Potent Potions

by Ami Diane

  Besides, she, above all people, understood the heartbreak of losing someone you loved, and there were no words, no gestures, that could ease that ache that ran deep through the heart.

  “At least it had been quick.” She winced at how hollow and calloused the words sounded, and she hoped the wind whipped them away before Marge heard.

  When Libby had spoken with Mr. Waters over the phone, arranging a time to meet him, he’d mentioned Arlene had died of a heart attack.

  Marge’s eyebrows were knotted. The woman had obviously heard Libby.

  “I’m sorry. That just seemed like the right thing to say—”

  “It’s not that. She just… Arlene was healthy. She’d been to her cardiologist a few months prior concerning her high blood pressure. And other than that, she was fine. I guess I’m still in shock.”

  Libby’s lower lip caught between her teeth. “Maybe the doctor missed something.”

  The older woman’s shoulders rose in a shrug. “I guess none of us truly knows when our time will come.”

  Libby watched Marge out of the corner of her eye as the woman rapidly blinked away tears, wondering how much she knew. Did she know what Arlene had been working on? The reason Libby had bought the house?

  In their private messages, Arlene had sworn up and down she hadn’t told a soul, but secrecy rarely included a best friend—especially one from childhood.

  After a long silence, Libby said, “It really is beautiful.”

  “Mm? Oh, yes.” Marge had been staring back at the greenhouse. “I have to confess. I came by, not only to welcome you to Oyster Bay but also because I need some ginger root.”

  “Yeah, sure. I saw some in the greenhouse.”

  They ambled over to the structure, this time, circling the side opposite the house to gain entry. Libby was in the middle of explaining her previous job as a horticulturist for a statewide landscaping company when her foot caught on a rock in the tall pampas grass that had grown beyond the fence.

  Wheeling her arms like a windmill did little to slow her fall as she landed with a soft thud amongst the tall blades. Fortunately, a mound of squishy dirt had broken her fall. After rolling over and spitting out bits of dandelion, she sat up.

  Marge’s eyes were wide with horror.

  “Don’t worry,” Libby said, waving the incident aside. “I’m fine. Happens all the time.”

  But the older woman’s eyes weren’t on Libby, but somewhere below her legs. Libby scrambled to her feet, scared there was a snake or some other creature lurking about.

  And that’s when she saw, not a mound of soft dirt as she’d expected, but a body. She had tripped over a very dead body.

  CHAPTER 2

  “I’M ASSUMING THAT’S Mr. Waters?” Libby asked, trying to look everywhere but at the man’s feet poking out of the grass several yards away.

  The tall deputy in front of her nodded. “You never met him?”

  “No, we corresponded via phone and email. I bought the house the moment it came on the market.”

  Not one normally prone to go weak in the knees over a pretty face, Libby had found it rather hard to keep from staring at Deputy Jackson while recounting the discovery of the realty agent. Of course, the dead body and a scene crawling with law enforcement helped dampen that fire.

  He had to be over six feet tall, probably flirting with 6’3”, if she had to guess, with an athletic frame that filled out his khaki-colored uniform in the shoulders and biceps. But what she found most distracting were his icy blue eyes, pronounced further by dark lashes. A small scar cut through his left eyebrow, a defect she found that only added to his appeal.

  “Do you know how he died, yet?” She hadn’t exactly wanted to stick around and inspect the body she’d used as a crash mat.

  “It appears he might have been hit over the head and strangled, but that’s for the medical examiner to say for certain.”

  “Did Mr. Waters—John. Did John have a family?” she asked.

  “A son who lives back on the east coast.”

  Since Libby could look at neither the body or the handsome deputy, she averted her gaze to the sun setting fire to the horizon. “Any idea how he died?”

  “The son?”

  “The son died?” She faced the deputy and discovered a coy smile playing at his lips. “Ah, hilarious.”

