by Ami Diane
When she’d felt Marge had had enough time to compose herself, Libby picked up the thread of conversation again. “I don’t think all potionists are bad. Just one. One who’s got a nest of hair and who I specifically overheard talking about a lock-picking potion—my words, not hers.”
This time, Marge didn’t seem upset by the accusation but rather intrigued. “When was this?”
“At the PMS meeting.” Libby allowed herself another giggle over the society’s initialism before telling Marge about the conversation she’d overheard between Stacy and Caroline, doing her best to use their exact phrases.
As she pulled into the small parking lot for Bayside Seafood Depot across from the sheriff’s office, Marge was pensive, her thoughts inward. She blinked, finally seeing where they were.
“What are we doing here?”
Libby shrugged. “I’m hungry.”
As they got out of the car, the apothecary’s mouth quirked into an easy smile. “You know, Caroline accidentally spilled a love potion in this place. Shut the whole restaurant down for half a day as you can imagine.”
“I don’t want to imagine, thank you very much.” Compared to the last time Libby had been in, the line for the market was much shorter, and several tables sat open on the restaurant side. Apparently, there was an advantage to eating late. “So, all the customers were getting amorous, falling in love with each other?”
“Nothing scandalous. And in such high quantities, the potion actually made people sick. She was able to convince the sheriff it was food poisoning.”
They sat at the same table Libby had sat in before that overlooked the bay.
Marge continued. “Caroline had meant to put a few drops in her date’s soup.”
“Like you do on dates.”
“But when she went to pour it, her hand dropped the vial—she’s a bit of a klutz. That’s why the potion only partly worked because people were breathing in the fumes rather than ingesting it as intended.”
Libby snorted at the visual image.
“It was a pretty close call. The society had an emergency meeting to strategize how to deal with the mess. Turns out, when the symptoms started presenting themselves, we didn’t have to.” She paused when a waitress arrived, carrying two glasses of water.
Once they placed their orders, Libby directed the conversation to Stacy. “I know you’re on the fence about her, but everything fits. Regardless, there’s a bigger issue. How do we get Jackson to look into her?”
Ice clinked against the sides of Marge’s glass as she took a sip. “Her rivalry with John is no secret. Add to that her sparkling personality, and I’m sure he’s already looked at her.”
“But he wouldn’t have enough evidence to charge her or even question her further.” Libby gazed out at the sea lions, her mind churning. “We need something substantial, not related to book club business, that we can bring to him.”
“I like where this is heading, Red.” Marge’s gaze snagged on someone behind Libby.
A chair scooted out and knocked into the back of Libby’s seat. Turning, she apologized for being in the way, and a tired voice creaked out with her own apologies. Libby immediately recognized the sickly lady she’d seen at Mother Nature’s Apothecary a few times. Up close, the woman wasn’t nearly as old as Libby had assumed, but her pale, papery skin held taut across bones.
Marge greeted the woman then said, “Libby, this is Mrs. Hayward.”
Libby stuck out her hand, expecting a fragile handshake but was surprised by the woman’s firm grip. Although, it did feel similar to shaking hands with a disarticulated skeleton, not that she knew what that felt like.
Marge and Mrs. Hayward chatted idly for a few minutes, the topic mostly revolving around Mrs. Hayward’s health and her latest chemo appointment. After the gal left, Marge swirled her water in her glass. “Hard to believe that woman’s married to that insufferable buffoon of a reporter, huh?”
“Who? Marty?”
“No, Richard.”
Libby blinked. Then she blinked again. “That woman?”
“Yes.”
“Married to Richard?”
“Yep,” Marge said, popping the “P” sound.
“Does she know that he’s… you know, and you’re a… you know…?”
“No.”
“Huh.” Libby digested this news, trying to picture a marriage to such a sourpuss of a man, then she tried to burn that image from her brain.
They picked up their previous conversation again, speaking in hushed tones, tossing around ideas about how to get Jackson to look further into Stacy until their food arrived.
