Ghostly Garlic

by Ami Diane

  Libby clutched her chest, waiting for her pulse to stabilize before she fed the feline. When she finished, they got down to business. Marge informed her that they would be making a Balloon potion.

  “How does a balloon qualify as defensive?”

  “Well, imagine if an AWC member is chasing you—”

  “Does that happen often?”

  “More than you’d think, but let’s go with, say, an animal instead. Now, what if you’re hiking through the forest and a cougar is coming at you. What do you do?”

  “Scream like a little girl and get into the fetal position,” Libby said automatically.

  “Right. Well, let’s say you’re not a wuss. Then what would you do?”

  Libby tapped her chin. “Shoot it with the handgun I didn’t know I had?”

  “Let’s table that idea. Now, in a hypothetical instance like that, wouldn’t it be nice if you sprayed an aerosol at the predator that caused them to expand like a balloon?”

  Again, Libby’s imagination went wild, picturing a mountain lion inflating into a ball like Violet in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. The movie had been one of her favorites while growing up, evident by the fact that her parents had to buy a second VHS of the movie after Libby had worn out the first one.

  She rubbed her hands together then rolled up her sleeves. “Let’s do this.”

  A purplish liquid—what Libby was mentally dubbing a violent violet shade—bubbled in a flask. She had drudged up glassware from her lab, including the equipment required for distilling the essential oil currently dripping into the flask.

  Nearby, Marge swept up the remainder of a broken graduated cylinder into a dustpan and said, “Who knew you could move so fast?”

  “Well, if you’d warned me that you were going to reanimate the spiders before boiling them, we wouldn’t be in this mess.” Libby bent until she was eye-level with the setup. “What would the effects be in their current state, you know, before they’re aerosolized? Wait, is that a word?”

  “You mean if it touched someone in its liquid form?” Marge shrugged. “Not sure.”

  At the end of the tube was a pump bottle that Marge had bought online. She noticed Libby eyeing it and explained that once finished brewing, the liquid would be added to the bottle. The spray top that screwed on created a suction when pumped that released a fine mist when depressed.

  “How’s that different than a spray bottle?”

  “It-it just is. This bottle is specifically designed for oils or other thick liquids.”

  The sound of beating wings interrupted them as Jasper flew into the kitchen, cawing up a storm.

  “Alright, hold your feathers. I’ll feed you—Jasper, no!”

  The raven landed near the chemistry setup. As his giant wingspan folded in, the tip of his left wing knocked against the flask.

  The glass teetered.

  Libby’s hand shot out to steady it, and the flask seared her skin. She yelped and flinched, sending violent violet liquid sloshing over the side.

  She ran to the kitchen sink and thrust her skin under running water, hoping the few droplets wouldn’t inflate her and recreate the scene from a beloved childhood movie.

  The flask remained standing on the counter, and Libby experienced a fleeting moment of relief before Marge let out a gargled yell.

  Libby wrenched her head around and breathed, “Oh boy.”

  Jasper had not been unscathed. The raven rolled around on the counter like a bowling ball, squawking indignantly.

  Libby stared in horror. “What do we do?”

  Marge appeared dumbstruck. Libby seized the poor bird and ran him under the faucet, hoping to neutralize whatever chemical reaction was taking place and prevent him from getting bigger.

  Jasper, like most birds, loved rain. He did not, as it turned out, enjoy being shoved under a deluge of tap water. He flapped his wings, shrieking, and she was certain that if she swallowed the Pet Whisperer batch she’d made for him, she’d be getting an earful of avian cursing.

  Marge tipped her handbag over, dumping the rest of the contents onto the counter. She frantically shoved vials, a bag of cookies, and brass knuckles aside. Her hand came up triumphantly with a silver cylinder identical to the pump spray bottle already on the counter.

  “That better be the reverse potion.”

  “It is. Hold him down.” Marge rushed over while Libby played sumo wrestler against a feathery balloon with talons.

