Ghostly Garlic

by Ami Diane

  “Thanks.” She hopped down. “Where about?”

  The woman pointed in a general direction. “Can’t miss it. Just follow the smell.” Whistling at her little yapping, furry bundle of joy, she strolled on her way.

  As they ambled over to where the woman had indicated, Libby began carefully, “So… these other shirts. Do they have lasers, too?”

  “Maybe.”

  “And pizza slices?” She could tell by the coloring in her fellow potionist’s cheeks that the answer to that was affirmative. “And they’re different from this one, how?”

  “They have cats.”

  Libby’s grin widened.

  “Don’t say nothing, Red, or I’ll force you to wear one.”

  Libby placed her hand on her chest and gasped. “I would never say anything mean about your attire.”

  “Then wipe that smirk off your face.”

  When the woman walking the adorable ankle biter had mentioned a ‘black tank’, Libby hadn’t known what it meant. But when an overwhelming stench hit them before they even set eyes on Brent, she quickly learned what it was.

  The term was RV speak for the black water sewage holding. And the smell was more than a stench. It was a nostril hair-curling affront to all senses. Libby felt it in the way her eyes watered and the prickle of her skin. If it were possible for an odor to emit color, then she was sure this was gradients of puke green and vile brown.

  “Just plug your nose and breathe through your mouth,” Marge instructed as she did the same.

  Libby tried but quickly found another sense awakened. “Ugh, it’s on my tongue. Oh God, I taste it.” Pulling up her shirt, she used it as a gas mask which only marginally improved the assault.

  Two men worked an accordion hose from a trailer to a hole in the ground. Since she didn’t recognize the one, she took the other wearing a baseball cap to be Brent, but it was hard to tell from where they stood.

  Libby and Marge quickly agreed it was best to wait until the man was done doing whatever it was he was doing before asking him questions. They sat at a picnic table a few yards away, upwind, and kept conversation to a minimum to avoid having to open their mouths.

  Finally, Brent had the trailer owner squared away, slapped him on the back, then aimed for his fifth wheel. Taking their cue, Libby and Marge waved him over.

  His genial expression shifted to recognition then to suspicion as he drew near.

  “Ladies.” The tone in his voice was anything but inviting. “Are you camping here?” His eyes flitted over their heads at the other trailers.

  Libby reclined back, leaning an elbow on the table. “No, but I’m considering it now. This place is nice.”

  Next to her, Marge pointed at the empty bench on the other side. “You have a minute?”

  Slowly, he lowered to the bench, his eyes remaining slits. “Perhaps. What’s this about?”

  “We just want to chat,” Marge said lightly. “You heard about Beatrice, right?”

  His chin dipped in a subtle nod. If he held any remorse or sympathy, he didn’t show it. Oddly, no flicker of emotion passed over his carved features.

  “You were assigned as her watcher, right?” Libby interlaced her fingers and sat forward.

  “I don’t know where you heard that—”

  “Come on. There’s no reason to deny it.”

  “We’re not accusing you of killing her,” Marge said.

  “We’re not?” Libby whispered loudly.

  The apothecary ignored her. “We were simply wondering if you were watching her house that day after the car wash.”

  His lips twitched. “And why would I tell you anything?”

  “That’s a great question,” Libby said. One she’d been asking herself. “Marge?”

  The apothecary rolled her eyes. “Because deep down you’re a good person—well, an okay person—who wants to do right by an old lady.”

  “Unless you killed her,” Libby added helpfully. “In which case, you wouldn’t tell us anything.” She could swear he let out a small growl.

  “I don’t have to tell you anything.” He stabbed a finger at them. “And that doesn’t mean I killed her.” He began to untangle himself from the picnic table.

  “But you can at least tell us if you were watching her place that night, right? I saw you staking out the carwash. Don’t tell me you didn’t follow her home.”

  This time, the growl couldn’t be mistaken for her imagination. “If I ever see you two witches here again, I’ll burn you.” He stomped off.

  “What does that even mean?” she called out. “Like at the stake?” Then quieter to Marge. “It was metaphorical, right? He doesn’t mean actually burning us at the stake, yeah?”

  Marge’s hand brushed over her attire. “I hope not. I’m pretty sure my jacket would catch fire quicker than gasoline.”

  “And your shirt too. It’d be such a shame to lose a fine piece of artwork like that.”

  As they walked back to her car, Libby’s thoughts rolled around so fast they tumbled over each other. “Hey, you didn’t notice his car when we went to Bea’s that night, did you?”

  Marge shook her head.

  “That’s what I thought. So, either he was never there, or he was and he left before we arrived.”

  When they stopped alongside her Honda, they got a surprise in the form of a tall tan uniform. Deputy Jackson’s black hair stood out against the overcast sky.

  “Libby? Marge? What are you two doing here?”

  “Selling Girl Scout Cookies.” Libby frowned. “What are you doing here?”

  His voice took on an official tone. “What are you really doing here?”

  “Looking for more donations for our fundraiser?” She looked to Marge for help.

