Ghostly Garlic

by Ami Diane

  “See what?” Marge puckered her mouth as she worked a mascara wand through her eyelashes, using a compact mirror to see her work.

  “Exactly.”

  She paused. “Huh?”

  “Wow, you really need to use that hearing elixir.”

  Shelly dropped the stack and sighed. “About three hundred dollars.” She fiddled with a scarf tied around her neck, an accessory Libby was coming to realize was a staple in her attire. “That’s not great. I was hoping for a better turn out.”

  “I think it’s good, considering…” Libby tipped her head in Marge’s direction.

  “What? How fabulous I looked?”

  “Pretty sure you scared away would-be philanthropists. Also, several children will probably have to go to therapy now, thanks to you.”

  Marge flipped her the bird.

  “Maybe next time we can do a bake sale,” Libby suggested to Shelly, making a point to ignore the apothecary who was still glaring at her.

  Shelly’s expression brightened. “That’s not a bad idea.” Then she turned to Marge. “Hey, my Weight Watcher’s meeting is tomorrow. Do you have that—” she dropped her voice and looked around “—you-know-what to help me?”

  “Subtle,” Libby muttered.

  Digging into her purse once again, Marge brought out something clenched tightly in her fist. She, too, cast furtive glances about before handing the object over. Lime green liquid sloshed in a glass vial.

  Libby raised an eyebrow. “You two do realize you’re not being discreet, right? It looks like a drug deal’s going down. Bea, tell me I’m right.”

  A snore whispered over the breeze.

  “See?” Libby continued, “She agrees. What’s that for, anyway?”

  “It’s an anti-gravity potion.” The bookstore owner eyed the liquid with the same scrutiny as a sommelier does wine. Heck, it wouldn’t surprise Libby if the woman sniffed the potion—which is exactly what happened next.

  “Just a single drop,” Marge warned.

  “Here’s a question,” Libby said to Shelly, “why are you trying to weigh less when you’re already, what, fifty pounds?”

  Shelly snorted. “Please, child. I didn’t always look like this. I go to these meetings to maintain my weight. But I’ve put on a couple of pounds, and we’re competing with a group in Seattle.”

  “So, your solution is to float away? Wait, can that stuff actually make you fly?” Libby’s voice rose in excitement while mentally making a list of places she wanted to visit.

  She was already on number five (Area 51) when Marge said, “Not fly. Float. But you wouldn’t want to, trust me. It’s not as fun as it sounds.”

  “I don’t intend to float,” Shelly explained. “Just need a few pounds to defy gravity.” Her nose moved away from the open vial. “Just a single drop on the skin should do it, right, Marge?”

  The apothecary nodded.

  Shelly’s hand moved to replace the stopper in the vial when, at her elbow, Beatrice snorted and jerked in her sleep, bumping Shelly. Lime-green liquid sloshed over the side of the glass, splattering on the cash box, the table, and Libby’s top.

  Nobody moved or spoke. Two breaths later, the effect of the potion kicked in.

  The card table shook then rose, knocking Beatrice’s chin and waking the woman. Marge’s hand shot out in time to catch the cash box before it ascended with the table.

  Heads tilted back as all eyes followed the floating table. A moment later, Shelly gasped, “Libby, your shirt!”

  A breeze licked at Libby’s now-bare midriff. Frantically, she grabbed at the hem of her sleeveless top to keep from flashing half of Oyster Bay. Both hands battled with the garment’s hemline.

  “Do you think anyone saw?”

  The drivers of a couple of cars laid on their horns as they passed.

  She sighed. “Yeah, they saw.”

  “Saw what?” Marge wrangled the cash box into her purse like she was wrestling a greased pig. “Your peep show or the floating table…” Her hand flew to her silver hair, and she squinted up. “Anyone still see the table?”

  Libby craned her head back and pointed at the expansive blue canopy overhead. “There!”

  A flock of seagulls rode the wind then broke apart as the table floated between them, climbing ever higher.

  Libby’s shirt took advantage of the opportunity that one of her hands was preoccupied and proceeded to climb towards her bra again. With a frustrated grunt, she hiked her shorts up over her navel and jammed her top into them like a 1980s gym teacher.