  “Hold still, you stupid crow.”

  Jasper clawed her.

  “If you hold still, we can fix this, and don’t even pretend like you don’t understand me.”

  The raven’s thrashing eased a fraction, but that could’ve just been wishful thinking. Marge, who’d been pumping the bottle for the last minute, thrust out the canister. Her thumb jammed down on the top, and a cerulean blue mist with shimmering black glitter sprayed out.

  The apothecary held the dispenser over the bird and doused him with the spray. It filled the room with a pungent odor akin to wet dog and freshly laid tar.

  Slowly, Jasper shrank. The eery squeal of a balloon deflating accompanied the transition. Five minutes, two bloody arms, and a cawing blue glittery raven later, Libby slumped against the counter while Marge attempted to wipe down the bird.

  Halfway through his sponge bath, he made a break for it and flew into the library.

  “Good enough.” Marge tossed the dishrag into the sink and wiped her forehead. “It’s good to know that the effect of Balloon is the same in liquid form.”

  “Is it though? I mean, I’m so glad we learned that lesson. It wasn’t at all costly.” Libby turned her arms in the light. It was going to take an entire bottle of antiseptic to clean her war wounds.

  Beside her, Marge clicked her tongue. “That went more or less as I expected.”

  “Me too, actually.” Libby wasn’t sure if that meant this was standard fare for even a seasoned potionist or if they both sucked at brewing. Two months of experience and a sinking feeling told her that she could expect similar adventures in her future.

  Libby used her arm to sweep her equipment into a box then took it to her lab. After they’d cleaned up the rest of the mess in the kitchen and poured the remainder of Balloon into the new canister, Marge packed away the contents of her purse. Eventually, the marble countertop shone in the dull light seeping through the blinds.

  They sat at the table, recuperating and eating ice cream.

  “I suppose you need to get home soon to let Max out,” Libby said around a mouthful of cookie dough ice cream.

  “I stopped by after work before coming here and took him for a walk. He’ll be okay. Why? Did you want to try to make another potion?” Her eyes lit up. “Set off more bottle rockets?”

  Libby quickly squashed that idea. “Actually, I was wondering if you wanted to use the Pet Whisperer potion again.” She ran a finger over a scratch on the table, not meeting Marge’s gaze.

  “I’m not sure what more we can glean from Max.”

  “Not Max. I want to talk to Orchid about my mother again.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  THEY TOOK THE pet potion again sublingually and stationed themselves in the living room where Orchid was stretched out on the floor in a patch of light. After some careful contorting, Libby sat cross-legged on the floor beside the cat. To put the tetchy feline in a good mood, she scratched under her chin and called the Orchid’s name.

  The Norwegian Forest cat’s luminous, jade-colored eyes slowly opened when Libby pulled her hand away.

  “Sorry to bother you, your highness, but we wanted to talk to you about my mother. Your previous human.”

  Orchid meowed. The sound hit Libby’s ears like it always did, only thoughts and images sprouted up, accompanying the noises.

  And I told you, I want wet food. Yet here we are.

  Libby murmured out of the side of her mouth at Marge. “Told you.” The cat was almost as sassy as Jasper but had her soft moments, unlike that can
tankerous bird. She wondered what the lifespan of a raven was.

  “Tell you what, I’ll feed you a can of wet food once a week for a month if you answer our questions.” Did cats even have a concept of the passage time? Other than nap time, playtime, and food time, that is.

  Very well. If you must. The feline rolled onto her back for the world to see her generous, furry belly.

  Libby gently swept her fingers through the long fur and brought Marge up to speed on what she knew about her mother’s murder, gleaned from both Orchid and the detective working the case. According to the detective, the killer had busted in through the front door, and her mother had been stabbed three times between 1:00 and 5:00 a.m.

  From what she’d inferred through her conversations with Orchid was that the killer had worn dark clothing and had used a knife to do the deed. The knife had been obvious as that was what, generally, created stab wounds.

