by Gigi Pandian
Pushing thoughts of murder from my mind, I fixed myself a cup of turmeric tea and a green smoothie for breakfast, then I tended to my window box and backyard gardens. Three mint varieties—lemon balm, chocolate, and peppermint—were getting a little carried away, stretching their roots and tendrils too close to the parsley. That wouldn’t make any of the plants happy. My garden choices had been made in part so I could harvest fast-growing plants for Dorian’s Tea of Ashes. If it hadn’t been for that, I would have planted the mint in containers.
The familiar routine of touching the plants and giving them the amount of water they needed served to calm me, but my mind was still restless. I dressed in my ill-fitting jeans and a sweatshirt and set out on a walk to clear my head. But the scents of springtime Portland only served to remind me of the strange scents I’d imagined coming from Dorian’s book, and the scent of ether the magicians had used in their performance.
Back at the house, I went straight to the kitchen with the intention of having another cup of tea. Before the mug reached my lips, a knock sounded on the front door.
I’d already given a brief statement to a police officer the previous night, when I was questioned along with the rest of the audience. I’d said I didn’t know anything, so I couldn’t imagine they were following up already. I knew I should have told them about seeing the two men sneaking around the theater earlier in the day, but I couldn’t do so without incriminating myself. Doing the right thing was always a delicate balance for an alchemist. Telling the complete truth could easily lead to greater confusion and injustices. If I knew anything that could help, I would have spoken up. But in spite of my initial reaction, I didn’t know what had transpired.
I took a deep breath and opened the door.
“You were there last night?”
“Nice to see you, too, Max.”
He pushed past me into the house. “You didn’t say anything about going back to the magic show.”
“It was a last-minute decision. I wanted to see if I could figure out how some of the tricks were done. I told you I love old-fashioned magic shows.”
Max stared at me. I suddenly felt very self-conscious about my hair and skin. “What are you keeping from me, Zoe?”
“Are you here officially?”
“No. I’m here as your … whatever the hell I am to you. But I suppose your answer shows me where I stand.”
“Max—”
“A man is dead, Zoe.”
“Why do you think it has something to do with me?”
“I didn’t say that! I’m worried about you. That’s why I came by. You were in the same place as a killer.”
“Oh.”
“You find it so surprising that I’d be worried about you?”
“No, it’s just—”
“What?”
“Nobody has been worried about me in a long—”
A crash from the house interrupted us. I gave a start, and saw Max’s shoulders tense.
“You attract burglars like anise hyssop attracts bees,” Max whispered, then raised a finger to his lips.
Only Max would have thought up a simile that included anise hyssop instead of something simple like sunflowers. I put my hand on his and stopped him from heading to the house. “It’s not a burglar. I was cataloguing my inventory and left a stack of books that wasn’t very stable. I didn’t anticipate being pulled away for so long.”
“You sure?”
Another crash sounded.
“I’d better check it out.”
“Max, really—”
I feared what he’d find inside. With solid stone covering a larger portion of Dorian’s body each day, he might not be able to transform himself into the proper shape people had seen. I was already thought to be “quirky” for carrying my large gargoyle sculpture to different rooms of my house on a regular basis. That was fine. But how would I explain a strangely contorted gargoyle sculpture?
Ignoring Max’s pleas for me to wait outside, I followed him up the stairs. Max cringed as each successive step groaned under our feet. Stealth was impossible in this old house.
The attic was crammed full of artifacts for my business, but empty of life. There wasn’t even a stone gargoyle anywhere in sight. However, there was a pile of books scattered across the floor, even though I’d lied about a precarious stack. Was my house alive now? That was all I needed.
My attic was the exact opposite of Max’s house. Instead of his sparse decor, in which an iron tea kettle, a white couch, two scenic paintings, and two personal photographs gave the house its personality, my attic was an involved mess of relics I’d accumulated over the centuries. For the decades in which I traveled across the United States in my truck and trailer, these books, artwork, and alchemical artifacts had resided in a storage facility in Paris.
The hardwood floor was pockmarked with water damage from the winter rains. You’d think that after all these years I’d be good enough at home repair that I could fix the damage quickly and resume my alchemical work on saving Dorian’s life. But in my defense, I’d rarely lived in my own home. Most of the time I hadn’t even lived in a proper house. This Craftsman house in Portland was a luxury.
“Wow,” Max said, taking in the room.
I couldn’t tell if he meant that in a good way or a bad way.
“These are all real antiques?”
“They’re not exactly antiques. At least I don’t think of them like that. They’re all related to the science of healing. That’s why the store is called Elixir.”
“I didn’t realize you were still working at your business.” He shook his head. “I guess we don’t know each other as well as I thought.”
“Max—”
“I thought you were working as the chef at Blue Sky Teas.”
“Part-time. Why did you think I wasn’t running Elixir? You knew I shipped the storage crates to the house when I moved here. I wasn’t hiding anything.” Well, I wasn’t hiding that. “Is it because I haven’t invited you up to the attic before? As you can see, it’s not the kind of room where I’d invite a guest. I haven’t gotten properly settled in yet.”