  “New question,” she began, “do you think anyone noticed the flying table?”

  Silently, they watched the table float away like a balloon until it was a dark speck in the sky. Then it was gone.

  Air hissed out of Libby’s mouth. “Well, let’s just hope an airplane doesn’t hit it. Can you imagine?”

  The radio calls to air traffic control about a flying table were sure to make headlines, not to mention endanger the potion-making community.

  She searched for a silver lining to the situation. “Hey, what goes up, must come down, am I right?”

  Nobody laughed, and Shelly asked, “What’s the rate of decay on that potion?”

  Marge’s hand still shielded her face as she continued to gaze up at the sky. She swallowed.

  “Marge?” Libby prompted.

  “Decay time’s about two weeks, give or take.”

  “Two weeks?!” Libby’s mouth fell open.

  “Relax. I’m sure it’ll land in the ocean somewhere.”

  “You do realize the earth rotates, right?”

  “And you do realize that seventy-one percent of the planet’s surface is covered in water?”

  Shelly nudged them towards their parked cars. “Ladies, leave it be for now. There’s nothing we can do. Go home and change. I’ll see you at the meeting tonight.”

  Libby opened the door to her silver Honda and pointed at Beatrice who had gone back to her nap. “What about Rip Van Winkle back there?”

  “Don’t you worry about her. I’ll wake her.” After waving, Shelly ambled across the cracked pavement, stray rocks crunching underfoot.

  Marge dropped into Libby’s passenger seat. The heat of the interior mixed with their damp clothes forced them to roll the windows down immediately.

  As she drove Marge back to her apothecary shop where the potionist had left her vehicle, the ocean breeze rolled through the open windows, filling the interior with the scent of summer. Out on the water, the late afternoon sun shimmered, jewels of light that were broken by passing boats.

  Libby could feel the slight tug of the material of her shirt wanting to drift upwards. “Say, you wouldn’t happen to have the reverse potion for this anti-gravity one on hand, would you?”

  “Just wash your shirt. And I named this potion, Defying Gravity.”

  Libby’s auburn hair whipped across her face, and it struck her anew how odd their conversation must sound, a conversation she never would’ve imagined a couple of months prior. Of course, she had never imagined floating tables and talking pets, either. Her new life still filled her with wonder, even as her top slowly tried to work its way out of her shorts.

  “What are you going to do with the cashbox?” she asked after a while.

  “I’ll keep it at my place until Bea can deposit the money and write a check for the charity.”

  Libby parked in front of Mother Nature’s Apothecary. The windows were dark, implying Marge’s employee Julie had closed up a half-hour early.

  “I’ll see you tonight for our ‘book club’ meeting.” Libby used air quotes for the words “book club” again.

  “Your shirt’s come untucked,” Marge said before letting the passenger-side door close.

  Sure enough, her bra was out for the world to see. Sighing, she shoved her shirt back down. It was just another day as a potionist in Oyster Bay.

  Chapter Three

  LIBBY DESCENDED THE basement steps. This week’s meeting was bei
ng held at fellow Potion Master member Gladys’s house. With each step, the light behind her waned, replaced by a dim, amber glow below. A dank smell of earth and mothballs permeated the air, the perfume of basements the world over.

  Mis-matched chairs and a broken couch took up the center of the room in a half-hearted attempt to create a circle. Marge had her feet up in a recliner that appeared to have been shredded by a dozen cats. Already, Libby’s allergies were going haywire from the dust and pet dander.

  She picked the metal folding chair beside the apothecary.

  “You changed your shirt, huh?” The woman’s eyes gleamed.

  “It’s currently floating in my bedroom. I forgot to weigh it down when I took it off. So, now I need a ladder to get it.”

  She went on to explain how she’d been too preoccupied with cooking dinner and feeding her cat and recently acquired raven to lug a ladder upstairs.

  “And by ‘cooking’, you mean microwaving a frozen burrito, right?”

  “Obviously.” From her neglected purse which she rarely trotted out, Libby pulled a tattered copy of To Kill A Mockingbird. “Did you bring a book?”

