by Ami Diane
With the last scale melting into the mixture on the hot plate, the liquid turned gold and luminescent like a sunset. While it cooled over the next ten minutes, it turned clear.
Marge bobbed a thermometer in the liquid. “Any minute now, the effect will start. We should move this to the sink.”
They relocated the beaker to the sink and not a moment too soon. It spouted up like a geyser, hitting the ceiling and raining drops. Orchid hissed and dashed out of the room. Slowly, the geyser roiled and settled into a bubbling fountain.
Despite the mess, Libby was mesmerized. Without taking her eyes off the overflowing stream of water, she asked, “If you all don’t swap recipes, then how do you have the same Old Faithful one as Arlene?”
Marge shrugged. “As I said, we don’t mind sharing some of the more trivial ones. Can’t say as I’ve ever had to use this. Here.” She pulled out an empty vile. “Bottle some up before it loses potency. It only flows for an hour, but stopper it, and it’s got a shelf life of about five months.”
Libby did as instructed, thinking, if anything, the potion might be useful as a bird fountain.
“So,” she said once she’d corked the vial, “there’s another recipe I really want to try. It’s—”
Marge held up her hand. “Don’t tell me the name. Remember? A potionist doesn’t share her recipes—well, most recipes.”
“Okay, well it seems very complicated.”
“Then, why not wait until you’ve mastered more?”
Libby’s lower lip caught between her teeth. “Yeah, I guess. But I really need to make this one.”
“What’s the rush?” It wasn’t a flippant statement. Marge’s penciled eyebrows rose, and she eyed Libby curiously.
“No rush, I guess,” Libby replied. The words sounded weak, even to her. She began wiping the counter, gathering bits of beetle legs and sprinkling them back in a jar. The recipe was a long shot, anyway.
CHAPTER 6
LIBBY EYED THE “closed” sign on the bookstore then walked inside. The familiar scent of pages and volumes hit her, drawing her deeper into the quaint shop. Slipping between towering shelves stuffed with novels, she wandered, homing in on the clucking of conversation.
At the back of the shop, a circle of chairs had been set up, and a dozen women flitted between the chairs and a refreshment table. Worrying her lip, she edged over to the table, searching faces for Marge’s.
Amongst the refreshments, lemon bars fraternized with peanut butter cookies and brownies, drawing her in like a magnet. A small, neglected tray of vegetables sat alongside the desserts. After loading a plate with generous helpings of both, Libby waffled between the table and the circle of chairs.
Two women in her periphery drifted behind her and picked over the food with the refined palate of vultures. Their conversation floated Libby’s way.
“It’s a great recipe. Lasts about three months before degrading. I don’t mind sharing it. It’s gotten me out of many a jam. I always carry a vial in my purse. It came in real handy when I accidentally locked my Peachy in the car.”
“And you just dab a little on the lock?” the other voice asked.
“Yep. The hardest part of the recipe is peeling the aloe vera. That stuff’s a booger.”
Libby recognized that voice. Turning, she discovered Stacy the realtor agent standing behind her, dressed in her business attire, frizzy hair extra teased for the occasion.
“Have you tried using a vegetable peeler?” Libby asked.
Slow as molasses, both women turned, zeroing in on her. Stacy’s eyes widened with recognition, and she bared all her pearly teeth in what was probably supposed to be a friendly smile but looked far more like a predator spying its next victim.
“Libby, wasn’t it? Have you thought any more about selling that rundown property?”
“I have. And I’ve decided not to.”
Stacy’s faux smile evaporated.
A carrot crunched in Libby’s mouth before she made a face and exchanged it for the lemon square. “Much better.”
The two women continued to stare at her like she’d grown another head.
“What are you doing here, anyway?” All the charm had left the realtor’s voice.
“To get help. This is an AA meeting, right?”
Something about the moment, the two women exchanging recipes, brought to mind Libby’s earlier conversation with Marge about how some potionists would stop at nothing to get another’s recipe. She wondered if that extended to killing.