  He cleared his throat, and the hint of humor became a memory. “It appears Mr. Waters died of blunt force trauma.” The deputy’s hand brushed the back of his head as if, subconsciously feeling the blow. “But that’s the ME’s job.”

  “Can you tell how long he’d been out here?” There was something inhumane about leaving a body to the elements for a long time—not that the whole killing bit wasn’t humane.

  “Again, that’s something for the medical examiner to figure out.” He snapped his notebook closed. “Well, I think we’re done here. These guys will wander the scene a bit longer, then they’ll be out of your hair.”

  At the mention of her hair, his eyes flitted up, no doubt impressed by the way loose strands whipped around like a kite, making her look like she’d stuck a finger in an electrical socket.

  “I’m going to leave the tape up for a few days until we’re sure we’ve collected everything. Don’t go past it until we clear it.”

  Running a hand over her scalp, she glanced helplessly past him to the cordoned-off greenhouse. She really hoped Arlene had a watering system set on a timer, otherwise, Libby would have some very unhappy plants when she was allowed back in.

  “Well, Ms. Slade, welcome to Oyster Bay.” He sauntered away, barking orders at some young cadet who looked barely old enough to drive.

  It was another two hours before the last uniform left, and she could turn off the porch light. Yawning, she hunted down Orchid, finally locating the feline in the bathroom sink attached to the wall in the living room. The cat’s barbed tongue worked through her thick gray undercoat in what appeared to be a rather intense grooming session.

  Shrugging, Libby left her to it, figuring someone should get use out of the bathroom fixture-turned-cat bed. She did a quick tour of the rest of the ground floor, getting the lay of the land.

  When she breezed through the library, the raven cawed at her and bounced around on his perch. Wary of the large bird, she paused in her tour to dig through cupboards until she located bird seed. After replenishing his food and water trays, she continued exploring.

  She moved clockwise through the house. After the library was a long room that ran the length of the east side of the house. It was full of furniture, photos, and more cat figurines. She had no idea what the room was for other than, perhaps, another sitting area.

  Exhausted, she dragged her feet up the back staircase that was between the library and the mystery room. Floorboards groaned under her feet as she fell on top of the first bed she found. She’d explore the upstairs tomorrow before unpacking.

  As tired and emotionally drained as she was, Libby struggled as she had every night since her mother’s death to fall asleep. Finally, when the stars through the window began to fade and the velvet sky turned a deep cobalt, she drifted off to sleep.

  Libby realized two things upon waking late the next morning. First, she would have to get curtains for this room. Second, the bed had moved. Not just a little nudge from rolling over in her sleep, but a full-on poltergeist, across the room kind of moved.

  She envisioned the night before when she’d entered the room, and she had definitely walked straight forward from the doorway to the bed. However, the more she obsessed over it, the weedier the memory became. Maybe she had turned right to lay down instead. She had been very tired.

  Abandoning thoughts that her new house was haunted, she went in search of coffee. She retrieved her suitcase from her Honda, dumped it in the living room, then dug around until she’d located her coffee grounds. The rest of her suitcases and subsequent boxes would have to wait until after breakfast.

  In the kitchen, she had a moment of panic when
she couldn’t locate the coffee pot before quickly finding it a moment later—in the refrigerator.

  “Arlene, you were one whacky bird.”

  The raven squawked from the next room over.

  “Not that kind of bird, Jasper,” she called out.

  Once the smell of fresh brew and scrambled eggs permeated the air, Orchid wandered in, mewing and insisting on breakfast as well.

  After hastily squaring away the feline with cat food, Libby scarfed down her own breakfast then chugged coffee like a frat boy pounded beer. There was too much to do, and she’d already slept in past ten thanks to her recently acquired insomnia.

  Her stomach cramped at the sudden intake of food and coffee as she lugged her suitcase upstairs where she changed into her getting business done outfit: sweatpants and a t-shirt.

  A quick tour of the rest of the floor revealed two more bedrooms, a bathroom, closets, and stairs to an attic.