  “Of course.” Marge waved a thick novel in the air. Libby glimpsed bare abs and long, blonde hair before Marge dropped the book in her lap.

  The book club was a veiled guise for the Potion Masters Society’s meetings. She had never been part of a book club—or a potion-making society, for that matter—but she was pretty sure most of the attendees were supposed to be reading the same book.

  Shelly, the unofficially appointed facilitator, stood in the middle, clapping for attention. “Alright, are we about ready to start? Does everyone have their refreshments?”

  “Not yet.” Libby jumped to her feet. How had she forgotten about refreshments?

  Squeezing between chairs, she homed in on an old dining room table shoved against the cement wall. A cheap tablecloth had been laid down and a smattering of food trays spread on top.

  Across the room, Marge hollered at her to grab a stack of cookies. Libby scanned the pickings, the corners of her mouth incrementally ticking downward at each item until she was frowning.

  Someone said in a low voice beside her, “It was Caroline’s and Millie’s turns to bring food.”

  Libby spared a glance from the refreshment horror at the woman beside her. “Hi, Gladys. Nice house—well, nice basement, anyway. Very dungeon-like.”

  Wrinkling her nose, Libby dropped a few carrots on her paper plate and searched out the desserts only to find there were none. She asked Gladys where the treats were.

  The woman’s gray curls shivered as she shook her head. “That’s the only sweet treat they brought.” She pointed a gnarled finger at a tray of fruit.

  Libby blinked. “But where are the cookies?”

  “They didn’t bring ‘em.”

  “Brownies?”

  “Sorry, dear.”

  Libby piled strawberries and cantaloupe onto the flimsy plate, muttering about being forced onto a diet. Someone stepped up beside her and gushed about the spread.

  “It’s great to see all of this healthy food for once.”

  Allison Harper—the only potionist nearest to Libby’s age by a decade—piled vegetables onto her paper plate. The heady aroma of lavender, vanilla, and ginger wafted off the woman like a perfume counter display.

  “Hey, I didn’t see you when I came in.”

  “I just got here,” the woman said breathily, her cheeks flushed. “My date ran late.” The pink in her cheeks ratcheted up several degrees.

  “I didn’t know you were seeing anyone.” Libby’s strawberries rolled around, threatening to jump ship. “I love your perfume, by the way. You smell like a garden.” She winced, realizing how dopey that must’ve sounded, but Allison tossed her sheet of blonde hair over her shoulder and chuckled.

  “Thanks. It’s a special blend of essential oils. It was a gift from my boyfriend.” Allison dropped her voice and looked around, “I’m not really telling anyone about him because he’s—on paper, anyway—still attached.”

  Libby blinked for several seconds as her brain caught up. “You’re dating a married man?”

  “Not so loud, please. You make it sound so scandalous. They’re divorcing, but they just haven’t finalized all of the paperwork yet.”

  “I see. Well… good luck with that.” Unsure of what else to say, Libby excused herself before she made a further spectacle.

  Her metal chair scraped over the floor as she sat. She was dying to tell Marge the bit of gossip about Allison dating a married man, but before she could consider whether or not she should, Marge popped the recliner up from its supine position. “Where are my cookies?”

  “Where indeed.” Libby glared across the circle at Caroline and Millie. “It’s just veggies and fruit tonight.”

  Marge swore under her breath before making a show of scrounging through her purse. A moment later, she brought out a zip-lock bag of homemade zebra brownies.

  Libby had dropped her carrot and was reaching towards the bag before Marge even opened it.

  “Just don’t let anyone see. I don’t have enough to go around.”

  Libby eyed the ginormous bag stuffed to the top. “You mean because we each get five pieces?”

  “Six for me and four for you.” She caught Libby’s expression. “You want to argue, Red? Because I can make it none for you and all for me.”

  Libby held her hands up in surrender, a brownie already in hand before she quickly realized she was showcasing the treat. She took a large bite, her eyes partially closing.

  “Okay,” Shelly called out, pushing her thick glasses up her nose, “now is everyone ready?”

  Her eyes flitted to Libby who had just enough time to cover her brownie and nod.

