Ghostly Garlic

by Ami Diane

  “Nope,” they both said at the same time. The majority of Beatrice’s extensive laboratory certainly wasn’t crammed into Marge’s purse.

  Their response must’ve sounded a little too forced because Jackson looked up from the notepad, his eyes narrowing. “I see.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I was hoping you unwittingly moved the murder weapon.”

  It wasn’t until that moment, in all of the chaos, that Libby realized there hadn’t been a weapon of any sort in the vicinity of the body.

  “Wait, we did take something,” Libby said. Marge tensed beside her. “We took Max. Actually, Marge took him.”

  “Thanks for throwing me under the bus.”

  “Anytime.”

  “Who’s Max?” Jackson asked with a surprising amount of patience.

  “Bea’s dog,” Libby answered.

  He flipped the notebook closed, having already asked them questions in a similar vein a half-hour before. “I suppose that’s fine. You know, I can’t help but notice that you two and your little book club seem to attract a lot of trouble. What sort of books are you reading?”

  “The sordid kind,” Libby said. She hooked a thumb at her counterpart. “You ought to see this one’s reading list. It’ll make you run to a church and want to bathe in holy water.”

  “Forget I asked.”

  “I mean, the book covers alone—”

  “No, really. I get it. You can stop.”

  “—there’s barely any clothing. And the amount of man-chest—”

  Jackson turned on his heel and marched down the stairs to the ground floor, his hand reaching for his radio. A moment later, she heard his muffled voice talking to dispatch.

  Marge’s mouth quivered with a ghost of a smile. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

  “Very much.” Then Libby remembered she was at a crime scene, and her smile evaporated. In a low voice so as not to be overheard, she said aloud what neither of them had had the guts to say up until now.

  “Someone killed our friend.”

  Chapter Ten

  “STACY OBVIOUSLY DID it.”

  “Stacy Blackwood?” Marge stared across the expanse of her cluttered desk.

  “Do you know another Stacy?”

  “Stacy Lunding… Stacy Williamson…”

  Libby waved aside the comment. “Point taken. Yes, I mean Stacy Blackwood.”

  It was late in the morning on Friday, and she hadn’t slept well after returning home from Beatrice’s the night before. Which was the reason her hands cradled an extra-large latte, and Marge sipped its twin. They sat in the apothecary’s office, discussing who might have killed their friend.

  “It’s clearly Stacy.”

  “Not this again,” Marge muttered. “I know you don’t like her, heck I strongly dislike her, but she’s not a killer.”

  “You seem certain of that.”

  Marge’s chair squeaked as she leaned back. “Alright, tell me why she did it this time.”

  Libby ticked off points on her fingers. “She’s evil—”

  “Strong start.”

  “She’s hungry for others’ recipes.”

  “Who isn’t?”

  “The potion book is missing, and you know how hard she tried to steal Arlene’s before I got it.” On this point, Marge didn’t speak. “Also, there are those heel prints at the scene. What more do you need?”

  The room filled with the ticking of the clock. Eventually, Marge rested her elbows on the desk. “You make valid points. I’m just not ready to suspect another PMS member yet. Stacy has known Bea for years. It would take a particularly cold person to kill a friend—well, a strong acquaintance, anyway.”

  Libby wanted to point out that that sort of crime happened every day, but she held her tongue. The society was a strong foundation in Marge’s life, and from what Libby was learning about the woman, one of the few constants. She didn’t want to see that crumble beneath her friend.

  “How about we agree that she’s a suspect,” Marge said, “but keep an open mind for now?”

  Libby nodded. “Fair enough.”

  “Now that that’s settled, I have something for you.” The elder potionist nudged aside the contents of her desk drawer. Libby braced herself. “With everything that’s happened, I forgot it came.”

  Marge set an innocent-looking box on the surface and slid it over. Libby cut it open and peered inside. Amongst bubblewrap was a cat figurine that looked very much like Orchid.

  “Thanks. This’ll go great with the others.” She tried to sound enthusiastic about the inherited collection littering her living room. “It’s sweet of you, really.” And she meant it.

