Ghostly Garlic

by Ami Diane

  Shaking her head, Marge opened the back door and called the dog’s name. Despite his cautious approach towards the house, his tail began wagging, and by the time he and Marge mounted her porch steps, his tail whipped back and forth like a metronome on speed.

  Libby waited until the front door closed before she turned around and drove home, wondering if she shouldn’t have insisted on staying behind. It didn’t occur to her until she navigated a sharp turn, moon pooling on the ocean to her right, that she’d forgotten to ask Marge about the restricted list.

  With all that was happening and the passing of yet another friend, she supposed there were more important matters to consider. Like what to do with an invisible dead body.

  Chapter Seven

  LIBBY WOKE TO daylight pouring in through her window. Apparently, in her sleep-addled state the night before, she’d forgotten to close the blinds prior to collapsing onto her bed. All the same. Now, she could get an early start on the day—beginning with coffee.

  Rolling over, she checked her phone and was surprised to find she had gotten a text. Her chest tightened, and she half-expected it to be from James.

  Her eyebrows knitted, and she sat up. Marge had texted her. How long had it taken the woman to type it out on her ancient phone, pressing the number on the dial pad multiple times to get a single letter?

  The text told her not to come in that morning but asked if she wouldn’t mind helping Julie in the shop around eleven o’clock since she couldn’t make it in. Libby typed out a quick reply that she would go to Mother Nature’s Apothecary, then she hit “send.” Maybe her morning plans had changed, but she was still going to get donuts.

  She wondered how Marge was coming along with identifying the contents of the vials. She briefly considered asking, but she didn’t want to distract the apothecary from the important task.

  With no immediate plans and now wide awake, she rolled out of bed and changed into yoga pants and a sweatshirt.

  The shirt that had been splashed with Marge’s Defying Gravity potion still hovered near the ceiling like a sad balloon after a kid’s birthday party, slowly losing altitude.

  Downstairs, she searched for her coffee pot, which wasn’t in its usual place. The previous owner of the house had accidentally spilled a furniture-moving potion, and now her house tended to relocate objects without warning.

  She was just about to give up when she found the glass carafe in the hall closet. Grumbling and cursing, she jammed it into the coffee maker and punched the button to begin brewing.

  A furry head butted her leg, and the air punctuated with loud purrs. Reaching down, she hefted up the Norwegian Forest cat and cuddled Orchid until her coffee was ready.

  From the library a room over came the loud caws of Jasper demanding food. Orchid joined in on the call for breakfast, and soon, Libby was topping off their dishes before she’d eaten any food of her own.

  She reveled in the silence that followed while the two critters mowed down. She was just pouring creamer into her cup when a crash sounded in the living room.

  She barreled down the hallway towards the noise and slid over the hardwood floors into the room a la Tom Cruise in Risky Business—except she was wearing pants. The picture frame with a photo of her and her mother was on the floor. Luckily, it appeared to have bounced off of an armchair first, so the glass wasn’t shattered.

  Frowning, she replaced the frame on the mantle, wondering what could’ve caused it to fall. Perhaps it was the house’s furniture-moving quirk.

  A half-hour later, after she ate toast and drank enough coffee to feel properly fortified, she zipped up a light fleece jacket, poured more coffee into her thermos, then grabbed a tote bag. On her way to the back door, she paused in the library’s doorway.

  “Jasper, you want to stretch those wings?”

  The raven cawed and flew at her. She ducked just in time, garbling out a scream.

  “Bad crow! How many times do I have to tell you not to do that?” She knew how much he hated being called a crow, so she made sure to use the word often.

  He made a ruckus and flapped his wings before pecking at the back door. From across the kitchen, Orchid arched her back and hissed.

  Before there was bloodshed, Libby shoved aside the sliding door. She didn’t want any repeats of the Great Fur-Feather Debacle that had occurred last week when Orchid had knocked over Jasper’s perch.