“That’s not it.”
“No?”
“I checked out your website.”
I groaned.
“It looked like you hadn’t updated it in the last decade,” Max said sheepishly.
Three comments on my website in as many days? I was definitely going to take Veronica up on her offer to update the site. But I couldn’t seem to care much at the moment. Dorian was dying an unnatural death. I was getting sicker by the day as I tried to save him. A murderous alchemist was in town, seeking his stash of loot, a stash which had led to the death of a guard and which had now washed up on the banks of the nearby Willamette River. And a man spying on the alchemist had been murdered, the body found in front of my eyes.
So yes, updating my website so I could make enough money to fix my house and pay Ethan back wasn’t my top priority. I gave an involuntary shiver as I thought back to that damned theater, with Dorian’s foot caught on the catwalk and the volunteer’s dead body tumbling out onto the stage.
“You’re thinking about the dead man, aren’t you?” Max said. “I can see it on your face. I’m sorry you had to see that.”
I nodded, but didn’t trust myself to speak. I’d seen more death than I wanted to in my lifetime. It doesn’t get easier. But that’s a good thing.
“Is there something you want to tell me, Zoe?”
My throat tightened and anger flushed my face. Why was Max simultaneously the easiest and most difficult person to communicate with? “You really think I had something to do with his—”
“I didn’t mean it like that! Of course I didn’t mean that. Sometimes I feel like you understand me better than anyone, but sometimes … I can tell you’re keeping something from me.” He frowned as s
omething in the corner caught his eye. He set down the cookbook of herbal remedies he’d picked up, and walked up to a whitewashed hutch that held glass jars with original vintage labels. “Imported herbal supplements? Really? After everything that happened last winter, how can you—”
“God, Max!” I snapped. “I don’t know the man who was murdered, and these are vintage jars. With nothing inside. Nothing. These glass vessels were once used by famous scientists. That’s why they’re worth a lot of money.”
“Really? People will believe Louis Pasteur used one of these vessels? Are his fingerprints on them?”
“Isaac Newton, actually, but yes. I don’t have fingerprints, but I have documents that show—”
“You actually believe papers have survived that long and aren’t faked? Jesus, Zoe. You do.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry. Look, can we change the subject?”
“Back to the dead man you think I have something to do with? I told you, I don’t know the man. He has nothing to do with me.”
“Are we fighting? How did that happen? I came over here because I wanted to make sure you were okay, that you hadn’t gotten mixed up in—”
A cough sounded from the closet behind me. I knew that cough. I quickly coughed, hoping Max would think the first one was mine.
“I could use some tea for my allergies,” I said. “They’re affecting my throat. Why don’t we go downstairs?”
“I can see myself out.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“We don’t seem to be communicating very well today. I’ll leave you to clean up this mess.” He paused, a veiled look I couldn’t place passing over his face. “Where’s that gargoyle statue of yours? I didn’t see it when I came through the house.”
“Why?” My intuition kicked into high gear. Max knew I “moved” my statue around, but he’d never seen Dorian move on his own.
“Never mind. It’s nothing.” He paused. “I hope it’s nothing.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I have to go, Zoe.”
And with that, he left. Why did he want to know about Dorian?
Seventeen
I rested my back against the closet door for a moment, allowing time for Max to drive away and for me to compose my thoughts.
When I was certain he was gone, I yanked open the attic closet door. “It’s safe.”
“I hope the boy did not ruin any of your books,” Dorian said. His gray arm was wrapped around Brixton’s shoulder. The two stood, and Brixton helped Dorian step out of the closet.
“He lost his balance,” Brixton said. “That’s why there was a crashing noise. We didn’t know you were back until we heard you and Max raise your voices. So when Dorian fell down, I thought I’d better make this place look like you said it did.”
“Max knows that you exist. Why didn’t you just say you came over to raid the fridge or something?”
Brixton and Dorian stared at each other, both frowning.
“She is a smart one, this alchemist,” Dorian said.
I pressed my fingers to my temples. I didn’t remember signing up to take care of two adolescents.
“Don’t be bummed, Zoe,” Brixton said. “I’m sure Max’ll come around.” He made sure Dorian could stand without toppling over, then put his hand on my shoulder. Okay, sometimes he could be a thoughtful kid.
I looked at the two of them. “Why are you here, anyway? I didn’t know you were coming over. I thought you’d be at Blue Sky to help your mom with the Sunday brunch crowds.”
“Yeah, that was the plan, but then I heard about the guy who was killed by the alchemist—”
“We don’t know for sure that’s what happened.”
“Alchemists,” Dorian said, “are known to have gone to drastic measures to protect their secrets.”
“You were the one who said we should give him the benefit of the doubt!” Brixton said, gaping at the gargoyle.
“My young friend,” Dorian said to Brixton, “bring me the local newspaper, s’il vous plaît.”