  She spent the next ten minutes running boxes back and forth from her car to the living room. Most of her belongings had either ended up in storage or left behind for her no-good-ex to deal with.

  With the last of the items littering the foyer, she carefully carried in a cardboard pallet from her trunk. The box was filled with a variety of orchids, from cymbidium to the popular phalaenopsis, or moth orchid, prevalent in most homes and offices.

  After checking different windows, she divided the many pots amongst two east-facing window sills where they’d get the most indirect light. Next, she filled the trays of gravel beneath the pots with water so when the liquid evaporated, the plants were cocooned in humidity—not that there was much of a need for that in a Pacific Northwest coastal town. Finished, she left the plants to their own devices.

  Back in the living room, she dragged a heavy box over the hardwood floor then pulled out a mass of wadded newspapers. She surreptitiously excavated a picture frame from the wanted ads and placed the frame on the mantle. The woman in the black and white photo was smiling, the moment captured mid-laugh. In that woman, Libby recognized her own eyes, her own nose.

  Libby’s fingers brushed the golden edges of the frame, and she whispered, “I will find who did this to you.”

  Swallowing past the lump forming in her throat, she turned to the rest of the room, her hands resting on her hips. Now, the search could begin.

  Two hours later, it looked like a hurricane had blown through Libby’s new house. That or a handful of kids had spent ten minutes in it.

  Swiping hair out of her eyes, Libby sat on the floor in the library, surrounded by stacks of books and ignoring the Jasper’s raucous.

  After she scanned the last book, she laid it aside with a thud and fell back onto the floor.

  “It’s not here.” The admission was a knife to her heart. She’d been so foolish. What had she been thinking? She’d trusted a stranger over the internet, a crazy stranger no less who kept their coffee maker in their refrigerator.

  The back of Libby’s eyes stung. She’d given up everything for Arlene’s secret.

  “I’ve been so stupid.”

  On his perch, Jasper bobbed his head as if agreeing with her. She resisted the urge to lob a book at him, not wanting to harm the book.

  Perhaps, she could fix up the house and sell it. But then what? Where would she go? Could she really return to her home town in Oregon, tail between her legs, and beg for her old job back?

  No. The thought alone sent a shudder through her. There had been something liberating about cutting all ties. Disappointment or not, this was her new beginning.

  Unfortunately, this had been her only lead to find her mother’s killer. She was back to square one.

  Climbing to her feet, she lifted her chin. She was a Slade, and Slades never gave up. Also, they required cookies to get through a hard day, and she didn’t have any on hand.

  With a new purpose, albeit a short-lived, easily obtainable one, Libby changed into jeans to be slightly more presentable then hopped into her vehicle. Time to see the rest of Oyster Bay.

  Cottages clung to the tops of rocky cliffs or dotted long stretches of gray sandy shorelines. Off to her right, in the west, blue-gray waves crashed along the shore while off to her left, stretched the bay. Turning east, she drove around the bay with her window cracked, listening to the clang of the docks and the cries of the gulls.

  The small, quaint town was like most coastal towns along the west coast, full of vacationers and shops. She passed a glass blower’s place and fought the urge to stop in. The last thing her new house needed was another decoration.

  The town was small, a blip on the highway while cars drove on to larger towns, but it had the necessities.

  Her foot slammed on the brakes when she spotted a bakery. She’d been thinking of just running to the grocery store, but freshly baked cookies sounded much better.

  The bakery also had a café attached to it, called Thanks a Latte. Inside, Libby bought a snickerdoodle as big as her face and an almond milk latte to go. The barista called her name, somehow managing to butcher it. After she ensured it was, in fact, her drink that she was grabbing and not Lie-bee’s as the young man had pronounced it, she held the cup up in a gesture.

  “Thanks a latte.” Her comment was meant with a blank stare. Shrugging, Libby slipped out the door.

  Outside, the weather was pleasant as far as spring days at the coast were considered, which is to say, it was overcast and misty. Despite this, she opted to walk while she finished her snack.