“Hey, random question,” she began, drawing Stacy’s attention back from the cookie tray she had just started to examine. “Where were you Monday…” The deputy hadn’t given her a time frame for when John had been killed, so she used the time they’d set up to meet at her new house, adding in a couple of hours variance. “…between two and four?”
Stacy bared her teeth again, this time, without the pretense of a smile. “Why? I don’t see how it’s any business of yours.”
“Well, John was late—” because he had the unfortunate interruption of being dead “—and it really put me out. I’d like to know if I ever do decide to sell my property, I’d have an agent who was dependable.”
It was the lamest of lame reasonings, with logic holes the size of Texas. If Stacy had an ounce of smarts in that frizzy brain of hers, she’d see through it.
“I was showing another house,” the woman said archly.
“To other people?” If so, then she’d have an alibi.
“That’s typically how it works.” Stacy turned her back, and like that, Libby had been dismissed.
Libby mumbled under her breath, “Hey Stacy, the 80s called and wants its hairstyle back.”
“You say something?”
“Nope.” Libby shoved the rest of the lemon square into her mouth. The other gal hid a smile behind her napkin, winking at Libby.
Back at the circle of chairs, someone clapped their hands, calling the meeting to order. Marge was already seated in the circle, having slipped in sometime in the last few minutes while Libby had been occupied.
With a heavily jeweled hand, she motioned Libby to the chair beside her. She’d changed since their potion lesson and was sporting a leather jacket, her silver hair extra spiky, and wore bright red lipstick, looking every bit like a biker chick from a motorcycle club.
Libby sank to the metal folding chair and nibbled on a whole day’s worth of allotted calories as she observed the others.
Once the group settled, the woman who’d clapped, asked, “Where are everybody’s books?”
Libby whispered, “We were supposed to bring our books?” She’d thought it was too risky to have them out in public.
“Not those books. This is a book club.” Marge gave an exaggerated wink that probably pulled a muscle.
There was a mass movement towards the surrounding shelves as the women pulled both hardbacks and paperbacks at random. For her part, Libby grabbed one with a yellow spine without looking at the cover. Once she’d returned to her seat, she discovered it was a very spicy-looking romance novel.
Marge leaned in, and Libby tried not to blush. “Oh, that’s a good one.”
Libby chose to side-step that conversation, saying instead, “You know, in most book clubs, people read the same book.”
“Do they now? Well, that doesn’t seem very fun.”
The woman who seemed to be in charge of the meeting adjusted a red scarf on her neck then clapped her hands again. “Alright, ladies, I’m calling the meeting to order. First, I’d like to introduce our newest member, who took over Arlene’s book after her sudden, unfortunate—” her voice broke, and she blinked several times “—anyway, welcome. Would you like to introduce yourself and say a few words?”
Unsure if she should stand or remain seated, Libby cleared her throat from her chair. “Uh, thanks for having me. I’m Liberty—”
“Yeah, you are,” Marge interrupted with an enthusiasm that should’ve had a “hallelujah” tacked onto the
end.
“Thanks for the support, Marge. But—wait, what does that even mean?” She shook aside the question. “Doesn’t matter. Anyway, I prefer to go by Libby. I’m still getting my head wrapped around this potion stuff, but I’m excited. And I’m looking forward to getting to know all of you…” What else could she say? Everyone was staring at her. “…And yeah. Go Seahawks.”
“Pardon?” Scarf Lady said.
“The Seahawks. The football team.” Libby took in the blank stares. “No one watches football?”
“Bit too rough for my liking,” Marge said.
Another nodded her head in agreement. “I don’t get the whole kicking thing. Like, sometimes they kick through those goal post thingies, then other times, it’s to the opposing team. What’s up with that?”
Conversation flared, all of it consisting of varying levels of confusion around the sport. It took a full minute for the lady with the red scarf to get the meeting under control again.
