The Alchemist's Illusion

by Gigi Pandian

  “Dorian should call,” I said. “His male French-accented voice will get us to the right person more quickly.”

  “An undercover assignment! Très bon.”

  Dorian sweet-talked his way through two low-level employees who couldn’t help us but who hoped Dorian would join them at a meal if he ever came to New York, and within minutes was transferred to the head of the company.

  Dorian had insisted on using the antique rotary dial phone he preferred, instead of my cell, so I wasn’t able to catch all of what was being said on the other end of the line.

  “But surely there is something you can do, Mademoiselle,” Dorian said into the receiver. “Yes … I understand it is the end of the day … But it is of utmost importance … I see … I gave you my phone number … I look forward to hearing from you. Merci beaucoup.” He hung up and drummed his claws together.

  “They giving you the run-around?” Tobias asked.

  “Oui, it is the ‘run-around,’ as you say. She promises she will call back, but … ”

  “What?” I asked.

  “It is most strange. I had the strongest feeling she was hiding something from me … Alors, we must explore other options.” Dorian flapped his wings. “I know what we need to lift our spirits. I will cook a feast to celebrate old friends. Food will help us think.”

  “But—” Tobias began.

  “Don’t argue,” I said. “When it comes to food, you’ve already lost.”

  “Then I’ll help,” Tobias said. “I’ve got a few culinary tricks up my sleeve.”

  Dorian looked back and forth between us. His mouth opened, then snapped shut.

  “He’s worried about letting you into his kitchen,” I explained. “He’s trying to think of something to say that isn’t rude.”

  “You must understand, it is nothing personal,” Dorian said. “I welcome you to keep me company with a glass of wine while I cook, but I can sufficiently handle the meal on my own.”

  “I beg to differ,” Tobias said. “I saw turnip greens wilting on the kitchen counter. You were going to toss them and just keep the turnips. I can’t let that happen on my watch.”

  Dorian nodded slowly. “Zoe has many turnips growing in the yard. It is a challenge to figure out the best use of them. I can spare one burner, Monsieur Freeman. One.”

  “That’ll do.”

  I wished I could have joined them in the kitchen, but thoughts of murder and a missing alchemist were in the forefront of my mind. While the two of them cooked, I searched online to double-check Dorian’s research. Unfortunately, I confirmed that my gargoyle friend was right: an online search wouldn’t yield any references to our painting. My next idea came up blank as well: tracing Nicolas himself.

  I knew why I hadn’t begun with that line of action. It would be a massive undertaking on any level. I could look for a modest French country home that had once existed in 1704. I could sort through references to Nicolas Flamel over the centuries, most of which would be fictional. Or perhaps look back on what was going on in the early 1700s that might have involved danger—which was pretty much most of life in 1700. Even something as innocuous as women’s makeup was dangerous back then, poisoned with toxic substances including lead. All paths of historical research were theoretically viable, but each could easily involve years of effort—whereas the painting might reveal the clue I needed as soon as I was able to see it.

  When the spicy scent of jalapeño peppers and the sweet earthy fragrance of roasted sweet potatoes and corn reached me in the attic, I climbed down the stairs.

  “How is it possible neither of you knows any alchemist whom you can ask for assistance?” Dorian said as I walked into the kitchen. “I cannot believe this is truly the case.”

  “Can’t you?” Tobias said. “Neither Zoe or I are your textbook alchemists. A woman and a black man don’t exactly fit into the secret societies practicing alchemy.”

  “And they’re a secretive bunch to start with,” I added.

  “Alchemists … ” Dorian shook his head and untied his apron. “At least you have a good sense of smell. You have perfect timing. Dinner is served.”

  Dinner was flawless. When Dorian had seen how well Tobias’s stewed turnip greens were turning out, he made a spicy jalapeño corn bread and stuffed sweet potatoes to perfectly complement the greens.

  This was to be the first autumn I’d lived with Dorian. I’d brought home the season’s first harvest of apples, and that night for desert, Dorian baked an apple pie. Since we both believed in cooking with seasonal ingredients, he’d never made one for me before. I took a bite. And was overcome by memories.

  “Something is wrong?” Dorian asked, watching me. A look of horrified embarrassment swept across his face before he took a bite of pie himself. “But there is nothing the matter with my pie! The coconut oil worked well to replace butter … True, it is not overly sweet, yet this is the style of pie I was striving for. It perfectly elevates the apples themselves.”

  “This recipe,” I said. “Where did you get it?” The tart flavor and the crisp texture of the pie transformed the apples into something much greater than Dorian could have realized: a memory of my childhood.

  “It is my own recipe,” Dorian said, “based on ideas from cookbooks from the library. The Pacific Northwest has many apples, so I wished to learn their secrets.”

  “New England is filled with apples,” I said. “I grew up surrounded by orchards. Your apple pie tastes like a freshly picked apple on its best day of the year, eaten after a hard day of manual labor.” Though my childhood hadn’t been an easy one, there were some good memories too. And Dorian had given one back to me.

  Dorian beamed. “Bon. Enjoy the pie, because then I fear we are back to our first option. We have come up with no better ideas. You must get a closer look at the painting.”

