Potent Potions
Page 7
“Ah ha!” Marge held up a bottle filled with teal bubbles in triumph.
Unstoppering it, she pulled out what looked suspiciously like a child’s bubble wand and blew bubbles at the plywood.
“That looks fun. Can I try?” Libby reached for the vial, but Marge danced away with it.
“No, dear. This is for experienced potion makers.”
“You need experience to blow bubbles?” Libby looked to Shelly for help, but the owner just shrugged.
By the gleam in Marge’s eyes and the enthusiasm with which she blew, her refusal to share was due to her own amusement than any prerequisite skill.
The bubbles drifted forward on an invisible wave, swirling colors and glowing. With each one that popped against the plywood, the wood transmuted, becoming see-through. The effect spread, like water on tissue paper. Soon, Libby was staring out a new window, or rather, see-through plywood?
“That’s amazing.”
Marge beamed at the compliment. “It’s got a decay time of thirty-six hours,” she explained to Shelly. “So, you’ll still need to get it replaced by then or stare at the dirty plywood again.”
The bookstore owner thanked her, then she sent both Libby and Marge home with plates of goodies since, in the frantic exodus, most of the women had forgotten their dishes.
Out on the sidewalk, Libby munched on a chocolate chip cookie while she walked Marge to her car. “I thought my first book club meeting went rather well.”
“Okay, Miss Subtle. Don’t say it so obviously.”
Libby shrugged.
Marge dropped into her car, turned the key, then rolled down the window.
“What are you doing tonight?”
“Sleeping. But let’s be real, I’ll probably be up late reading, ignoring a certain angry raven.” And practice making a certain potion.
“Want to help forage ingredients?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll pick you up at 11:00.”
“PM?”
Marge’s hair brushed the ceiling in her car, probably poking holes in the fabric with the sharp tips, as she pulled her head back in. “Is that past your bedtime? We have to collect the samples at midnight on a full moon.”
“Okay. So why an hour early?”
All levity left Marge’s expression. “Because I need to make a stop first, and I need your help. Also, wear dark clothes you won’t mind getting dirty and running in.”
CHAPTER 7
LIBBY WAS JUST beginning to wrap her head around how to pull essential oil from lavender when she glanced at the clock hanging on the metal wall. She turned off the burner and scrambled out of the lab, throwing a “Thanks, Ivy,” over her shoulder at the plant as it dragged the cover back over the ladder.
Five minutes later, she was dropping into Marge’s car after having locked the house.
“I thought you said dark clothing?” Libby eyed her companion’s getup—particularly the swirl of Swarovski crystals in the shape of a palm tree on the front.
“This is the darkest thing I own.”
“Fair enough,” Libby muttered while Marge wound down her driveway. “Can I ask where we’re headed?”
“You can ask, but I won’t answer.” The corner’s of Marge’s eyes crinkled slightly.
“Yeah, sure that’s perfectly fine. I like getting into cars in the dead of night with people I’ve only recently met.”
The benefit of living on the narrow peninsula that separated the bay from the ocean was that once they’d cleared the strip of forest, Libby had a sweeping vista of water on both sides, with crashing waves on her right and the clinking of the harbor on her left. The ever-present clouds had cleared, and cool light from a full moon dazzled upon the waters.
The road abandoned the coastline, following the bay’s curve inland. They rode through the dark streets of the small, sleeping town in relative silence while soft jazz whispered from the radio.
Reaching over, Libby turned up the music to keep her distracted. When the silence stretched too long, if she stopped moving for any length of time, her mind drifted to murder and death and memories she was avoiding.
Marge pulled up to a curb in a nondescript neighborhood on a nondescript street remarkable only by the fact that it ended in a cul-de-sac.
“Where are we? Wait, you’re not actually going to murder me are you?” Her mother had always said she was too trusting of strangers. The recollection was a knife to Libby’s heart.
“My ex’s,” Marge said in a tight voice as she struggled out of the car.
After quickly shaking from her stupor, Libby scrambled out, closed the door, and hurried over to the other side of the vehicle.
“What? Your ex? Why are we here?” She had a sinking feeling that only expanded when Marge pulled an egg carton out of the back seat.
The woman thrust the carton into Libby’s hands before ducking back into the car. After taking a peek inside her carton just to see if the contents hadn’t been replaced, Libby said, “There are eggs in here.”
“What’d you think would be in there, Sherlock?”
“What do you want me to do with these? Bake a cake?” Libby already knew the answer but really, really hoped she was wrong.
Emerging from the car with a carton of her own, Marge shrugged. “Throw them, of course.”
“Aren’t we a bit too old for that?”
“Suit yourself. I’ll have all the fun then. You can leave the car running for a quick getaway.” The woman stalked down the sidewalk like a large cat and approached a house a block away.
With a forlorn look at the car, Libby stole after Marge, swinging the egg carton as she went. If stealth was their aim, she was sure to give them away by the slap of her shoes over the river of concrete. She ran across the front lawn instead so as not to sound like the entire cast of STOMP.
By the time she caught up with the old woman, the potionist was lobbing her first poultry grenade.