  “Orchid, I need you to remember your previous house and your previous human and the day she came to be no more. What happened when the…” she dug up the term the cat had used for the killer, “shadow entered through the front door?”

  Orchid flicked her tail and rolled onto her stomach. The shadow made an insufferable ruckus. First, it sang like that flying creature you keep, then it pounded on the door.

  Libby tilted her head, exchanging a confused glance with Marge. There was a moment of silence as they parsed out the cat’s words.

  Then Marge said, “I think she means the person rang the doorbell.”

  Libby jumped to her feet, startling Orchid. “When I ring the doorbell, ask her if it’s a similar sound.”

  She ran onto her porch, careful not to close the door completely since the knob was still missing. She pressed the doorbell and heard the notes bounce around the cavernous house.

  Back in the living room, she stared expectantly at the duo. “Well?”

  “She said it was similar.”

  Libby pumped her fist in the air. Another piece to the puzzle. The oriental rug rubbed against her bare feet as she sat again. “What did your human do when she heard that noise?”

  My human ran and hid.

  “She hid?” Her mother had been an intelligent woman. She must have figured at that time of night, whoever was at the door was up to no good.

  “Orchid, when your human heard that noise and before she hid, did your human look to see who was there?”

  How would I know?

  Marge spoke up. “Humans have small holes in their doors so they can peek out and see who’s on the other side. Did your human put her face to the door?”

  Yes, she did this. I thought it strange.

  They were making progress. Libby glanced at the clock before swiping her damp palms down her legs.

  “Where did she hide?”

  In that glorious room with my food. Orchid paused mid-lick of her paw and leveled a glare at Libby. My food from a can.

  “Yes, we get it. You love wet food. And, FYI, that room is called a kitchen. What did my mother—your human—do when she ran into the kitchen?”

  Hid.

  “She didn’t grab a claw?” Libby craned her head back at the couch and explained to Marge, “Claw means knife.”

  The Norwegian Forest cat rolled and groomed the long, luxurious fur covering her stomach. My human already had the claw.

  “What? When did she get the claw?” When her question was met by the sound of focused licking, Libby leaned over, getting in the cat’s face. “Orchid, did your human already grab the claw after she saw who was on the other side? After she pressed her face to the door?”

  Before. My human had the claw where it sleeps.

  “She had the knife in bed with her?” Libby sat back, her mind reeling. “My mother felt in danger before her killer showed up.”

  “Did she have any enemies?” Marge asked.

  “No. She was a sweet person. Everyone loved her.”

  “What about at work? Any problems with coworkers?”

  Libby shook her head. “She was a nurse at OHSU. Seriously, everyone there loved her.”

  Marge’s breath hedged before she spoke again. “What about your father?”

  Folding her knees up, Libby hugged them. “He’s been out of the picture for a long time.”

  “But were they in touch recently? Was there animosity between them?”

  “I don’t think she’d spoken to him in years. He split when I was twelve.”

  “Do you know why?”

  The twisting in Libby’s gut that always accompanied thoughts of her father took root. “She said they just stopped getting along. Could never work it out. They fought nearly constantly and weren’t very good at hiding it. But it was never about anything in particular. He was just… broken.”

  “Some people are.” The lines in Marge’s face deepened, speaking of experience.

  Maybe this did have something to do with her father. She wished she had asked more questions about their separation and subsequent divorce. When the good times became less frequent, then when they became a memory, she blocked out much of the years that followed. For the life of her, she couldn’t remember particulars of a single argument between her parents. She only recalled them shouting at each other before she shoved her headphones on and cranked up the volume on her Walkman like the 1980s child she was.

  A voice came from far away, pulling her back to the present, and she realized Marge was speaking to Orchid.

  The cat’s ears twitched, and she meowed. Unlike the other cries, this came with no mental translation.

