Ghostly Garlic Page 6

  Inside, the house was silent.

  “Marge?” She moved deeper into the living room.

  In the kitchen, she found Max curled up on a blanket, a makeshift dog bed. One of Marge’s decorative couch pillows had been shredded, and the stuffing lay strewn about. His tail thumped, and he sat up.

  Oh, boy. Marge was going to be furious. She couldn’t wait to show her.

  “Hey, bud. Have you seen—”

  The air split with a boom that vibrated her feet and rattled the dishes in the cabinets. Libby spun on her heel in time to see smoke pouring out of the closed door that led to the basement.

  She’d seen Marge emerge from there before, knowing it led to the woman’s lab. Libby didn’t want to break potionist protocol, but she was also highly concerned about her friend’s well-being at the moment.

  She tried the door, but it was locked. That’s when she noticed the keypad on the wall.

  Her fist pounded over the wooden door. “Marge? Are you okay? Yell if you’re on fire!”

  Libby’s own laboratory experience—limited as it was—taught her a fire extinguisher could be her best friend. She located one under the sink then settled in front of the door in a ready stance.

  A moment later, it burst out, producing a coughing Marge. Her normally silver-spiked hair was tinged with soot, as was her face. The laboratory coat must’ve been white at one time, but it was now a color resembling the current sky.

  Libby straightened. “Hey, cool coat. I want one.”

  Marge rushed to the sink, hacked, and spat out something that made a disconcerting noise when it landed. Libby cringed and held up the extinguisher. Marge waved her off.

  “It’s okay. No flames this time.”

  “This time?” Libby looked back at the doorway. Smoke continued to curl out. It smelled of campfires but with an added chemical note, like an afterthought. “Do your neighbors ever complain about the ruckus you make?”

  “All the time.” The potionist garbled a glass of water, then she sucked the contents down like she’d been stranded in a desert for a week. “Jackson’s stopped coming over and just calls now when he gets a complaint.”

  The extinguisher landed with a thud on the table, and Libby sat. “I’m almost afraid to ask, but how’s the reverse invisibility potion—or rather, a visibility potion—coming? Have you identified the contents of the two vials yet?”

  Marge swiped her mouth, her eyes glinting under the halogen bulb overhead. “I think I did.”

  “Really? You mean, that boom just now was intentional?”

  Nails clicked over the floor as Max waddled over to Marge and sat, looking up expectantly. Absently, the apothecary reached across the counter and tossed him a dog biscuit from a recently opened bag. She had yet to notice the demolished pillow.

  “Usually, that kind of exothermic reaction means something’s gone wrong in the process.” When Marge wiped her forehead, it left behind a black streak. “But for a dual-state potion, it’s more typical.”

  Libby opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “What?”

  Sighing, Marge pulled out the chair across from her and crashed into it. Even with soot covering her face, the circles under her eyes were prominent. “Without Bea’s recipes for the two potions, trying to make a visibility potion was like playing darts in the dark. But when I was able to determine some of the ingredients from the residue in the vials, that’s when I realized one of our theories was correct.

  “Invisibility wasn’t a byproduct of two potions interacting but had been Bea’s intent. That meant that both vials were part of a dual-state potion. Technically, together, they make one potion. Two halves of a whole. And that requires a dual-state counter potion.”

  “Wait, so if it was dual-state, doesn’t that mean one of the vials was a liquid and the other was…?”

  “Vapor.”

  “Ah. So, now you have a visibility potion?”

  “Technically, it’s a reverse potion, or anti-potion, if you well, to the invisibility potion.”

  Libby closed her eyes and massaged her temples. She failed to see the difference. “This stuff hurts my brain.”

  “Try being sleep deprived and explaining it.”

  “Fair enough.” She rose and put the kettle on to make coffee in the French press. “What’s the plan?”

  “As soon as I change and grab a bite to eat, we’re going to Bea’s and try the potion.”