“Yes, well. Football aside, welcome to PMS.”
Libby blinked. “I’m sorry?”
Scarf Lady’s lips pinched tightly like she’d sucked on a lemon. Leaning over, Marge whispered loudly, “I told you about it. It stands for Potion Masters Society.”
“Oh, my God. The group’s initialism is PMS?” Libby covered her mouth, her body racking with silent laughter before she quickly covered it with a cough.
“Here we go again,” someone said from across the circle. “I told you we need to rename it.”
Marge dug a sharp elbow into Libby’s ribs. When she felt she could speak again, Libby said, “No, it’s great. Does that mean the group meets monthly?” She waited for the joke to take, but it never landed.
Judging by the ages of most of the members, PMS was a distant memory.
While Scarf Lady talked about an upcoming event, Libby mouthed P-M-S a few times, side-eyeing Marge who rolled her eyes.
The meeting marched on as the group discussed future meeting places then transitioned into the topic of the threat of exposure. From what Libby could gather, it seemed one of the members had been spotted pouring a Weed Be Gone potion onto her garden.
Ordinarily, this wouldn’t have been an issue—who thinks much about someone pouring liquid onto another’s soil? However, this particular potion glowed green, and the moment it touched a large blackberry bush, the invasive plant shrank back into the soil like a reverse jack-in-the-box. All ten feet of it.
A good twenty minutes was devoted to this issue and how to resolve it, particularly how to explain it off to the neighbor who’d seen the potion and its effect. Some suggestions were conservative, such as telling the neighbor they’d had a stroke, while others bordered on ethical and possibly illegal. They were just arguing about drugging the neighbor when there was a loud shattering noise at the front of the store.
Conversation halted, and a few choked back screams. Everyone rose, craning their heads down the main aisle.
“What in the world?” the lady in the red scarf said. She and Marge jumped up and rushed towards the front. Not one for being left out, Libby followed on their heels.
One of the picture windows had shattered. Shards of glass lay everywhere, catching the light while ocean air blew through the naked frame. The remains of the window crunched underfoot as Libby picked a path over the mess.
Scarf Lady turned a slow circle, her mouth agape. “What happened?”
“I’m guessing this—” Libby hefted a gray rock as big as her head from amidst the debris “—has something to do with the window breaking.”
Its rough surface scratched her skin as she lugged it over, dropping it on the cashier’s desk with a thud. The new angle of the stone revealed painted letters: A-W-C.
“What’s that mean?” She glanced back at the two older potionists, pointing.
Scarf Lady’s mouth pressed into a tight line which seemed to be a nearly permanent expression for the woman. “I better call the meeting to an end. Looks like my shop is on the list of places no longer safe for us to meet at.” Turning, she marched down the aisle, her back ramrod, but her hands clutched into tight fists.
“What’s A-W-C mean?”
Marge sighed. “Anti-witch Coalition.”
“But you’re—we’re not witches.”
“Right. But try telling them that.”
“I will. Who are they?”
Marge motioned for Libby to follow and led her to the back of the shop. Voices rose as they neared the other members, most of them shrill with fear.
Libby and Marge stopped in front of a closet, and the apothecary handed items out to Libby’s waiting hands. As she did, she explained how the coalition consisted of ordinary citizens who believed that nefarious powers ran amok in Oyster Bay. They wanted nothing more than every last potionist gone from the area.
“Most of them are harmless, like Marty, but a few are more zealous and dangerous. Rich is one you’d best keep an eye on. Don’t ever meet him in a dark alley, if you catch my drift.
“Anyway, their behavior ranges from stalking to acts of aggression and vandalism like you saw.” She handed out a duct tape roll and several garbage bags.
“Why don’t you report them? Also, plywood would be better for the window.”
“We’ll see if there’s something we can use in the alley out back.” While Marge led them through a back door to a cloudy spring day, she said, “And we tried getting the police involved. At first, it helped our cause. It made the AWC members seem rather ridiculous, thinking there’s such a thing as magic and that we were witches.