  A few days prior, Libby had used the Pet Whisperer potion a second time to question Orchid regarding her mother’s death, and the conversation had nearly driven Libby to drink. Actually, she and Marge had finished a six-pack together afterward in Libby’s backyard while overlooking the ocean.

  After drinking the potion, Orchid had taken up most of the conversation to complain about Jasper. Libby was at the point where she was seriously considering separating them in the house, giving Orchid the upstairs and Jasper the ground floor. He rarely flew to the second floor, anyway.

  Outside, gray clouds hung overhead, and a cool breeze nipped at her cheeks. She glanced at her weather app and knew for a fact that a few miles inland, it was sunny and ten degrees warmer. Such was the coastal weather in the Pacific Northwest.

  Jasper’s majestic dark wings stretched to their full length, and he rode a current high overhead. A moment later, he relieved himself, narrowly missing Libby. She flipped him the bird then approached the short, white-picket-fence that enclosed her backyard. The fence reached her hip and served little purpose other than aesthetics. Perhaps if she had a dog, it would make sense.

  After stepping over it, she edged around stiff branches of Hairy manzanita and pushed aside pampas grass until she located a narrow, steep path that descended to the beach below. For the next forty-five minutes, she combed the beach, picking up limpet shells.

  A surprising amount of potion recipes in her book called for them, usually crushed, but she had spotted one the other day that required whole shells. This was probably because some of the recipes were written by Arlene, the previous owner of the book and house. She most likely had wanted to incorporate the surrounding environment into her brews.

  When Libby had curated enough to fill a dusty mason jar, she hiked back home. It had been a productive outing; her tote was also filled with kelp (which she could collect only after turning around three times) and small chunks of driftwood. Unfortunately, her beach was sparse on sand dollars, and she was running low.

  She paused at the top of the cliff, sucking wind. The sky was filled with seagulls and not a black bird in sight. It wasn’t a big deal; Jasper would come back when he was ready.

  Back in the house, she propped open a window in the library for the prickly raven to let himself in. Then, she took her new findings to the greenhouse.

  The grass in her yard still dripped with morning dew that kissed the exposed skin on her ankles. Behind her, Orchid had slipped out the cat door and was following, her tail crooked high like a shepherd’s hook.

  Inside the greenhouse, the air felt warm and humid, like a blanket, and Libby filled her lungs with the scent of earth and plants. She flopped the tote bag and jar on a potting table, then she sipped coffee from her thermos as she surveyed the plants.

  There were still two hours to kill before she needed to be at the apothecary shop. Plenty of time to dabble in the current potion recipe she was trying to master.

  However, first, she needed to check on the propagations she had been coaxing to life. Along a narrow table full of tools, broken pots, and fertilizer bags, she pulled out one of several enclosed trays.

  Garlic featured in many potion recipes—especially as a middle ingredient—and even though Arlene had planted a decent amount in one of the raised beds, Libby was quickly discovering it wasn’t enough.

  The enclosed trays were a great way to speed along the germination and rooting process. The ones she’d bought at the local nursery weren’t as nice as the trays she’d left behind in Oregon, but they were serving their purpose nicely.

  Vibrant gr
een shoots broke through the dirt like delicate hairs, and the horticulturist in her couldn’t help but smile. New life.

  The whine of the automatic vents opening brought her back as cool air drifted inside, pushing aside the heat. Time to make a potion. Or get blown up. Whichever came first.

  Armed with that morning’s beach haul, she marched down one of the aisles, passing a veritable jungle of plants. She was still in the process of relocating half of them to beds where they would thrive better with more appropriate neighboring plants.

  The star jasmine, or Trachelospermum jasminoides as she knew it, was beginning to flower, and the intoxicating perfume filled the greenhouse. Her feet slowed in front of spikes of blue flowers amongst rich green foliage. Bugle (ajuga reptans) was an herb valued for centuries for its healing properties, specifically for treating cuts or bruises. She wondered if Marge would need it in some of her elixirs at Mother Nature’s Apothecary.

  In the northwest corner, English ivy climbed and spread over both walls while creepers stretched across the ground.