  Which meant I had to speak with the woman who had accused me of murdering her husband.

  twenty-one

  In the morning, I packed up leftovers from Dorian’s feast and went to see Logan Magnus’s widow, Isabella. I was hoping she would open the door for me because of the ostensible reason I would offer for visiting: that I wanted to offer an apology for the grief I’d caused her by having her husband’s phoenix charm. Though it wasn’t my main reason for visiting, my heart did go out to the woman.

  I was on my own; Tobias had an important errand to run for Dorian. The gargoyle had his usual list of ingredients delivered directly to the Blue Sky Teas kitchen, but with the new and bigger demand, he’d run out early.

  I had Isabella’s phone number from the card Cleo had given me, but I knew she would be able to turn me away too easily over the phone. Luckily, it was public knowledge that Logan Magnus had lived at a house the locals called the Castle, situated in the hills on land that had been owned by his artist-father. The house itself was Logan’s own, built when he catapulted into stardom with his first million-dollar sale. The old house in which he’d grown up was now an in-law unit dwarfed by the Castle.

  From the front—the portion visible in the distance from the highway—the Castle did indeed look like a medieval castle, made of stone and featuring two turrets. But I knew from media photographs that in back, it was an industrial, modern-age castle of steel.

  The entrance of the driveway was blocked by a locked gate with an intercom. Cool raindrops fell onto my face as I rolled down the window of my truck.

  “Go away,” Isabella’s disembodied voice crackled from the speaker.

  “I wanted to apologize for causing you any grief when I found your husband’s pendant,” I said into the speaker. “I brought a basket of home-baked pastries as a peace offering.”

  After several seconds, the iron gate buzzed and slid open and I drove up the curving driveway lined with wrought-iron sculptures. They glistened a bright black in the rain. At first, I thought the elegant shapes were abstract art r
ather than representational, but when a nearby bolt of lightning lit up the yard more sharply than the drizzly morning sunlight, the sculptures cast shadows over the concrete that showed them as birds taking flight.

  Isabella Magnus was waiting in the open front door. She held herself with a proud beauty that wasn’t marred by the dark circles under her eyes. Even barefoot, she was nearly a head taller than me.

  “Logan could never refuse a peace offering,” she said. “You have him to thank.”

  “Like I said at the gate,” I said as I handed her the basket of Dorian’s creations, “I have to apologize for causing you more pain. I know what it’s like to lose someone.” I touched my hand to my locket.

  “I don’t want it on my conscience when you catch your death of cold out here. Come on inside.” She led me to a sunken living room decorated almost entirely in white. The L-shaped couch, the mid-century modern chairs, and even the tables were bright white, contrasting with the darkly colored modern art on the walls. Isabella’s steps wavered as she walked. It wasn’t even noon, but had she already been drinking? As she had just lost her husband, I couldn’t blame her.

  “The sculptures that follow the driveway up to the house are amazing,” I said. “I didn’t realize they were birds taking flight until the lightning cast their shadows.”

  A small smile formed on her lips. “Those are mine. They never caught on. People in this day and age don’t like to wait for a payoff. They only work with spotlights at night—or during a storm—and even then you have to catch them at the right angle to see their true form.”

  “You’re a welder. That’s what you meant when you said that you’d made the phoenix charm I found.”

  “My studio is out back.” Isabella’s balance faltered and I took a step forward, but she steadied herself and looked at me with a frightening intensity that stopped me in my tracks. “Though I can’t imagine ever making art again right now.” She sank into a chair.

  “It will pass,” I said. “That feeling. It took many years after my brother died for me to feel whole again, and I’ll always feel like there’s a small piece of me missing, but I promise it gets easier. That’s why I loved the phoenix charm you made. It felt like wearing it next to my locket was giving me permission for a rebirth in my life. Not forgetting, but moving forward.”

  “You’re so young to have lost a brother. You can’t be any older than my Cleo.” She hesitated. “The police told me where you found Logan’s pendant. I just hope they’ll give it back to me someday.”

  “I’m sure they will. After the investigation is over … ”

  “Thank you.” She stood and moved toward the front door. “And thank you for dropping off the comfort food.”

  Damn. I was being dismissed. “I know this is bad timing, but I wonder if I might see the Philippe Hayden painting that was in the memorial gallery for a day.”

  She stared at me. I couldn’t read her expression. “That wasn’t what I imagined you were going to ask.”

  “What did you think I was going to ask?”

  “For a peek at Logan’s studio. That’s what most people want from me.”

  “I appreciate art, but I’m not an artist or a collector.”

  Isabella cocked her head, and her black-and-silver hair shimmered. “Then why on earth do you care about the painting?”

  Double-damn. “My stepfather,” I said, thinking of Brixton’s words. “The portrait by Philippe Hayden reminds me of a portrait he used to have. He disappeared many years ago. It’s been hard for me. But I’d feel like I had a piece of my family back if I could see it again.”

  She nodded and slipped on a pair of black sandals. “Come with me.”

