, and she’d been itching to try out their chowder, which a sign in the window boasted it was the best on the West Coast. She would be the judge of that.
The small building felt even smaller inside, packed tightly with bodies. On one side, people cloistered at a seafood market counter, ordering from the refrigerated display cabinet of crab, Alaskan halibut, cod, salmon, prawns, and oysters. The other half of the room seemed to be a small restaurant, the kind where one seated themselves.
Libby managed to nab a table beneath a window that overlooked the bay. Out where the bay met the ocean, a fiery sun lit the horizon. Below the restaurant, a colony of sea lions flopped around on a small pier, barking loudly and sounding like dogs with laryngitis.
She’d just placed an order of clam chowder with the server when a tall shadow eclipsed her table. She squinted up at Deputy Jackson.
“May I?” He pointed at the seat opposite her.
“Sure, but I’m not buying.”
“Fair enough. I’m not here to eat. I saw you walk past the office.”
He pointed across the restaurant at the bay of windows opposite their table. Through the crowd and dusty glass, Libby spied a squat brick building across the street. The Bayside County Sheriff’s Office stood out like a sore thumb amongst the surrounding shops, especially the kite store beside it. Rainbows of swirling colors whipped about in the wind, feet from the door to the station.
“Thanks for the stick in my door, by the way.”
The server deposited a cannonball filled with a thick, creamy chowder. Steam rose in whorls above. After testing a bite with her tongue, she deemed it too hot to eat just yet and opted to nibble at her sourdough bread bowl instead.
“When Arlene died, I had a pathology report run on her.”
A chunk of bread slipped from Libby’s fingers. “What?”
He glanced out across the bay at a passing boat. “Since Marge had insisted that Arlene’s heart was the picture of health, I’d requested a forensic toxicology report, but I hadn’t gotten around to following up with it, what, with John’s suspicious death and all. Besides, there wasn’t a rush to follow up with the report since her death was ruled natural.
“When you mentioned your doubts, it spurred me to ask the toxicologist about it. Then, after you had that intruder, well, that’s too many coincidences for my taste in such a short span of time and all at the same location.”
A knot formed in her stomach. Was he going to search the premises more? Even with Ivy’s best efforts, the lab door couldn’t stand up to hard scrutiny.
“The sheriff agreed with me. It was a good thing I’d ordered the report when I did because it usually takes four to six weeks to get results.” He paused, whether for dramatic effect or to prepare himself for what was coming next, she wasn’t sure. “There were extremely elevated levels of potassium in her blood.”
Libby rested her arms on the table and leaned in, nearly plunging her hair in her soup. “How extremely elevated?”
“High enough for the judge to approve my request to exhume her body.”
Libby sucked in a breath. “Will that help? Is it possible to find anything after this much time? It’s been nearly a month.”
“She was on ice, pardon the phrase, for a couple of weeks. So, yeah. If there’s anything to be found, the medical examiner will find it.”
Absently, Libby sipped a spoonful of chowder, barely acknowledging the savory flavor. “Thanks for telling me.”
“I’m not doing it to be nice—although, I am. Nice, that is.” His chest puffed out slightly, preening, before it quickly deflated. “Arlene’s death, as it stands, is highly suspicious, and for whatever reason, it has something to do with that house. Which means you’re probably in danger. I’m asking you to consider staying somewhere else for the time being.”
She stared at her spoon. Where could she go? Were any of the hotels pet-friendly—and did that friendliness extend to ravens?
“I’ll consider it.” And she meant it, even if that consideration was leaning towards a hard no.
Still, it might not be a bad idea to arm herself with some potions, if there were ones that would be useful for self-defense.
“There’s also another reason I’m telling you about the exhumation of Arlene’s remains.”
She saw the uncertainty in the lines of his face and said it for him. “Marge?”
He nodded. “Marge. Can you help prepare her? She can be a bit hard-headed. She likes to pretend she’s doing okay, but I know she’s struggling. Based on the number of recent incidences alone at her ex-husband’s house, I’d say she’s using him as her own kind of therapy.”
Libby didn’t think that sounded so bad. Maybe she should pay a visit to her ex. Although, it was a five-hour drive, so perhaps a few prank phone calls would scratch that itch.
“So, when’s this supposed to happen?”
“It’s happening right now. The judge agreed the matter was rather urgent, since…”
“There’s a killer on the loose?” she finished. A couple at a nearby table turned their heads.
Jackson cleared his throat, standing. “Maybe you could keep that part quiet.” He slipped a pair of sunglasses on. “Please consider staying someplace else until this mess gets sorted out. Why not ask Marge? You just can’t stay in my guest room again. You saw logs like a lumberjack.” He’d made it to the door before his words sunk in.
“Hey! I do not!” Turning to the eavesdropping couple, she said, “I don’t snore.”