“How do you move so fast?” Libby panted. “Especially since you’re—” She caught herself before using the word “old,” but judging by the daggers in Marge’s eyes, she’d guessed the rest of the sentence.
The apothecary tossed another egg with surprising accuracy. When the shell burst, lilac liquid splattered, along with a puff of gas that turned a sparkly green.
Libby had made enough scrambled eggs in her life to know that raw eggs weren’t supposed to do that. A second later, a hair-curling stench hit her like a three hundred pound linebacker.
She bent over the sidewalk, gagging. “Dear God Almighty. What the deuce is that?”
The odor was more than rotten eggs. It was the smell of death, vomit, and a septic tank that had baked in the sun all summer. It was the stench of nightmares and locker rooms and final school exams. Surely it came straight from the sulphuric, inner circles of the fiery pits of hell.
“Like it? It’s my own concoction.”
Through the tears clouding Libby’s vision, she watched Marge lob another grenade. Gasping, Libby’s insides became her outsides and splashed over the grass.
Marge tossed aside her empty carton and wrenched Libby’s from her grip. Libby was too busy trying to stay upright to put up much of a fight.
From inside the house came a burst of yelling.
“Oops, we better go.” Marge danced back, her tone all too cheery. “I think he smells it.”
Libby would’ve choked out, People in Montana could smell it, but she found her mouth unable to form words.
They raced back to the car—Marge sprinting and Libby stumbling in more of a controlled, forward fall. Her vision had decided to stop working properly and was going black around the edges.
Libby fumbled with the door handle and had just managed to drop into the seat before Marge pealed out, the tires screaming in the night. The momentum slammed Libby’s door closed for her.
With Marge’s The Fast and the Furious driving skills and the way she was careening around corners, it became Libby’s top priority to buckle
her seatbelt.
When her throat began to work properly again, and she no longer tasted death, she let out a string of curse words. “You want to explain what just happened back there?”
Marge spared a precious glance away from the road to shoot Libby a bewildered expression. “What do you mean?”
“Eyes forward! Eyes forward!”
“Relax. I’m only going—” Marge glanced down then quickly let off the gas pedal “—seventy.”
“Yeah? Because that was a stop sign back there.”
“It was?” Marge twisted in her seat to see out the back window, searching for the sign that was probably already a county away.
Libby lunged for the steering wheel. “Use your mirrors to look back, idiot, not your—where the crap are you mirrors?!” Her voice climbed a whole octave when she noticed Marge’s car was missing its rearview mirror.
“That’s a funny story—”
“Pull over. I’m driving.”
With an exasperated sigh, Marge obliged, pulling over to the side of the highway. “You don’t know where we’re going.”
“No, but you’ll guide me.”
The cool air was a welcome relief as Libby hopped out and switched places with Marge. After taking far too long to adjust the seat, she secured the seatbelt before easing the Volvo back onto the road. She’d driven no more than a quarter of a mile before her entire view lit up like a disco ball with flashing red and blue lights.
“You have got to be kidding me.” Libby put her blinker on and pulled the car over to the wide shoulder.
“Drat. We don’t have time for this.” Marge shifted around in her seat. “If we don’t get our samples under the right amount of moonlight, we’ll have to wait another month.”
Libby squinted into what remained of the side view mirror, trying to make out the officer’s backlit silhouette as he approached.
“Just let me do the talking, Red.”
Libby’s eyebrows rose. “Red?”
“Yeah, your hair.”
“My hair’s auburn.”
“Same difference.”
“If you’re color blind. I suppose you call your hair silver and not white, right?”
“I call it moonlight,” the older woman sniffed. She swept a hand through her hair. “How’s my lipstick.”
Libby, who was still tetchy about the evening’s events, said, “Thick. That’s what you were going for, right?”
Whatever retort Marge was going to say was cut off by the sound of knuckles rapping on the driver-side window. After a calming breath, Libby rolled down the window and prepared her best-winning smile, only to have it freeze into a grimace.
“Evening, Deputy Jackson. Fine weather we’re having, no?”
After Jackson returned the greeting, he asked, “Do you have any idea what speed you were going, Ms. Slade?”
“I do. Forty-five.” She shot Marge a smug look.
“Well, the speed limit outside town here’s fifty-five.” After pulling out his flashlight, he eyed the interior of the car through the window. “What are you ladies doing out at this time of night? On your way back from the local tavern?”
“No,” Marge said, leaning over and violating Libby’s personal space, “but that’s a great idea, thanks.” She glanced at her watch and began tapping her foot, muttering about stodgy officers.
Libby shot the deputy a weak, apologetic smile. “I couldn’t sleep, so I called up my dear friend here—” her hand shot out and squeezed Marge’s knee until the potionist squealed “—and she offered to show me the sights.”
“At midnight?”
“It’s as good a time as any.”
“How come you’re driving her vehicle?”
“As it turns out, Marge here has a bit of night blindness.”
“Uh huh.” The deputy clicked off his light and placed it back on his belt. “I don’t suppose you two being out here has anything to do with a certain house of an ex-husband getting stink-bombed?”