The waitress deposited a cannonball in front of Libby and a basket of fish in chips in front of Marge before breezing off. Despite the steam rising from her soup, Libby dug in, instantly regretting it. She slurped at her water, wondering how many taste buds she’d just seared off.
For the next few minutes, she nibbled at the bread bowl, staring enviously at Marge’s food. “You going to eat those fries?” When she reached over, Marge parried her hand aside.
“Get your own.” The apothecary squeezed a lemon wedge over the battered fish.
Libby watched the juice drip, the citrus jogging ancient memories of science experiments when she was a kid involving lemons, secret messages, and heat.
After glancing around the room, she lowered her voice to barely above a whisper. “Marge, just out of curiosity, is there such thing as a disappearing ink potion?”
The older woman’s face scrunched, and her eyes rolled up in recollection. “Yes, how’d you know?”
“Lucky guess.”
“Well, it hasn’t been used in our circle for years. Back when I was a little girl, that’s how my mother would correspond with other society members. It wasn’t always how they communicated, mind you, just when there was important information that needed to be passed along that couldn’t be disguised as book club business. Stuff that couldn’t wait until the next meeting.”
Libby sat back in her chair, beaming, her meal abandoned. “Crackers, that’s how we can get evidence.”
“With crackers?”
“No, doofus.” She told Marge about her second day in Oyster Bay and her conversation with Steve and the curiously blank letters. By the time she finished, a spark burned behind Marge’s eyes.
“We have to find out what was on those papers.” Her plate scraped across the table as she pushed it back and stood.
“Easy there, tiger. Let me eat first.”
Marge plopped back down. “Well, hurry up then. We’re burning daylight.”
“Also, don’t get your hopes up. From what Steve said, it sounded like they got thrown away.”
“He had to have kept at least one.”
“I didn’t keep any.”
They were back in John’s realty office, and a flustered receptionist stared up at them from young doe eyes.
“Come on, Steven,” Marge growled. “I know where you live.”
“Okay.” Libby grabbed Marge’s shoulder and reined her in. “What my pruney friend here’s trying to ask is, are you sure you didn’t save any? Not even a scrap that John shredded or an envelope, perhaps?”
Steve shook his head and held his palms up in a helpless, placating gesture. “I’m sorry. That one I told you about, the one I fished out of the garbage, I threw it away again. Why keep it if it was blank, you know? Then the others, as I said, he destroyed.”
Muttering curses, Marge stomped towards the door. Libby shot him an apologetic smile then followed with far less clomping. As she reached the door, Steve called out.
“Do you think the papers have something to do with his death?”
“I don’t know.” Libby looked back. Steve chewed his cheek, striations of worry wrinkling his young forehead.
After thrusting open the door, Marge stepped out into the cold, but Libby lingered.
“What is it?” she asked the receptionist.
“If you’re looking for more blank lette
rs, there might be some at his apartment. When he tore open one of the ones he got here, he said something about the ‘darn things following him home’ too.”
Libby thanked him before joining Marge outside, wishing she could’ve found some words of comfort for the young man.
“You could’ve been nicer to him.” Libby nudged Marge’s arm.
“I know. I’ll apologize later. I just want to find out who’s behind all this. And if it’s Stacy, well, she better look out then. I’ve been working on a new defense potion, and I sure could use a test subject.”
“Let’s put a pin in that.” As they strode to her car, Libby told Marge that there might be some letters at John’s house. “Do you know where he lives?”
“I do.” Marge groaned as she sat. “Your car’s too low for getting in and out like this.”
“Only if you’re old.”
Marge gasped. “I thought you said I looked like a teenager.”
“That’s what you heard me say?” Libby pulled out onto the highway in the direction the older potionist indicated. “I thought you had this supersonic hearing or something.”
“Only when I remember to put drops of elixir in my ears. You were supposed to take a left back there.”