  Libby looked at the clock. “The potion ran out.” They had gotten much farther than she had hoped.

  Marge struggled off of the couch. “Time for a snack. You okay, Red?”

  Libby swallowed past the lump that had been forming in her throat. “Marge, what did my mother get herself into?”

  The older woman let out a deep breath. “The only way to answer that is to dig into her past and into that time of her life. Maybe we should take a road trip south and talk with some of her friends?”

  An icy sensation crawled through Libby’s chest like fingers. She stood. “No. I’m sure the detective already did that. If she was mixed up in something, the last thing I want is your help.”

  Marge’s face pinched, her expression full of pain.

  “I just mean, I don’t need another person I care about dying on me.” Libby struggled to shrug off her ennui as she led them to the kitchen. “Although, with the way you eat and the kind of potions you make, it’s a miracle you’ve lived this long.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “YOU SURE THIS is the place?”

  “Positive.”

  It was Sunday morning, and Libby squinted through her dirty windshield at the RV resort sprawled out over a cliff overlooking the ocean. It spread deep into the trees, the Chinese Arborvitae masking very expensive motorhomes and fifth wheelers from view.

  “I guess it helps that he works Sundays rather, so we don’t have to visit him at home,” she said.

  “This is his home. He and his wife are park hosts.”

  Libby looked from the patches of grass to the indoor swimming pool attached to the clubhouse. “Not bad.”

  After they located a parking spot in front of the clubhouse, they strolled across the expanse of pavement, and Libby upgraded her “not bad” comment to carefully planning her retirement in such a place.

  “Marge, you should live here. They have mini-golf and, look—” she jabbed a finger towards a flyer taped to the window. “Bingo night. You love Bingo.”

  “I’ve never played.”

  “Really? I thought everyone over a certain age played. Isn’t it a requirement? There are annual checkups, getting hearing aids, then Bingo halls.”

  Marge rounded on her. “Just how old do you think I am?”

  Surveying the potionist up and down, from her spiky silver hair to her sensible shoes, Libby tapped her chin. “Sixty? No, wait. Fifty. No, wait. Seventy.” She nodde
d to herself. “Final answer, sixty-five.”

  Without a word, Marge stuck up her middle finger and resumed walking. After wandering, the duo finally found the host site where Brent Stevens’s long fifth wheel was parked. It had two slide-outs on one side and a smaller one on the other for what was probably the master bedroom.

  Unlike many of the surrounding spots, his had personal lawn furniture and decor, complete with a garden gnome. All of it basked in the shade of a large red alder tree.

  “Very kitsch.” She pointed at a pink flamingo, drawing a look from Marge. “What?”

  The older woman knocked on the RV door then turned so Libby could see her outfit. She unzipped her jacket, revealing a gaudy shirt of neon colors and flamingos riding on slices of pizzas like they were flying carpets.

  Libby struggled for words before landing on: “Are those lasers? Are the flamingos shooting lasers from their eyes? Where did you even find something like that?” She snapped her fingers. “Wait, don’t tell me. Shopping channel?”

  Marge zipped up her jacket. “They were having a special. Buy three, get one for free.”

  “You sure it wasn’t the other way around? Buy one, get three free?” Her eyes widened. “Oh my gosh. That means there are three more shirts like that at your home.”

  Marge sniffed. “Don’t be absurd. They’re not just like it.” When the third bout of knocking didn’t produce Brent, she said, “I don’t think he’s home.”

  “He’s probably off doing maintenance or something. I don’t know how these parks work.”

  “This is a resort.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “You said ‘parks’. RV resorts are different than parks.”

  Libby opened her mouth then closed it when she realized she didn’t care to learn what made the distinction. A new voice broke into their conversation.

  “If you’re looking for Brent, I saw him helping some guy dump his black tank a couple rows over.”

  From where she stood on the RV steps, Libby looked down and found her eyes had to travel extra far before they met a squat woman wearing a sun visor and walking a small poodle.