  “I know you’re not fond of them, but I’m running out of space.” Marge tilted her head at the overflowing window sill.

  “Here’s a thought, you could just not buy more.”

  Marge opened her mouth to respond, but a knock on the door interrupted her. Julie poked her head in and blinked her large eyes, reminding Libby of a childhood doll.

  “There’s someone here asking for you.”

  Before Marge could ask any followup questions, Julie slipped back into the hall.

  Libby shrugged sympathetically. “Maybe it’s about the murder.”

  “Maybe.” Marge’s chair groaned as she stood.

  “I’ll follow you. The herbs I brought are still in the trunk of my car.” Libby had hauled over raw cuts to be dried or ground for Marge to use in the shop, including sage, rosemary, garlic, and lady’s mantle (alchemilla vulgaris).

  As Libby walked through the shop, she nearly kinked a muscle rubbernecking at the man who had demanded to see Marge. She glimpsed a barrel chest and closely shaved head that almost camouflaged a swath of baldness. He had not appeared happy.

  She dug the boxes out of her trunk, carefully balancing the top ones, and managed to shut the lid without dropping anything. By the time she won the battle with the shop’s front door and was stepping back inside, Marge and the man were in a yelling match, over what, Libby couldn’t tell.

  The man’s face was the color of a turnip. “Michelle hasn’t stopped puking since!”

  “It’s not my fault that floozy’s stomach has the fortitude of a baby!”

  He hissed, “She’s pregnant. What do you expect?” He took a menacing step and stuck a finger in Marge’s face. “I’m going to sue you for harassment!”

  “Go ahead.” Marge’s tone turned dangerous and full of a venom Libby had never heard.

  She considered stepping in to back up her friend, but the man harrumphed and spun. He stomped the entire way to the door and tried to slam it, but it had a hydraulic door closer. After much pulling on his part, the most it did was sigh loudly.

  This only served to enrage him further. Spittle flew from his lips. He screamed profanities on the other side of the glass before storming out of view.

  Libby’s mouth hung open. “That man is one incident away from a stroke. I mean, his blood pressure’s got to be through the roof.”

  “That,” Marge spat, “was Bruce.”

  “Bruce? You’re ex-husband Bruce? That Bruce?”

  “That Bruce. And he’s no longer mine, thank God.” Marge breathed heavily as she fought to regain her composure. She motioned for Julie to help Libby with her burden.

  Libby had momentarily forgotten about the herbs. After depositing the box in the stock room in the back, she located Marge up front, restocking a shipment of kelp capsules.

  The shop had a few customers, but, fortunately, no one had been around to witness the earlier spectacle.

  “So,” Libby began, drawing the word out. “That was Bruce, huh?”

  Marge’s jaw ticked. “What?” The run-in had left her in an understandably foul mood.

  “I know it’s none of my business, but I want to be there for you. I feel like for me to do that, I need the scoop.”

  It was a long while and several bottles of kelp later before Marge answered. “A couple years back, he
cheated on me with that hussy you heard him talking about.”

  “Michelle?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Who’s now pregnant.”

  Marge nodded. “He’d been seeing her off and on for a few years.” She turned watery eyes towards Libby. “Years, Red.”

  Libby swore and put a comforting hand on the woman’s shoulder. Bruce appeared to have weathered the years well, but she pegged him to be around Marge’s age. “I’m guessing this gal is several years his junior?”

  “She’s half his age,” Marge spit out. “I have nothing against age gaps, mind you. Love knows no bounds and all that horse manure. But we’re talking nearly thirty years. I can’t help—” her voice caught. She swallowed and blinked. “I can’t help but feel he replaced me with someone younger because I couldn’t give him children. Because I wasn’t enough.”

  “That’s not true. You’re more than enough. If I’m being honest, you’re too much sometimes.”

  Marge’s near-sob turned into a raspy chuckle before she pressed that dirty handkerchief to her eyes.