  After tossing another biscuit to Max, she trudged towards the hallway, stopped, and turned around. “Is that my pillow?”

  “Yep.” Libby patted Max on the head.

  Mumbling to herself, the apothecary shuffled out of the room, leaving behind the scent of smoke in her wake.

  The smile on Libby’s lips melted. If Marge’s reverse potion worked, soon, they would be looking at their friend’s dead body.

  Marge brought her car to a screeching halt in Beatrice’s driveway. Libby kicked out the passenger door and touched the precious pavement, the smell of burnt rubber filling her nostrils. The crab melt she had made while Marge had been getting cleaned up at her house threatened to make a reappearance.

  “Now do you see why I drive us everywhere?”

  Marge stared blankly at her. “What do you mean? I did fine.”

  “You nearly took out that stop sign and flattened that old man like a pancake.”

  “That’s just Mr. Witters,” she said dismissively. “He’s over a hundred and will outlive us all. I’ve got a bet with Gladys that he’s part cockroach.”

  “Mr. Witters aside, what about that red light?”

  “What about it?”

  “You went through it.” Libby shook her head and stomped up the stoop. With her elixirs and potions and vitamin regimen, how did Marge still manage to be a danger to society?

  After Marge opened the door, Libby shouldered her way in first.

  “Come on, you’re not still sore about my driving, are you?”

  “Maybe.” However, entering their recently departed friend’s home put things into a gut-wrenching perspective, and the anger drained from her. Thankfully, they hadn’t brought Max, thinking it might distress him further to see Beatrice’s body—if the potion were successful.

  Once they were on the second floor, staring at the inlaid attic door in the ceiling, Libby asked, “You ready?”

  Marge rolled her shoulders back and replied in a strained voice, “Ready.”

  Libby laid a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “I can do this alone. You knew her longer than I did. And with Arlene passing recently—”

  “I can do this.” Marge sucked in a breath.

  Libby tugged down the door, and the ladder slid to the floor with a thunk. She climbed first. Her breath quickened as she ascended, and sweat prickled her forehead.

  Everything appeared how they’d left it, which didn’t surprise her. Even Beatrice was still invisible she discovered after prodding the air near the floor.

  “I wonder what the decay time for this potion is.”

  “Me too.” Marge sidled up to where Libby continued to kneel.

  “If this works, you realize what this means?” Libby looked up. “It means Bea was making a potion on the restricted list. Also, if you could explain to me what that means, that would be super helpful.”

  “Yeah, I’d planned on it, but with everything going on—” Marge waved her hand around the room.

  “Don’t worry about it. Seriously. There are more important things right now.”

  The thick air filled with the sound of Marge’s joints cracking as she joined Libby on the floor. She dug through her ginormous handbag then produced two small vials—one was the color of sunsets, the other filled with ocean blue mist.

  The contents of the latter swirled like iridescent cobalt fog, and if it weren’t for the morbid reason that brought them there, Libby would’ve found it captivating.

  Reaching out, Marge poked the empty air to locate the body.

  “D-do you need to
pour it into her mouth?”

  Marge shook her head. Her hand rested in mid-air, and she instructed Libby to unstopper the vial of liquid first. Once she did, Libby handed it to the apothecary who carefully tipped the contents out. Fiery potion poured out. It pooled, much as the water had, before dribbling to the floor.

  Next, Libby uncorked the gaseous potion and handed it over. Instead of the mist escaping as she’d expected, it poured in a similar fashion as the liquid had.

  Libby waited with bated breath. When she could hold it no longer, she let it out with a hiss. “Is that it? Kind of anticlimactic. I mean, shouldn’t we be seeing her by now?”

  “Just hold on.”

  After several more moments of “holding on,” Libby made popping noises with her lips, and her eyes roamed the rest of the attic.

  “Rather spooky up here, don’t you—”

  Marge grabbed her arm. “Look.”