“But that also attracted the attention of law enforcement, especially after a dozen cases. And we can’t have them poking around too closely. What if they discovered one of our laboratories?”
“They’d think you were a drug ring.” Never mind that that had been her first thought upon Arlene’s secret room.
Marge pointed at a stack of crates and rotted two-by-fours obviously meant for the dump. Libby helped sift through the pile. On the bottom, buried, were a couple of sheets of plywood.
“It didn’t help that some of our members took matters into their own hands and retaliated. Now the cops just think it’s a feud between a book club and a dozen crazy citizens.”
“Retaliated how?” They would have to carry one wooden sheet at a time. It was easier going through the alley to reach the front rather than navigate the bookshelves inside.
“Well,” Marge said, drawing out the word, breathing heavy from exertion, “there may or may not have been—but most certainly was—an incident involving a house getting set on fire.”
“And PMS was involved?” Libby caught Marge’s expression. “You were involved?”
Marge wouldn’t meet her gaze. “It was supposed to be a harmless potion that changed the paint color on Rich’s house. How was I supposed to know Beatrice was also there, dousing the place with a floating potion? Add this to your lesson: potions don’t mix.”
Libby struggled to imagine the scene as they let the plywood drop to the sidewalk at the front of the shop. The other, still intact, picture window reflected a dark horizon.
“Rich… he was one of those journalist guys you threw out of the apothecary, right?”
Marge nodded, gulping air, her hands on her hips.
Libby remembered seeing a button on the man’s lapel with the letters A-W-C. “The press is part of the coalition?”
“A few are members. Which is why they like to print at least one article in the weekly rag, fingering one of us as a witch, usually accompanied with a blurry photo of us doing whatever as proof.”
“Have they ever legitimately caught one of you in the act?”
Now that Marge had her breath back, they were back in the alley, picking up the other sheet of plywood.
“No. But there’s been some close calls. They’re sensationalist and Shakespeare they are not, but they are, unfortunately, dogged in their pursuit.”
By the time they’d deposited the second plyw
ood and had gone inside to retrieve screws and a drill, the bookstore had been emptied of everyone except for Scarf Lady.
She stood, staring at the window, wringing her hands. Libby tried to distract her.
“I never got your name.”
“Shelly Crane.”
“Like the bird? This is your shop?”
Shelly nodded. She wore glasses several sizes too big and slacks at least a size too small, accentuating her already tiny frame.
A few minutes later, as Libby drilled in the last screw, she stood back to admire their work. “Well, it’s not pretty, and it certainly disrupts the aesthetics of the place, but…. Well, it’s there.”
“Oh!” Marge snapped her fingers. “I think I have something that’ll help.” She scurried away into the bowels of the store like a mouse.
Libby exchanged a confused glance with Shelly. A moment later, Marge re-emerged, lugging her ginormous purse.
“Just curious, Marge, do you suffer from back problems by any chance?” Libby poked the bag, trying to determine what the material was. She landed somewhere between carpet and a woven tapestry.
“No. Why?”
“No reason.”
There was a metallic hiss as the older woman undid the zipper to open the bag. She rooted around for a solid five minutes, pulling objects out as she searched. The cashier desk quickly became covered with an assortment of items, ranging from gum to dentures.
A set of handcuffs jingled as she slid them beside an extra pair of underwear.
“You must have some crazy weekend plans.”
Marge ignored her. From inside the purse, clanked what Libby spied to be at least two dozen vials of potions. The potionist obviously didn’t want to take them out, which made it much harder to locate what she was searching for. Libby heard her mumble under her breath but couldn’t make out the words.
Growing bored, Libby scanned the nearest row of books, wishing she’d spent more time in her new home library, getting familiar with the titles. Since her arrival, life had been too busy for pleasure reading outside of the potion book.