Air left Libby’s chest with a hiss like a flat tire leaking air, ending in a growl, as she turned around. This was no easy feat and took extra maneuvering due to traffic and the lack of shoulder.
When they were finally pointed in the right direction and had turned onto a side road, she said, “Maybe give me a heads-up before the next turn?”
“Sure thing. Turn right.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now—you passed it.”
Libby swore and flipped a U-turn. If they arrived at John’s place without a ticket, it’d be a miracle.
“Stop!”
Libby slammed her foot down on the brake pedal. Her Civic screeched to a stop, and she smelled burned rubber.
“What?!” She whipped her head around, searching for a child in the road or a pet, anything that explained the woman’s hysteric yell.
“Nothing. We’re here,” Marge said in a perfectly calm tone.
Libby ground her teeth. “Worst co-pilot ever.”
As they climbed out of the car in front of a modern, one-story house in an affluent neighborhood, Libby considered making it a rule that Marge would be banned from giving directions ever again.
CHAPTER 20
“HERE’S A QUESTION we should’ve considered before coming here,” Libby whispered as they hunkered on the stoop of a dead man’s house. “How are we going to get in?”
“Why are you whispering?”
Libby opened her mouth then snapped it shut. She had no clue. “So as not to disturb the peace of this beautiful neighborhood.” Her hand swept wildly at the other houses.
The gesture ended with a finger pointed at the door handle. It was one of those fancy, curved ones for doors that are too good for knobs. Or, as she thought far more likely, we’re easier to open. “So, about that lock? I don’t suppose you have a potion similar to Stacy’s?”
She leaned over Marge’s open purse as the woman rummaged within its depths.
After shoving her back, Marge said, “Of course not. I don’t make a habit of breaking and entering places, unless of course, it’s Bruce’s house or that two-bit floozy’s place. Also, I don’t lose my keys, so I’ve never needed a potion.” She whipped out a small vial, her puckered mouth morphing into a hot pink smile. “Ta-da.”
“Yep. Cool. Maybe you can ta-da the door before someone sees us.”
Although the sun had passed its zenith a couple hours before and was on its downward march towards the horizon, there was still plenty of daylight. And given Marge’s sparkling outfit under the waning rays of light, she stood out like a red tulip in a sea of sunflowers.
“This isn’t for the door. It’s for us.”
“What’s it do?” Libby’s full attention was now on the bottle, forgoing her fear of being spotted for the more pressing matter at hand, specifically in Marge’s hand.
“Shrinks us. Now, I’ve only used it on objects before, not people. Makes for terrific packing for a trip. I once stowed my entire bed in my purse and took it with me to Hawaii. You know how those hotel mattresses can be.
“Anyway, the ingredients are benign, so they should be okay on human anatomy. But now’s as good a time as any to find out, right?”
She held up the tincture, and before Libby could say Thumbelina, Marge squeezed three drops of the quivering, silver liquid onto her head.
The world around Libby expanded rapidly. It felt like she was both simultaneously free-falling and being blasted in a rocket under several g-forces. It was the sensation of being squished and pulled at the same time.
This must be what taffy feels like.
When the sensation abated, she stared at a plane of red. She realized with horror that she was looking at Mr. Waters’s front door.
Her head tipped back, following the red wall until it disappeared in the vast distance of the overhang which had now become her sky. The arborvitae beside them was now a jungle the size of several football fields.
“What. Did. You. Do. To. Me. Woman?!” Libby bit out each word, rounding on Marge. The apothecary had also used the potion, and now stood beside Libby at her usual, relative height which was an inch shorter than Libby.
“Relax. I’ve got the anti-potion in my purse. Three drops will make us normal size again, or at least that’s how it works on inanimate objects. I’m not completely sure how it’ll work on us.”
Libby’s hands curled into fists.