  Slowly, as if a blanket were being pulled back, Beatrice’s form emerged. The anemic light from the lightbulbs was enough to shatter the shadows and reveal the dead potionist. And the pool of congealed blood beneath her.

  Chapter Nine

  “OH, BOY.” LIBBY squeezed her eyes shut, but the image of Beatrice’s glassy eyes was burned into her brain, along with all that blood. So much blood.

  Most, or nearly all of it, originated from a deep gash in the poor woman’s neck. From the glimpse she’d caught before turning away, there had been bruising on Beatrice’s face, arms, and hands.

  “Okay, new theory,” she began, breathing through her teeth, “or, rather, our original one confirmed. Someone attacked Bea. They must’ve cut off any exit, and the invisibility potion was her only chance of evasion. So, she ran up here. Marge?”

  The apothecary continued to kneel beside the fallen potionist. Her head hung low, and when she finally glanced up at Libby, her cheeks winked dewy in the light.

  “I’m sorry.” Libby draped an arm around her friend. “Whoever did this, they’ll pay.”

  They remained that way for several minutes before Marge sniffed, fished out a handkerchief, and blew her nose. Libby gagged but managed to refrain from ribbing the woman about the snot rag, and instead, she said softly, “We need to call this in.”

  Marge nodded and used Libby as a prop to climb to her feet. “You clear on how we handle this?”

  “I remember from the meeting.” She pulled her cell phone from her back pocket. She hesitated a moment to clear her throat. After dialing 9-1-1, she pressed the speakerphone button.

  Marge’s eyebrows rose a fraction as if impressed such a device had that capability. A dispatcher came on a moment later and asked what the emergency was.

  Libby strained her voice and made sure it cracked. Her words were rushed, with just the right amount of hysteria, as she described checking up on her friend after she hadn’t heard from her. In one, long breath, she outlined arriving at the house only to find it in shambles and her friend dead.

  After catching her breath, she answered a few more of the dispatcher’s questions before she was informed that an officer and an ambulance were in route. Libby doubted the ambulance was warranted but didn’t object.

  While they waited, they searched the attic for the potion book in case they’d overlooked it during their previous visit.

  Marge planted her hands on her hips. “It’s not here.”

  Libby took a hesitant step towards Beatrice and finally let her gaze roam where it had been avoiding since unveiling the body. If the woman had fallen on the book, it could be trapped beneath her. She shivered at the thought and dismissed it quickly.

  A pattern on the floor drew her in—specifically drops of blood in a line from the body.

  “Hello.” She squatted. The drops weren’t drops at all but footprints. They led away from the pool of blood and stopped directly at the table where they’d found the two vials.

  She pointed out the shoe prints to Marge who tilted her head. Each print had a triangular shape with rounded corners and a small circle below.

  “High heels?” Libby asked.

  “Maybe.” Marge’s expression turned inward, deep in thought.

  A thought hit Libby, full force. “Crap! The attic! The calvary’s going to be coming up here into her lab.”

  Marge jumped into action. “Hide everything.”

  They bolted around the room, darting this way and that. Libby located a couple of old cardboard boxes and garbage bags in Beatrice’s garage, and they threw stuff inside.

  She tore open Beatrice’s ingredient cabinet and used her arm to sweep everything into a box in one fell swoop. The only time they slowed was when placing the stockpile of already made potions into the second box.

  The potionist had been busy over the years so there were dozens upon dozens of vials, tinctures, sprays, and other jars.

  While they worked, Libby asked, “Can you tell me about this restricted list?”

  “Well, it’s like how it sounds. It’s a list of potions that society members the country over have agreed not to ever create.”

  “Because they’re too dangerous?”

  “Dangerous. Too harmful. Some on the list are seemingly benign, but the effects might have greater consequences outside a foreseeable scope.”

  “Like?”

  “Like a purse full of money that never runs dry.”

  “That’s oddly specific.”