  Two blocks north of the café, a window caught her eye with the words Oyster Bay Realty painted on it. That had been John Waters company. What would happen to it now that he was gone?

  Scanning the area, she noticed another realty place directly across the street, causing her to frown slightly. On a spur of the moment decision, she stepped into Mr. Water’s realty office.

  She stood in a reception area, painted in muted tones and smelling strongly of fake eucalyptus like a hundred Scentsy bars had melted at the same time. The receptionist, a young man who looked to be just out of high school greeted her.

  “Can I help you?” Despite his effervescent, genuine smile, his eyes were red-rimmed.

  “Yes. No. Maybe.” She took a deep breath. “I’m Liberty Slade. I just bought the house on top of Cottage Grove Lane.”

  The clacking of toenails on the floor announced the entrance of a Himalayan cat who immediately began sniffing Libby’s shoes.

  Smiling she petted the feline while the young man unfolded his lean frame from the desk chair. “Oh my gosh. You’re the one who found John.”

  “Yes. Anyway, I’m not sure why I came in, other than to say my condolences. I never met the man in person, but we spoke over the phone many times. He seemed nice.” She didn’t know what else to say, still not sure why her feet had led her through the door other than curiosity and empathy.

  The receptionist’s eyes blinked rapidly, his eyes glimmering. “He was a good man,” he said, finally. “Who would do such an awful thing?”

  “An awful person.” She knew all too well the darkness that hid in others’ hearts. “Did he have any enemies?” She straightened, and the Himalayan rolled onto its back in anticipation of more petting.

  The man’s eyes flitted out the window a moment. “Everyone loved him. He was a good man.” Again, his gaze went to the window before returning to her.

  “I never got your name?”

  “Steve.”

  “Steve, this stuff probably isn’t easy to talk about.” Her elbow rested on the part of the desk that was nearly chest height as she leveled him with what she hoped was a piercing gaze. “We don’t like to think that someone out there wants to hurt the ones we care about.”

  Steve’s eyes began to glisten again. He was holding something back. “It doesn’t matter. The police didn’t believe me. That deputy thought I was making it up. I could tell.”

  “Deputy Jackson? He’s already been in?”

  Steve nodded.

  That man didn�
��t waste any time.

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him about the papers.”

  “What papers?”

  Steve sighed and dropped to his chair, causing Libby to have to lean forward to keep him in view. “It started a couple months ago. I usually arrived before John. When I came in first thing in the morning, I’d find an envelope on the floor that had been slipped in through the mail slot.

  “They were always addressed to John. I watched him open the first one. I’ll never forget his face as he pulled out this folded piece of paper. I’d never seen him afraid, every time he opened one of those envelopes, he was terrified. Then, he’d get angry, rip them up or burn them.”

  “What was on these papers?”

  “That’s the funny thing. He tossed one in the garbage once instead of destroying it.” Steve’s cheeks turned crimson, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. “I know it wasn’t right, but I pulled it out when John wasn’t looking to see what it said. I thought, if he was getting threats, I should know about it.”

  “What did it say?”

  Steve was slow to respond. “Nothing. It was blank.”

  “A blank paper?”

  “Yep. I thought John had gone crazy, getting mad over a piece of paper.”

  Libby’s eyebrows knitted together. No wonder Jackson had dismissed the story so quickly. Not that she didn’t believe Steve—she did—but it pointed more to John’s state of mind than anything else.

  “There was nothing on the envelopes? No return address?”

  “Nothing but the man’s name. As I said, I’m sure it’s nothing. Just strange.”

  They settled into an awkward silence, with Libby churning over this information and both Steve and the Himalayan staring at her. Eventually, she backed towards the door. “Again, I’m truly sorry for your loss. If there’s anything I can do, anything at all, you have my number. Please call, Steve.”

  “I will, Liberty.”

  “Call me Libby.”

  Once back on the sidewalk, she took in a lungful of cool, ocean breeze. Had John been losing it? Or did those blank pages mean something?