  “My fireworks guy lives in this park.”

  Libby closed her eyes a moment to keep from strangling her friend. When she opened them, Jackson seemed to take the comment in stride.

  “You sure that’s all he deals?” he asked.

  “You know, it’s been a long day, and I’m beat. When you get to be my age—” she spared a hard look at Libby “—which is forty-five, your energy just isn’t what it used to be.”

  Jackson snorted. “If you’re forty-five, then I’m Peyton Manning riding a purple unicorn.”

  “Nice,” Libby murmured.

  “Who?” Marge said. “Is that a hockey guy?”

  Libby blinked. “No. Football, you weirdo. How do you not know who Peyton Manning is?” She cleared her throat, turning back to the deputy. “Not the point. You’re not here because of a complaint, are you?”

  “No. Should I be? What did you two do now?”

  “Nothing,” they said at the same time.

  He shook his head and muttered something under his breath that sounded an awful lot like “lock them up.” He gazed down the rows of RVs, in the direction of Brent’s. “Did Bea ever talk about getting a restraining order against anyone?”

  Libby shook her head, glancing over at Marge. By the expression on her face, this was news to her, as well.

  “Who did she file a restraining order against?” Marge asked.

  Libby knew the answer before he said it.

  “Brent Stevens.”

  After Marge took Max for a walk, they convened in her living room. Libby sunk into the deep recesses of the overstuffed couch and stared at the empty fireplace.

  A minute later, Marge placed a ham and cheese sandwich in Libby’s lap and dropped a bag of chips onto the coffee table. “That’ll have to do, so we can get to our lesson.”

  A lesson two days in a row was draining, but Marge had insisted that Libby needed the practice.

  “Come on. Eat up.” Marge spoke around an enormous bite. “We’re running out of daylight.”

  Libby didn’t like the sound of that. “What does that matter? We’re not going to have to wade out into the tide pools when the sun is at its zenith or something, are we?”

  “Not unless you want to grow worts, no.” M
arge turned her wrist, glancing at her watch. “You’ll see.”

  Now Libby really didn’t like the sound of that.

  A chip crunched in her mouth. “Did Bea ever miss a book club meeting?”

  “Never. Not even after hernia surgery.”

  “So, it’s fairly safe to assume the murder took place between the time we finished the car wash around 4:00 p.m. and the beginning of our meeting at 6:30 p.m.”

  “Sounds about right.”

  Cheese stuck to the roof of Libby’s mouth as she chewed on her sandwich. “Why do you think Brent wouldn’t tell us where he was after the fundraiser? The only reason I can think of is he doesn’t want to put himself at the crime scene during the time of death.”

  “That’s a possibility. It’s also an even stronger possibility that he just dislikes us and he’s a douche.”

  Libby conceded on that point.

  Marge’s jaw, which had been working overtime like she was chewing cud, froze. “There might be another way to find out where he was during that time.”

  “How?”

  “He’s married, isn’t he?”

  “Ask the wife?”

  Marge nodded and resumed chewing, her expression pensive. When she stuffed the last bit of crust into her mouth, she bound to her feet with more pep than a woman her age had any right to.

  She rubbed her palms together, her eyes gleaming. “Come on, into the kitchen. We’ve got work to do.” Spinning, she waltzed out of the room.

  Libby, who wasn’t even halfway through her meal, felt a dread settling over her that had nothing to do with the temperature in the room. Whatever potion Marge had picked out for their lesson was sure to be a doozy.

  As she stood and brushed the crumbs from her shirt, she mentally ran through a checklist. She was up to date on her life insurance policy and knew where every fire extinguisher was located in Marge’s small house. That was the most prepared she could be.

  Chapter Fifteen

  MARGE WIPED HER hands down her apron, staring proudly at the puce-colored concoction now cooling on the stove. “That went rather well if I say so.”

  From her chair at the table, Libby held up two hands—two extremely bloated hands reminiscent of those Mickey Mouse plush mitt souvenirs at Disneyland.

  “Yes, well…” Marge busied herself at the sink. “You just stay there, and I’ll clean up.”

  “You sure you don’t want a hand?” Libby glowered and pushed out one of her comically enlarged ones. Despite the grotesque appearance, it didn’t hurt, which disturbed her even more. With as taut as her skin was stretched at the moment, shouldn’t she be feeling something?

  She tested her nerve endings by brushing a sausage-sized index finger over her left hand. “How long until this wears off?”

  “You should be feeling the effects of the elixir soon. Many potionists have had a similar experience when first mixing that base.”

  “That’s comforting.” It had surprised Libby to learn that there were certain set base ingredient recipes for potions, like how many variations of bread recipes.

  Moving over to the counter, she attempted to help, but the work required more delicacy than her foam fingers capable of. When it proved fruitless, she fumbled to pick the stained recipe up off the table then quickly gave up with an exasperated sigh.

  Unlike the recipes in her potion book, this page from Marge’s had no title. “Are you going to tell me what we just made?”

  Marge had her back to Libby, but the grin in her voice couldn’t be missed. “I’d rather you be surprised.”