Libby blinked. “I was never married.”
The officer narrowed his eyes then slid his accusing gaze over to the other occupant. “Marge?”
“Yes, Eric?”
He hissed out a breath. “Were you at Bruce’s place?”
“When?”
“Just a few minutes ago.”
“A few minutes ago?”
“Yes.”
“Like five, ten, or thirty minutes ago?”
His jaw ticked. “Anywhere within the hour.”
“I don’t think so, but it’s possible with this one driving that we may have passed his neighborhood.”
The deputy leaned forward, his nostrils working like a dog as he sniffed, most likely in search of a whiff of alcohol. He must’ve not found enough probable cause to question them further because a moment later, he was drumming his fingers on the top of the Volvo.
“Try to drive the speed limit, Ms. Slade. Oh, and Marge,” he added, bending his tall frame so she could see his face, “this is your last warning about your mirrors. Get them fixed, or I’ll cite you the next time I see you.” With that, he crunched through the gravel back to his patrol car.
Marge snorted. “I should’ve told him what happened to the mirrors.”
Too tired and relieved to care much, Libby asked offhand, “What happened to them?”
“They melted when I released a deodorizer potion in aerosol form.”
“Of course they did.” She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. “That back there, that could’ve gone a lot better if we’d had an emergency love potion.”
By the time they reached Olympic National Park, Libby’s mood had lightened considerably. After leaving Marge’s vehicle parked in an empty dirt lot, Libby followed the older woman along a trail through the dark, temperate rainforest, trusting that the apothecary knew where she was going.
Her flashlight beam bobbed along the ground as they passed between towering Sitka spruce, western hemlocks, and bigleaf maples. The tree branches bowed and danced in a rhythm set by the wind, and lichen covered their bark, all ballgowns and suits.
The rich aromas of earth, ferns, and moss—both epiphytic and spike-moss alike—carried memories of family camping trips. During the good years. Before everything had gone wrong. Before everything had fallen apart.
“Alright,” Marge said, pulling Libby out of her lamenting. “Here we are.”
Libby turned a slow circle. Moonlight lit a carpet of moss and ferns in a small clearing that didn’t seem any different than any other clearing.
“Just in time, too,” Marge said after checking her watch. She motioned for her suitcase-purse she’d asked Libby to lug from the car.
After digging around for what felt like an eternity, she pulled out a small tube of one-sided cotton swabs.
“What are those for?”
“We swipe them across salamanders.” Marge’s tone implied that this was obvious. “Hurry, help me find one.”
Swallowing the myriad of questions that had popped up with this statement, Libby hunched over and searched under rocks and fallen logs. It didn’t take long for them to locate one.
The amphibian felt cool and slimy in Libby’s hands, and she let out a childish squeal that she quickly covered with a cough. Marge swabbed the creature with the cotton thingie then deposited the sample into a separate tube. Libby was all too happy to release the salamander, and she watched as the little amphibian scuttled under a fern.
For the next several minutes, they searched in silence for another. The setting, the moonlight, and the pressing calm begged for deep discussions and the whispering of secrets.
“Do you miss her?” Libby asked eventually. It was a stupid question. “I mean, I’m sure you do.”
“Every day. It’s like a part of me was…” Marge searched the stars for the right words.
“Ripped away,” Libby finished. She knew the pain. “It’s not a feeling that ever goes away. You just sort of learn to live with it and carry it around with you.”
Libby caught another salamander, holding it aloft. Splaying her light on the amphibian, Marge shook her head. “That’s a Columbia torrent salamander. We want a Cascade torrent.”
They looked exactly the same to Libby, but she shrugged, returning the creature to the belly of a nearby rock. Once the amphibian scuttled away, she promptly wiped her hands down her pants.
“She used to sing Somewhere Over the Rainbow to me because it referenced bluebirds, which is my favorite kind of bird,” Marge said in a rough voice, picking up the thread of conversation again. Without looking up from her laser-focus on the ground, she added, “You mind if I ask you something?”
“Go for it.”
“Why are you here?”
“Because you asked for my help, and I thought I might learn more about potion making.”
So far, she hadn’t gained any knowledge in that department, but she realized with a start that her eagerness in accompanying the older woman tonight was born from more than potion training and a willingness to help. Egging and getting pulled over by the cops aside, she enjoyed Marge’s company. In small ways, the potionist reminded her of her mother—albeit very, very small ways.
The realization caused a lump to form in her throat.
“That’s not what I meant.” Marge’s voice softened to a whisper, leaves rustling over dry grass. “I don’t know anyone who’s bought a house before stepping foot in it. Is it done? Sure, but usually by someone moving across the country or to another part of the world. Not one state away.
“Which leads me to my question. Were you after her potion book?” The question wasn’t an accusation, but there was certainly an edge to it.
“No, I—” Libby stopped, slowly straightening from her stooped position.
She’d been after the Pet Whisperer potion which, as it turned out, was in Arlene’s potion book. So, in a way, she had been after the book. She just hadn’t known what it was she was searching for.