  “Very well—oh, it looks like Bea’s still not here.” The bookstore owner wiggled her wrist to check her watch. “Hm, fifteen minutes late. That’s odd. Has anyone heard from her?”

  A murmur rose around the room as the others said they hadn’t.

  “I suppose we’ll just have to carry on without her.” Despite her airy tone, Shelly’s eyebrows puckered.

  A swirl of an A-line skirt swooshed into Libby’s view as Stacy Blackwood broke into the circle and perched herself on a stool at the far end. Her outfit was a sharp contrast to Libby’s yoga pants and flip-flops. She glanced from the woman’s bright red nails to her own chipped nail polish, thinking she was overdue for a pedicure.

  Maybe business attire was Stacy’s preferred style, but seeing her and the other potionists juxtaposed, she stood out like a regular, store-bought brownie on a plate of homemade zebra brownies.

  Man, she was still hungry.

  Shelly began the proceedings with the topic that typically dominated their meetings: discovery. Incidentally, she brought up the floating table first.

  “Don’t forget Libby’s shirt was floating too,” Marge piped up.

  “Thanks, Marge. You’re a big help.” Libby shot daggers at the apothecary while simultaneously sneaking another brownie from the woman’s handbag. “Even with me flashing my bra to all of Oyster Bay, I was still more covered than you were in that butt floss you call a swimsuit.”

  “Yes, well…” Shelly said, flustered and seeming to search for appropriate words to steer the conversation. Apparently, there wasn’t a tactful way to discuss exhibitionist members because she sidestepped the topic altogether.

  “Regardless, I think the card table floating away is our greater concern. In this day and age, with smartphones, we need to entertain the possibility that someone could have gotten it on camera.”

  Allison, who typically remained mute through most meetings, cleared her throat. “Good point. I can keep an eye on social media postings.”

  Nods of approval rippled around the room. Leaning close to Marge, Libby whispered loud enough for everyone to hear, “Social media uses apps where people talk to each other.” She nodded as if speaking to a toddler. “Over vast distances. An a
pp is—”

  “Stuff it, Red. I’ve heard of the social media thingie before.”

  “Obviously.”

  The apothecary was one of the biggest technophobes Libby had ever met, and she took great pleasure in bringing her into the twenty-first century.

  Shelly opened her mouth, but Gladys interrupted, pointing at Libby. “What’s that you’re eating?”

  “Huh?” Libby covered her lap. “Nothing. Fruit. Leave me alone.” As subtly as she could, she wiped her mouth. Crumbles of marbled cream cheese and brownie rained down.

  The others had already moved on, discussing other ways to find out if anyone had seen the table, but Gladys continued to watch Libby’s every move.

  Marge brought another brownie out of her purse without even trying to be covert. Gladys’s eyes bugged out. She mouthed, Give me one, then gestured around at the others in the worst game of charades Libby had ever seen. However, the intent was clear. Hand over a treat or Gladys would blab about the hidden dessert.

  Reluctantly, Libby slipped her the last brownie she had and made sure to give the older woman the stink-eye as she did. As she sat back down, she tuned in to the discussion about whether or not to put a bug in the building of the local paper, the Oyster Tribune.

  “You all know how to bug people?” she asked Marge. “Wait, you do know how to bug people, don’t get me wrong, but I mean, you know how to listen in on people?”

  “Caroline developed a potion called Telephone. Works kind of like the old string and two cans trick. Only, she uses an actual bug on one end. She releases it wherever she wants to listen in.”

  As ethically gray—no, as ethically wrong—as it would be to spy on the paper, Libby was impressed. “Does that mean to listen she puts the second bug near her face?”

  “Don’t be silly. Just a couple of drops of the potion on any object will work. Usually, she uses a cup. I think she thinks it’s whimsical or something.”

  “Sure, sure,” Libby mumbled. Now, all of the random objects around the room—innocuous moments before—appeared threatening.

  “Relax,” Marge said in a low whisper to keep their conversation private. “She only made it to spy on her son years back when he was a teen and she thought he might be doing drugs. She refuses to share the recipe. Also, I think she uses it sparingly so she doesn’t go… you know.”