The door chimed as he stepped out, then she watched him, through the far windows, stroll across the street like he owned the town. His confident gait was one of the few times she found swagger attractive rather than think it overly cocky.
Libby stood in front of a blue colored craftsman, complete with white trim and long porch. The house sat nestled on a hillside that overlooked the bay and subsequent small town. It was too dark to see the distant water, but the town lights winked like fireflies on the surface of the bay.
After balancing Jasper’s birdcage on top of Orchid’s crate, she knocked on the door.
It creaked open a moment later, and a pin-cushioned head poked out.
“Red! Well, don’t just stand there. Come on in.” Marge stepped aside, taking the birdcage Libby handed to her. She wore a head-to-toe pajama onesie from which Libby had a hard time tearing away her eyes.
“I really appreciate you putting me up like this. I thought I could take a tough pill, but I fou
nd even the thought of going to bed in that house gave me anxiety.”
“I have something for that.”
“A stiff drink?”
Marge’s eyes widened in an I-hadn’t-thought-of-that expression. “Actually, I was going to say valerian root, but I like your solution better.” After moving aside a lamp, she set Jasper’s cage on an end table. “Does he need to be let out?”
“Yeah, soon. He’ll fly around outside for a half-hour then want to sleep in his cage.”
“Sounds good. Anyway, it’s no trouble having you here. Truth be told, when you called, I got a little excited. It’ll be like a girl’s slumber party.”
“Only with a lot more sleeping and fewer frozen bras. Just remember, whoever falls asleep first, gets their hand put in warm water.” Libby gave an exaggerated wink. “I’m gunning for you, Singer.”
“You’re so weird.”
Libby moved deeper into the living room. Setting Orchid’s crate down on the floor, she said, “I have a question. If it’s too personal, feel free to tell me to stuff it. If you’re so disenchanted with your ex, why do you still have his last name?”
The older potionist’s teeth gleamed in the lamplight as she gave a wicked smile that rose the hairs on Libby’s arms. “Because he wanted me to change it when we got divorced.”
Libby couldn’t help but chuckle before taking in the cozy room with a sweeping gaze. A large, overstuffed couch and two armchairs made a U-shape in front of a fireplace. A fire crackled, warming the room and filling it with an amber, dancing glow.
She did a double take. The firebox itself was large. Really large. Large enough that a giant cauldron hung above the popping logs and licking flames. Inside the large cast iron container was a liquid the color of lime green Jello. It greatly resembled Nickelodeon slime and gave Libby brief, childhood flashbacks.
“You have a lovely home, based on this one room I’ve seen so far. But I’m sure the rest is equally fantastic. Also, what is that?” Libby pointed at the slime-filled cauldron.
“Oh, just a little warding potion. It’s one I’ve been experimenting with and thought now would be the perfect time to test it out, what, with you being in danger and all.”
“I’m only in danger when I’m at home. At least, I think.” She followed Marge towards the back of the house into what turned out to be the kitchen. “Should you be brewing like that out in the open?”
“Probably not, but I made an exception. It’s worth the risk if it keeps us safe. Besides, if someone wants to hike the driveway and knock on my door, I can just tell them that I’m practicing for Halloween.”
“Or reenacting Macbeth.” At Marge’s blank expression, Libby added, “You know, the Three Witches, a.k.a. the Weird Sisters? ‘Double double toil and trouble; fire burn and cauldron bubble.’ That ring a bell?”
“Those were witches.”
“Yes, but they had a cauldron.”
“We’re potionists.”
“No, I get it. But—” Libby let out a frustrated sigh. “It’s not worth the effort. You ruined the joke.”
“You sure it was a joke?”
“Not anymore,” Libby mumbled. “I’m sorry, but can we talk about your outfit for a moment?”
Marge paused, holding her hands wide, her eyes cast down on her attire. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
“Nothing’s wrong except that you’re wearing a onesie meant for teenagers.”
“Is it really? It’s so comfortable.” To prove her point, Marge’s veiny hand petted the fur that covered her entire body. “I think I make a cute bear.”
“It’s a Wookiee.”
“Cookie?”
“Nope. W-Wookiee. From Star Wars.”
Marge’s brows knitted as she looked down, nearly going cross-eyed. “You sure?”
After assuring the woman she was certain and arguing for another couple of minutes over the silly, albeit comfortable-looking, onesie, they prepared chamomile tea then floated back into the living room. Libby released Jasper out the front door with instructions to peck at the window when he wanted back in.
After that, she opened the door to Orchid’s carrier. The feline took a tentative step out, sniffed the air, then promptly jumped into Libby’s lap the moment she sat down.
She petted the cat, digging her fingers into Orchid’s long, soft fur. “So, how does it work? This warding potion?”
She was truly hungry to learn all she could about potion making, but the query also served the purpose of buying her more time to figure out how to broach the subject of Arlene’s exhumation.
“Once it’s finished brewing and cooled, I intend to pour it around the property, creating a boundary like an invisible wall. No one will be able to cross it.”