Dorian didn’t usually ask for help like that. His left foot hung at an unnatural angle. He saw me looking and tossed a small throw blanket over it.
He cleared his throat and opened the paper. “Wallace Mason was an important enough man to have a short obituary in the newspaper. He founded a wellness center in Portland in the 1960s, where he extolled the virtues of vegetarianism and herbalism, and he took in many troubled people. He’s survived by a daughter who lives abroad.”
“That’s it?” I asked.
“Hey guys,” Brixton said, “there’s a lot more online.” He scrolled on the screen of his phone. “He was quoted in the media after that sapphire necklace from the Lake Loot was found.”
“Aha!” Dorian said.
“He was one of the treasure hunters?” I asked. His presence at the theater took on a new meaning. “What did he say?”
“That they should allow people to search,” Brixton said, still reading his phone’s screen, “because that’s the best chance at recovering the loot for the family. Why didn’t he want it for himself?”
“Use your little grey cells,” Dorian said, tapping his forehead and making me wish I hadn’t checked out every single Poirot book from the library for him during the winter. “A 1960s wellness center. This means he is a do-gooder. Of course he would wish to find the trésor for the family.”
“Unless he’s lying,” I pointed out.
Dorian scowled at me as he stretched his shoulders, his wings flapping gently as he did so. “We would know more if someone would confront the alchemist. Then we could learn if he might help us.”
“We’ve already discussed all the reasons why that’s a terrible idea.”
“Yes, but this is a democracy,” Dorian said. “The boy and I have outvoted you.”
“This isn’t a democracy.”
“Of course it is,” Brixton said. “I slept through a bunch of government classes, but even I know that.”
“This house isn’t a democracy,” I said.
“But we will not confront him inside the house,” Dorian said, his black eyes opened wide in a deceptively innocent expression.
I groaned. A simple life, Zoe. You really believed you could have a simple life? I wished I could say that if the magician was a murderer, the police would figure it out. But if he was an alchemist?
“Maybe Zoe has a point,” Brixton said.
“Thank you,” I said.
“I mean, Franklin Thorne is a really good magician, with his Prometheus character. If you confront him directly, he might capture you before you knew what was happening.”
I tried to stop Brixton to tell him that wasn’t what I meant, but he kept going.
“You were there at the show,” he said. “You saw him. Prometheus is, like, Houdini good.”
Dorian made a squawking noise I’d never before heard escape his dignified gray lips. “Houdini! Non! Ehrich Weiss stole my father’s name and dishonored him! Houdini is but a poor imitator of the great Robert-Houdin! Those illusions you witnessed at the stage show? These were not inspired by the crass, escapist acts of Houdini. Non. Many were created by the prodigious Robert-Houdin.”
Brixton stumbled backward as Dorian’s heavy wings flapped back and forth.
“He’s a bit overly sensitive on this topic,” I said to Brixton.
“Overly sensitive?” Dorian parroted back at me. “I am not the egotistical man who could not understand a family’s wish to grieve for their relation in solitude. That was Houdini. Since the day he was turned away from visiting his idol’s grave, Houdini set out to destroy Father’s name.”
“Wow,” Brixton said, reading his phone screen. “Son of a—”
“Language,” I said automatically.
“Sorry, D,” Brixton said, ig
noring me and speaking to Dorian. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I just meant that Prometheus is a wicked good magician who probably has lots of handcuffs and stuff, so Zoe should come up with another good cover story before she goes and talks to him.”
“I’m right here,” I said.
“Yeah,” Brixton said, “but you look like you’re resisting coming up with a plan. So Dorian and I should come up with one for you.”
I sighed and tried to think of anything I could say that wouldn’t result in them skewing the intent of my words and investigating for themselves.
“As long as you two stay out of it completely,” I said, “and I do mean completely, I’ll look into it.”
“Bon,” Dorian said. “In one hour I shall have lunch ready for you. That way you can keep up your energy for your investigation.”
The scene outside the theater was much as I expected it would be. The building at the base of Mt. Tabor was roped off with crime scene tape, and officers milled around.
Peter and Penelope sat together on the bumper of a powerful, late-model SUV that loomed over the tiny Portland cars surrounding it. With a hitch on the back, I presumed they used the SUV for hauling a trailer of the items for their magic act. They were no longer wearing their stage makeup or formal wear from the day before, though the sleek curls of Penelope’s hair were ready for any stage. She puffed on a cigar and looked at the sky.
“If it isn’t our friendly neighbor,” Peter said in a voice even a toddler could tell was sarcastic. “Come to tell us our new gargoyle is ready? I’m so sorry, but as you can see, it’s the world’s worst time for a visit.”
The man struck me as far too immature to have been alive for 100 years. He was immature even for 50. I’ve known alchemists who’ve lost sight of their humanity, but it tends to express itself in a different tenor. Aloofness and a lack of empathy, yes. But sarcasm? Not that I’d encountered. But then again, I’d never known any alchemists who practiced backward alchemy. And that’s what he had to be, coming back from the dead.