  We walked outside into the modern backyard, keeping underneath an awning that shielded us from most of the rain. She unlocked a set of tall, natural-wood double doors and stepped into a high-ceilinged studio that reminded me of the inside of a cathedral. The arched ceiling was buttressed, though it must have been for aesthetics rather than function. The back wall held a stepladder next to a welder’s torch and was flanked by two fire extinguishers.

  The left-hand wall was windowless, but the view inside was more impressive than the hillsides beyond the confines of the walls. Metal­works of all shapes and sizes, and at different states of finality, lined the wall, in front of a row of floor-level lights that cast their shadows at different angles. On the opposite wall was a smaller space for both painting and jewelry-making. Thick pieces of wire and larger chunks of metals filled glass jars. An in-progress oil painting of a rose morphing into a butterfly lay on an easel. Though it was technically competent, the painting didn’t hold the same life as the metalwork pieces. Next to the easel was a tray of homemade paints, resting atop a pile of old art books.

  “This is my workshop,” she said. “Logan’s is across the patio.”

  She slid aside a landscape painting of Oregon’s Mount Hood, revealing a safe built into the wall. The metal safe was long and narrow. Isabella turned her back to me so I couldn’t see what she was doing. She must have been attempting to open the safe, but it didn’t appear to be going well. She swore in frustration, but a few moments later swung open the heavy metal door.

  “That’s odd,” she said.

  “What is it?”

  “I thought this is where it was … It’s not here. They must have taken it back out already.”

  “Taken it?”

  “That damn painting … Cleo thought she’d found something special for her father. But it’s fake. At least that’s what the ‘art experts’ say—that it’s not a Philippe Hayden. But I’d like to think it was fated for Cleo to win the bid anyway.” Isabella closed her eyes and smiled to herself. She turned her face upward toward the high ceiling, her silver-streaked hair falling over her shoulders. “Lost money and found love,” she whispered.

  I was glad she wasn’t looking at my face to see my panic. “But who’s taken it?”

  Isabella opened her eyes and blinked at me as if she’d forgotten I was there.

  “You said you’re not a collector,” she said. “How much do you know about the art world?”

  “Enough to understand the skepticism in your voice when you said ‘art experts.’”

  “Most of them mean well, of course. But their livelihood is tied to being right, so the first whiff they get that you’re questioning their judgment, they dig their heels in. Did you know that most authenticated paintings are never tested with scientific methods? Most authentications are done purely by a so-called ‘expert eye’ looking at the painting. And because Cleo’s Philippe Hayden was once declared a fake, it’s tainted and nobody will agree with her that it’s real.”

  “What did Logan think?”

  “He loved it regardless of who painted it. The fact that his beloved little girl went to so much effort to find him something beautiful, something that reflected his new interest in alchemical art, that was all that mattered to Logan.”

  “That’s beautiful,” I said, because it was. “How did he become interested in alchemy? It’s such an … esoteric subject.”

  “You mean alchemical art? He saw a painting last year that intrigued him—trees with hidden faces transforming the forest into a living being. He frequently got bored, and Taylor’s paintings invigorated him again.”

  “Heather Taylor?”

  “You know her art? I hadn’t heard of her before, but she certainly has talent. Logan bought one of her paintings. He loved art regardless of whether or not a famous artist painted it. So it didn’t matter if the painting from Cleo was authentic, because it was real to him. That’s why I can’t understand why they’d care … ”

  “Who?”

  “Cleo and Ward. They must have sent the painting away for authentication.”

  “Sent it away?” And who was Ward?

  “They talked about sending it to someone in the
Czech Republic. By courier, of course.”

  I clutched my locket. I’d lost my brother and Ambrose. I wasn’t going to lose Nicolas as well. But with the painting with the clue on its way to Europe …

  “The brother you mentioned,” Isabella said, her gaze following my hand. “He’s in your locket?”

  “He is. We had a miniature portrait of him made.” I lifted the long chain and opened the locket to show her the picture.

  “I can tell how much you care about your family, so maybe I could … ” Isabella’s face contorted as she lifted the locket closer to her eyes. “Is this a joke?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “I don’t know what you’re after, or why you’re lying.”

  “About my locket? Oh, you were looking at the photo of my first love. The portrait of my brother is on the other side. It’s—”

  “It’s fake, is what it is. Or rather, it’s real. Unlike you and your story.” Isabella’s face was so close to mine I could see the veins in her bloodshot eyes and smell the earthy scents of coffee and liquor on her breath. And there was something else … “Best not to lie to someone who knows a thing or two about antique art.”

  “I’m not lying about Thomas.” A frenzied fury bubbled up inside me. I could weather whatever was thrown at me in this life, but I couldn’t withstand someone sullying my brother’s memory.

  “There’s no way that portrait was done within the last two hundred years. Where did you find it? At an estate sale, and then you thought it was trendy to wear it in a piece of Victorian jewelry? Perhaps to match your dyed white hair? It’ll turn white for real soon enough, and then you’ll wish you hadn’t spent your youth chasing trends and lying to strangers. God, sometimes I hate Portland. You could have just said you wanted to see what you believe is a famous painting.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “Get out!” she screamed. She picked up a mallet and clutched it in her hand.