“Does that include us? How are we supposed to leave?”
“It’s one way.”
“Suppose we cross the line to go to the store. Does that mean we can’t come back?”
Marge’s mouth dipped into her teacup, and she took her sweet time to slurp at the liquid. Finally, she set it down, smacking her lips in a clear stall tactic. “I had intended to make a second potion that counteracts that one there. The delivery method would be an aerosol we spritzed on ourselves before crossing the line to come back.”
“Sounds great.”
“But I haven’t made it yet.”
Orchid butted her head against Libby’s hand to remind her to keep petting. “That sounds less great. So, once you pour the potion, there’s no leaving the house unless we want to get stuck on the other side. What’s the decay time on the ward potion?”
Marge cleared her throat, brushing her pants of invisible lent.
“Marge?”
“Yes?”
“Decay time?”
“Three days.”
Libby swore and nearly leaped to her feet. “There is no way in Dante’s Inferno that I am being housebound for three days.”
“You think I want that, too? I’ve got an apothecary to run.” But the gleam in the woman’s eyes betrayed her. She practically beamed at the prospect of having a roommate for the next thirty-six hours.
Well, Libby had news for her. Not only did she tend to forget to wash her dishes, but she also had the habit of walking to and from her shower naked. So, the joke was on Marge.
“Nope.” Libby shook her head so hard her hair broke free of its ponytail. “Not happening. I’ll just take my chances sans potion, thank you.
“However, if you happen to have any weapons handy, I wouldn’t mind that. Brass knuckles perhaps?” She looked around hopefully in case she’d missed any just lying around.
“Fine. You’re no fun.” Marge’s lower lip protruded in a pout that would’ve competed with the best three-year-old’s. “I’ll just have to test it later after I’ve had time to perfect the anti-potion.”
Struggling, Marge climbed from her nest in the armchair, joints popping. “I think I have another defense potion in the cupboard that’ll help. Of course, it’s meant to be used on someone in the direst of circumstances. Just hope whoever’s after you doesn’t have a gun.”
As she shuffled down a hallway, Libby called out, “They’re not after me!” She looked down at Orchid. “You think she heard me?”
Marge’s voice floated through the house. “I heard you. I’m not deaf, you know.”
Orchid’s ears flicked as Libby leaned in and whispered, “Ears like a cat, that one has.”
“No.” Marge stepped back into the room, a vial of milky potion in her hand. “I just take an elixir that enhances my hearing, makes up for a bit of loss.”
After setting the vial on the coffee table between them, she dropped back into her chair and resumed drinking her chamomile tea. “That there is for emergencies only. Don’t touch it unless someone’s after you, and you’re in fear for your life.”
“What’s it do?”
“Best not to know.”
Libby eyed it warily.
The fire crackled, and the sound
of the potion bubbling in the cauldron filled the lull in conversation with a comforting gurgle.
After taking a long draught of tea, Libby held the cup, relishing the warmth in her hands, while Orchid twitched in her sleep on Libby’s lap.
“I talked with Deputy Jackson today.”
“Oh?” Marge’s eyebrows wiggled like two jump ropes, a salacious grin on her face.
“It wasn’t like that.” A pang hit Libby’s heart, and she almost regretted that her next words would wipe that smirk off the potionist’s face. Almost. “He decided to have another look into Arlene’s death.”
The laughter lines melted away. “That’s good news.”
“It is. He got the results back from a pathology report on blood samples taken before… well, you know.”
Marge stared intently at her. “And?”
“And there were extremely high levels of potassium in her blood.”
The older woman’s mouth turned down. “Strange. Although, that would explain the myocardial infarction.”
“There’s more.” Libby took a breath. “He’s having her body exhumed as we speak.”
CHAPTER 18
LIBBY STARED AT the 5’3” mass of brown fur currently prancing around the kitchen. Killers on the loose or not, this was not the scene she wanted to wake up to.
“Morning, Red,” Marge said far too cheerily for seven o’clock a.m. “Tea?”
“Flavored water for breakfast? No, thanks. Please tell me you have a coffee maker.”
“A what?”
Libby froze. “That’s not funny.”
Marge waved her spatula in the air, sending bits of scrambled eggs flying. “I’m just joshing you. You’re not a morning person, are you?”
“What gave it away?” Being a morning person, in Libby’s opinion, should be illegal, especially on Sundays.
Marge fished out a French press and unceremoniously plopped a bag of coffee grounds on the counter. “Kettle’s on the stove. Have at it.”
“Bless you.”
“I didn’t sneeze.”
Once she’d filled the kettle and had it simmering, Libby sat at the small, 1950s chrome-trimmed table and scarfed the breakfast Marge set before her. In between shoving bacon strips into her mouth, she said, “I wouldn’t be so tired if you hadn’t kept me up with that card game of yours.”