  “Ivy, I think it’s time for a haircut.”

  The plant shivered with anticipation—literally. She was just about to ask the semi-sentient plant to kindly drag aside the rusty manhole cover hidden amongst its vines when a voice said, “Do you talk to all of your plants?”

  Libby yelped. The tote slipped from her fingers. Gravel crunched as Deputy Jackson moved along the main aisle towards her. She fumbled as she picked up the bag but recovered with a suave, “Fancy seeing you here.”

  He was in his tan uniform which only served to remind her that she was harboring a big secret—well, two if she counted the whole potion-making thing.

  She gave him a dazzling smile, but her insides twisted at how close he’d come to seeing the plant lift a heavy metal plate at her behest and spotting the subsequent hidden lair beneath their feet.

  “You seem extra chipper this morning.” He came to a stop in front of her, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

  “Can’t a girl just be happy to see a man in uniform?”

  “You know, sometimes the words you say are fine, but how you say them borders on harassment.” The corners of his mouth twitched as if fighting a smile.

  “Then I’m doing it wrong because it’s definitely harassment.” She gave an exaggerated wink, and this time, his facade broke. “So, what brings you by, neighbor?”

  “Can’t a guy just stop by to check on his troublesome neighbor?”

  Now it was her turn to be suspicious. “Alright, what do you need? Is this about that bottle rocket the other night? I’ll have you know, that was all Marge’s idea.”

  “What bottle rocket?”

  “Yeah, what bottle rocket?”

  “Huh?” He took a slow breath. The scar that ran through his eyebrow was turning a darker shade, a meter that indicated his mood she’d recently discovered. “Anyway, I stopped by to see if you needed anything from the store.”

  She narrowed her eyes to slits. “Uh, no thanks. I’m good.” She hadn’t realized they’d gotten to that point in their neighborly friendship.

  “You sure?”

  She crossed her arms, no easy feat considering the burden in both hands. “What’s up, Jackson?”

  “Nothing. It’s just… there’s this contest at the local grocery store… you hear about it?”

  “Hear about the store or the contest?” She loved watching him squirm.

  His hand rubbed the back of his neck as he studied the gravel. “Well, see, they’re doing this thing called ‘Bonus Bucks’ where they’re giving away a pot of money for a bill with a specific serial number—”

  “There’s got to be millions of different serial numbers. How could a local store pick a winning one?”

  “They got a list of local ones in circulation here from the bank and ones they gave as change to customers over the last couple of weeks. They announced this week’s serial number on Tuesday.”

  “And you want to go through my money to see if one’s the winner?” His red cheeks were all the answer she needed. “You’re out of luck because I used the last of my cash on Tuesday to buy leftover fireworks—I mean, donuts.”

  “Right, well, I figured it was worth a shot.” His holster creaked as he turned and sauntered back towards the door.

  “Hey, Deputy. I promise if I pull any cash, I’ll let you look through it.”

  “Again, I don’t know how that’s dirty, but, somehow, it just feels like it.”

  She shrugged. “Small bills… I’m sure there’s a stripper joke in there somewhere.”

  Grinning, he ducked through the doorway and left. She waited for his shadow to stretch on the wall and disappear altogether before jogging over and closing the door. She would need to be more cautious in the future, maybe even consider installing a lock on the greenhouse.

  Chapter Eight

  LIBBY STROLLED OUT of Thanks a Latte, a pastry stuffed in her mouth and a latte to-go in one hand, along with a paper bag clutched in her other. Overhead, the sun fought to break through the oppressive cloud cover but was, so far, unsuccessful.

  When she stepped into Mother Nature’s Apothecary, a thousand scents filled the air, clashing with the flavor of the pastry in her mouth. A young, blonde-haired woman bounced out from behind a desk that also served as a stand for the cash register.

  “I’m so glad you’re here.” Julie, Marge’s assistant and Deputy Jackson’s sister, bugged her eyes out.