  “I’m sorry that happened to you,” Libby pressed on. “He’s the one lacking. Not you. He needed someone younger because he’s immature. And I’m basing that purely on the few minutes I saw him today and the fact that he cheated on someone as great as you.”

  Her eyes sufficiently dry, the apothecary rolled her shoulders back, the fight in her gaze returning. “Thanks, Red. I’m fine now. Just a moment of weakness.”

  “Emotion is never a weakness.” A lesson Libby still struggled to grasp. “Hey, maybe later on we can stink bomb his house again. Would that help you feel better?”

  Marge cracked a smile. “You read my mind.”

  For lunch and much of the early afternoon, Libby divided her time between gardening in her greenhouse with Orchid underfoot and attempting a potion. Arlene’s Smooth Skin was proving to be more difficult to brew than she had expected.

  As a beginner potionist, she was still learning the craft, picking the easiest recipes to make from her potion book, The Art of Potion Making. Who knew vanity could be so taxing?

  She leaned against a work table in the double-wide underground shipping container that served as her lab, scouring the recipe to see where she had gone wrong.

  Her best guess was one of the middle ingredients. It called for “morning dew collected off of freshly cut grass.” When measuring out this ingredient, she had utilized a graduated pipette which was typically pretty accurate. However, a lack of sleep and too much caffeine did not make for smooth hands. It was possible that she had measured out too much.

  The other possibility was that one of the two ingredients in the top notes had been added incorrectly. In a potion recipe, the top ingredients were the smallest quantity, as well as the most potent. They were also the easiest to mess up, being as finicky as a toddler’s palate.

  One of the top ingredients in Smooth Skin was the captured essence of the “first drops of rain hitting a sun-baked sidewalk.” What that had to do with smooth skin, she couldn’t be sure. Perhaps it captured the essence of youth?

  Surprisingly, she had discovered a repurposed perfume bottle labeled with said essence, but she had been unsure of how to add the ingredient to her bubbling solution. She ended up spritzing it into the beaker at the end.

  Now she wondered, though, if it wouldn’t have been better to have converted the vapor into a liquid using the water jacket condenser and mix it into the solution that way.

  Her head hurt from all of the chemistry and the stuffy air caused by the Bunsen burner. She shut off the flame and climbed the ladder, her shoes clinking on each metal rung. Inside the greenhouse, the air was humid but fresh, full of the scent of jasmine and dozens of other fragrances.

  With a shiver of leaves, Ivy dragged the metal cover back into place. She rewarded the plant by dousing the dirt with Arlene’s special mixture of potion-ladened water.

  Meowing, Orchid wove through her legs, no doubt indignant with how little time Libby had been spending with her lately. Sitting, she scratched the cat behind the ears and under the chin, explaining why she’d been preoccupied the last couple of days.

  “I know this doesn’t mean much to you, but my friend was killed.”

  The cat purred, but Libby knew from her couple of short conversations with the feline that Orchid knew what she was saying. While watching the Norwegian Forest cat’s fluffy tail swish back and forth, a thought struck her.

  She smacked her forehead, wondering why she hadn’t thought of it before. Staying up late really didn’t agree with the neurons in her brain. That and thinking as a potionist still wasn’t her default.

  She jumped to her feet, causing Orchid’s ears to flatten.

  “Sorry, I’ll be back. I promise. But right now, I’ve got a murder to solve.”

  Chapter Eleven

  LIBBY POUNDED ON Marge’s door a third time. Finally, it cracked open.

  “Hey, I need to—” Libby sniffed. The aroma of steak wafted out in an almost palpable cloud. “Is that garlic mashed potatoes I smell?”

  “It’s my dinner.”

  “You eat dinner at four o’clock?”

  “Today I do.”

  Libby licked her lips. “Well, it smells amazing. I didn’t really have lunch.” They stared at each other a moment before Marge relented with a heavily annoyed sigh as she opened the door wider. “I’d have to thaw a second steak.”

  Libby waved the not-so-subtle guilt trip aside and stepped inside. “No, don’t bother. I’m just giving you a hard time.”