  Marge looked away as she swept up garlic, and Libby continued, “But didn’t Arlene create a nearly successful alchemy potion? Wait, I thought modern-day potion-making got its roots in alchemy? Seems that should be on the list.”

  Marge sighed. “I’m paraphrasing, but it says something like, ‘Means of generating greater currency where the sum exceeds the parts.’ Some have made currency exchange potions because it’s more convenient while traveling, but it must match the contemporary exchange rate.

  “When it comes to alchemy, specifically, potionists tend to fudge the line and look the other way simply because it’s romanticized in our community. Also, we’ve been trying for how many centuries? No potion has eluded success like this one, so I think most deem it impossible.”

  Libby took all of this in, nodding, trying to digest it, as she folded the lid on an overstuffed box full of chemistry wares.

  “And someone who dabbles in making potions on the restricted list has gone to the dark side?” She affected her best Darth Vader voice and quoted, “‘If you only knew the power of the dark side…’ That kind of dark?”

  Marge stared for so long without blinking that Libby could swear her eyes dried over.

  Finally, the apothecary stated, “They can get themselves banned from the society and their book stripped from them. But that’s if they’ve repeatedly made dark potions and refuse to stop.”

  “Has that happened before?” She glanced up from dumping the contents of Beatrice’s cauldron into the trash bag.

  Marge’s expression clouded, and she looked into the distance as if peering through time. “Once. Many years ago.” She blinked, and the light returned. “But I’m sure it’s happened in other society chapters across the country.”

  The attic lit up like a blue and red disco ball at a rave. Through the small window, Libby spied a patrol car pulling into the driveway followed by an ambulance. The tall lean figure of Deputy Jackson stepped out of his car.

  “You ready for Act II?” Libby breathed out.

  “Let’s get this over with.”

  “That’s the attitude I like to see.”

  “At a crime scene, that’s all you’ll get from me.”

  Libby didn’t argue.

  Marge pulled her shrinking potion from her purse, sending an involuntary shudder through Libby. She’d hoped to never see that silver liquid again.

  Hurriedly, the apothecary squeezed drops onto everything they’d gathered into the center of the room. It shrank until it could’ve been decorations in a dollhouse—if that doll was a mad scientist with an extensive chemistry setup
.

  Carefully, they placed the miniature evidence in Marge’s purse as Jackson called out from the bottom floor.

  Libby watched from the second-story window at the end of the hallway as the paramedics drove away. They’d left without the body, of course, because it was obvious a crime had occurred.

  Above her, the ceiling creaked with Jackson’s and another deputy’s footsteps.

  Marge, who’d been pacing non-stop for the past several minutes, paused at the window before continuing her march in the opposite direction. “What’s taking them so long?”

  The deputy’s deep voice floated down through the opening, preceding his duty boots. “Making sure I don’t miss anything, Mrs. Singer.”

  The apothecary’s eyes flashed at the mention of her ex-husband’s surname. “Glad you’re being thorough, booger butt.”

  He stopped and mumbled about how he still couldn’t believe his sister told them his nickname growing up. Then louder. “I’d hoped you forgot about that.”

  “Not a chance.”

  Libby shook her head in solidarity.

  He ran his hand over his hair, disheveling it. His icy blue eyes, which normally sparked with life, were dull.

  “What are you thinking?” Libby asked.

  “I’m thinking the crime scene techs should’ve been here by now, as should the ME,” he said. His head tilted towards the ceiling. “Was the ladder up or down when you came in?”

  “Up.”

  This response caused his frown to deepen.

  “What? Isn’t there a way of closing it from above? I just assumed Bea had pulled it up.”

  “There’s not. I’ll have the techs dust for fingerprints there.”

  Libby exchanged a concerned glance with Marge before saying to Jackson, “You noticed the shoe prints, right?”

  “I did.”

  “Bea didn’t wear heels,” Marge cut in. “Ever.”

  He acknowledged the comment with a nod, jotting a couple of notes in his notepad. “And you didn’t touch or take anything? Move anything?”