  Libby surveyed the small shop and the handful of customers browsing the narrow aisles. “Been busy? If I’d known, I would’ve been by sooner, but Marge told me to come in late.” She offered up the paper bag. “I wasn’t sure what you liked.”

  After peeking inside, Julie snatched the bag from Libby. “It hasn’t been that bad.” Then, with a not-so-subtle jerk of her head, she beckoned Libby over to the desk. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “There was a ghost in here earlier.”

  “That so?” Libby wiped a few drops of spilled coffee from the side of her paper cup. The barista had completely butchered her name when she’d written it on the side. Never mind the fact that Libby had been going there at least three times a week since moving to Oyster Bay, but how could anyone possibly confuse “Libby” with “Laura”?

  “Did you hear me?” Julie was asking.

  “Huh? Yeah, you saw a ghost.” She took a long drink, considering the young gal. “Is this anything like that time you saw Robert Downey Jr. in the shop? Or Chris Evans flying a kite?” She tilted her head. “Wait, I’m seeing a pattern. You have a thing for superheroes, don’t you?”

  “What red-blooded woman doesn’t?”

  “Touché.”

  “But this isn’t like that. It was early morning, and I’d just unlocked the door to open for the day. I was in the back, going through our stock when I heard someone walking around the front here, moving stuff. But when I came to check…” She held her breath, her eyes now impossibly large. “Nothing.”

  “I see. Perhaps they left?”

  “I didn’t hear the door.”

  There was a rather annoying bell above the door that jangled any time it opened. Or closed. Or sometimes when the air from the vent passed over it.

  “Has Marge ever considered replacing that bell? With something less annoying, perhaps?”

  Julie didn’t seem to hear. She worried her lip as she picked sprinkles off of one of the donuts Libby had brought.

  “Hey, if you’re going to deface such a delicacy—” Libby reached for the baked good, but Julie drew it to her mouth and took a bite. “Anyway, so you landed on the theory that a ghost came in, shopping for supplements. You think its iron count was low?” She grinned at her own joke.

  Julie shook her head seriously. The young woman was as sweet as honey, but she was several cookies shy of a dozen.

  “What else could explain it?”

  Libby’s smile faltered. Ghosts weren’t real, but the fear in Julie’s eyes was. “That’s a good question. I honestly
don’t have any ideas. Have you noticed anything missing?”

  “Nothing.”

  Libby’s mind jumped to the locked cabinet in Marge’s office and the carefully inventoried potent contents inside—some of which were potions. Julie, not being a potion master, was unaware of what was in some of the containers.

  A customer approached the register, and Julie rushed over, brushing donut crumbs from her hands. Libby watched a moment before going to check on another customer. She spent the next several minutes listing the benefits of Marge’s natural sleeping tonic compared to the bottle of melatonin beside it.

  When she finished and Julie was preoccupied with restocking ginger root, Libby slipped into the hallway. Marge’s office, though cramped, felt empty. She knew Marge was at home in her lab, but it was still odd not to see the apothecary sitting behind her desk, griping about paperwork. On the windowsill, a dozen cat figurines winked in the gray daylight.

  She shook her head. The woman had a serious addiction to shopping channels. Perhaps it was best she wasn’t technologically adept, otherwise, she’d be aware of the wonders of online shopping.

  Digging out the key for the cabinet from its new location (Marge’s desk), Libby unlocked the cabinet door and scanned the ingredients and vials inside. Slowly, the pulse that had been pounding in her ears abated. Nothing seemed to be missing.

  Just to be sure, she eyeballed most of the contents with the written list on the paper inside. Everything checked out. She breathed a sigh of relief and locked the cabinet.

  After Libby left Mother Nature’s Apothecary, she stopped by her favorite seafood depot, picked up a container of crab meat, then headed out to Marge’s house. The blue craftsman, complete with white trim and long porch, sat on a hillside that overlooked the bay and town. Overhead, the sky was turning a deeper color of slate, the temperature dropping.

  A second ring of the doorbell failed to produce the potionist, so Libby tried the doorknob and was surprised to find it turned. Un-greased hinges groaned as she opened the door.