  In the kitchen, steam rose from a large dish of mashed potatoes that were whipped to the consistency of a cloud. Libby hovered above the dish and inhaled.

  Taking a hint, Marge grabbed a second plate from the cupboard. It didn’t even touch the table before Libby snatched it from her hand and slopped mounds of potatoes on top. Once there was a river of butter cascading down the white peaks, she told Marge about her idea.

  “It’s the best way to know what happened. Our very own witness.”

  “Yeah, if he saw anything.” Marge regarded the dog at her feet. His nose rooted over the linoleum in search of any precious morsels or possibly bits of pillow that had been overlooked in the cleanup.

  “He was in the same room as the body,” Libby said confidently. “I’m sure he saw something.”

  “Do you have all of the ingredients you need to make another batch?”

  Libby’s spoon paused mid-way to her mouth, her eyes scrunching as she tried to recall the recipe. She’d made it a few times—more than twice if she included unsuccessful attempts.

  “I think so. But I am getting low on soapwort.” She stuffed a spoonful into her mouth then added, “Not that the recipe calls for that. I just remembered and thought I’d mention it.”

  After inhaling the rest of her potatoes, deeming it a snack until she could microwave a meal at home, Libby collected her sample from Max. It took a bit of agility and creativity since the pup thought they were playing a game of tag, involving her hand and his tongue.

  A while later, she shook the hairs in a ziplock baggie and stood. “Right. I’ll call once it’s done brewing. Should take no more than a couple of hours.”

  Marge walked her to the door and told her she’d see her soon. A short drive, a nuked burrito, and a small chemical fire later, Libby stood in her lab, waiting for the latest batch of Pet Whisperer to cool in its beaker before transferring it to a vial.

  To pass the time, she rummaged through the extensive collection of ingredients that spanned several shelves and made a list of the ones she was low on.

  After that, she moved onto the potion cabinet. It was a bit overwhelming to see the dusty bottles three deep from floor to ceiling. So far, she hadn’t done much more than poke around, noting their faded labels. Some of them had shorter shelf lives than others, so eventually, she would need to sort through them and toss the old ones.

  At this point, the vast majority were little m
ore than clutter. However, there was a handful kept near the front that she used and depended upon. With pride, she noted that the couple bottles of Pet Whisperer she’d made blended in with Arlene’s vast collection.

  She jotted down a note on the pad of paper that she was halfway through the mixture she’d custom-made to speak with Orchid, which meant she’d have to whip up another batch soon. The problem was that, amongst other ingredients, it called for powdered huckleberries, two drops of water from the Mediterranean, distilled oil from broccoli blooms, and centipede legs.

  She consulted the ingredient list she’d just made. Her broccoli bloom oil was nearly depleted, with enough for maybe one more recipe.

  In the greenhouse above, broccoli grew in a large bed near the back, but it wasn’t in bloom yet. Her pen scratched over the paper as she jotted down the ingredient. Perhaps she could borrow some of the oil from Marge.

  Setting the list aside, she checked the thermometer swimming in her potion beaker before carefully pouring the liquid into its new glass container. It was Nickelodeon slime-green, with an almost ethereal, radio-active glow that screamed if consumed, one would surely sprout extra appendages—a side effect with which she was familiar.

  A slight shiver of anticipation tingled up her spine at having successfully brewed another potion without incident (except for the small fire). If she were being honest, though, some of the shiver was more of a shudder over the fact that this potion contained smoked dog hair from Max. It was the top, essential ingredient that gave the potion its effect, but she still wished Pet Whisperer didn’t have to be ingested.

  Holding the full bottle under the buzzing bulb overhead, she whispered, “Hair of the dog, indeed.”

  Back at Marge’s, they sat in her living room. A small fire blazed in the hearth to combat the cool wind blowing in from the bay. Libby suspected there was more than just log rounds keeping the blaze fed because, occasionally, a pop emanated from within and golden, glowing butterflies fluttered out. The insects lasted a few moments before puffing into wisps of yellow smoke.