“But it’ll be fun to find out, won’t it?” Marge practically skipped—as much as one her age could—to the door. This took a considerable amount of time at their size. By the time they arrived at the threshold, Marge’s perky steps had turned into a sauntering gait as her cheeks puffed out from the effort.
Libby felt now would be a good time to be encouraging. “We still have the minor issue of getting in.”
“Not if we go through there.” Marge pointed up.
“You want to go through the pet door?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
Libby sighed. “Nothing. Boost me up and pray that it’s not locked.”
After much arguing, Marge convinced her it was far more sensible for Libby to boost her up. Not wanting to waste any more time, Libby agreed and made herself into a step ladder as best as she could.
With Marge’s stomach suffocating her face, Libby dead-lifted the rest of the potionist. “My back. Did you hear that? I think I broke it.”
Marge grunted. “The pet door’s stuck.”
“Son of a—okay, I’m putting you down.”
“No, wait. I got it.” Marge’s foot used Libby’s head for leverage, then she was gone. A faint scream came from above.
“Marge!”
“I’m alright.”
Libby craned her head. Marge’s legs stuck out in the air, waving wildly like grass in a breeze.
“What’s the degradation time on this potion?” Libby hollered up.
“Several days, but again, I don’t know if it’ll be different on humans. Why?”
“You better hope it doesn’t wear off now with you in the door like that.” An image of Marge expanding on either side of the door with her torso caught in the frame made Libby cringe.
By the scrambling that proceeded from the apothecary, the thought didn’t appeal to her either. She managed to turn herself around and reached down. “Hurry, grab my hand.”
Libby considered telling Marge to go inside, use the reverse potion to grow big, then unlock the door. However, the possibility of being stranded in that form or getting accidentally stepped on when Marge opened said door in her normal size, spurred Libby to jump. In a feat that would’ve made her track coach proud, she vaulted up and grabbed Marge’s hand.
“Oh, mercy. You weigh too much.”
Before Marge had the chan
ce to drop her, Libby pulled on the woman like a rope and clambered up into the frame of the pet door. They both laid on their stomachs, feet on one side, heads on the other, panting.
“I’m going to have to see a chiropractor after this.” Marge groaned as she scooted to the edge so her legs dangled inside the house.
Libby was also in too much pain to utter more than curses as she worked herself around until she dangled inside the house alongside Marge. Gritting her teeth, she released her hold and fell the height of—what was for her shrunken size—eight feet.
Marge landed in a bone-crunching heap beside her. A squeak floated up from her crumpled body.
Libby leaned over her and prodded her friend. “You alright there, Tom Thumb?”
“Nothing to it.” Another squeak came out like air escaping a balloon. “Could use a hand, Red.”
After Libby helped her to her feet, they took stock of their injuries, deeming the bruises survivable.
“Alright,” Libby said, rubbing her palms together. “Let’s get that anti-potion going.”
“I forgot my purse.”
Libby froze. “What?”
Marge laughed, slapping her on the back. “I’m just joshing you. You should see your face. It’s right here. I dropped it before coming down so I wouldn’t fall on it.”
“Heh, good thinking.” Libby grabbed her chest, not wanting to imagine a Honey, I Shrunk the Kids scenario.
“Now, where is it…” Bottles clanked inside Marge’s purse as she rummaged around.
“What do you suppose happened to John’s pet?”
“Pet?”
“Yeah, for the pet door.” Libby pointed at the large rectangular entrance they’d just climbed through.
“I’m sure someone came and picked it up.”
Libby didn’t think that sounded very promising and took to scanning the Grand Canyon-sized living room. A mountain of a coffee table could be seen in the distance. And way out on the horizon was an open doorway to what appeared to be a home office. Once they were big again, she decided, they should look for the letters there first.
She spotted John’s big screen TV which, at the moment, looked like several theater screens stacked on top of each other. “Oh my gosh, could you imagine watching a movie on that thing at this size? IMAX what? I think I just revolutionized the home theater experience.”