  “Fantastic.” Libby pressed her ginormous hands over her face in what had to be the biggest face-palm in the history of the world.

  Marge slammed on the brakes, causing the car to come to a screeching halt in the parking lot of Bayside Seafood Depot. Libby slowly pried her fingers from their death grip on her seatbelt.

  When she found she could speak again, she peered out the window at her favorite place to eat. “Great, I’m starving.”

  “You just ate. And we’re not going into the depot.” After climbing out of the car, Marge pointed an arthritic finger up the sidewalk and across the street. “That’s where we’re headed.”

  Across the street from the depot was the sheriff’s office. Next to it sat a kite shop, full of fluttering rainbow tassels. Next to that building was a sea of shiny metal.

  “Why are we going to a used car lot?”

  “That’s where Bruce works.”

  It figured that Marge’s ex was a used car salesman.

  “And we didn’t park over there because…?”

  “Because I don’t want Bruce seeing us. He bought my car for Pete’s sake. He knows it.”

  “We could’ve taken mine.”

  By the tinge of pink coloring Marge’s ears and cheeks, this thought hadn’t occurred to her.

  They strode up the sidewalk and jogged across the street.

  “Here’s the plan,” Marge continued conspiratorially. “We go in, you pretend you’re browsing, just getting a feel for your options. And I’m the friend providing support. Our goal is to get inside the building.”

  “Can’t we just, I don’t know, walk in and ask to use the restroom or something?”

  “Well, yes… yes, I guess we could do that.”

  Shaking her head, Libby flexed her hands several times to be sure the swelling was all gone. The human hand was a marvel, one she swore to never take for granted again.

  The dealership building was centered in the large lot, surrounded by used vehicles glinting in the afternoon light. On their approach to the building, they were accosted by three different salesmen, who descended on them like vultures.

  By the time the duo stepped into the overly-air conditioned building, Libby felt like she’d survived some great battle, hereby forevermore known as the Battle at the Used Car Dealership. She was still workshopping the name.

  Inside the showroom, the concrete floor was stained to look like marble. Offices made of glass walls lined the interior of the building.

  A man in slate-colored slacks, a blue button-up shirt, and pearly teeth approached. “Good afternoon. How can I help you, ladies?”

  “Is there a restroom around here we can use?” Libby jerked her head pointedly at Marge. “We’re on a road trip, and I don’t think this one can make it, if you know what I mean.”

  His smile wavered. “Of course. Right this way.”

  As he walked them along the glass wall of offices, Marge slid around to Libby’s other side so she was hidden. They reached the corner of the building where the offices made an “L” along the southern side for a few paces before becoming a concrete hallway that jutted off to their left.

  Marge dug an elbow into Libby’s ribs and whispered, “That’s his office.”

  Bruce’s office sat in the corner, with an expansive view of the lot.

  “The bathroom’s down the hall on the left.” The salesman looked back at the showroom where a young couple had entered.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” he said before swimming towards his new prey.

  “What’s the plan?”

  “Now, I go to the bathroom.” Marge opened the door. “I can’t let him spot me. Wait out here, but keep your head low in case he recognizes you. When he comes out of his office, knock on the bathroom door.”

  “This is insane,” Libby told her, but Marge had already ducked into the one-commode bathroom, letting a cloud of air freshener drift into the hall.

  Libby did her best to affect a casual posture as she leaned against the wall, crossing her arms. When a saleswoman walked past, Libby nodded a greeting and rolled her eyes in the direction of the closed restroom door, mentioning something about her grandmother’s bladder.

  After several minutes, she stole a peek at Bruce’s office.

  He sat behind a large, cheap desk, leaning back in his chair, his cell phone glued to his ear.

  “Forget this.” Libby pulled her phone from her back pocket, searched fo
r the dealership’s number, then dialed. A chipper woman answered on the second ring.

  When Libby pulled the phone from her ear, she could still hear the woman’s words bounce along the hallway from an open doorway near the showroom. Libby turned, dropping her voice so the woman wouldn’t notice the echo.

  “Hi, um, I was at your lot the other day, and a nice gentleman showed me around. I’ve been thinking about it, and what the heck, I’ve decided to go ahead and get—” she scanned the cars outside “—that yellow Hummer, after all.”

  “Oh, excellent.”

  “But I have a few followup questions before I get started on the paperwork. I was wondering if Bruce was in?”

  “Sure, why don’t I connect you.”

  “Actually, I’m in the area and about to pull in. Can you have him meet me out front?”

  The woman said that would be no problem and hung up. Libby resisted the urge to twirl an invisible mustache like an evil cartoon villain.

  A moment later, Bruce’s office phone buzzed, and he picked up, listening. His face pinched with confusion which he followed up with a barely visible shrug. After hanging up, he glanced out the bay of windows overlooking the lot, searching, before he marched out of his office.

  After he crossed the expansive showroom floor and stepped outside, she jogged to the bathroom and pounded on the door.

  It flew open. “I said ‘knock’. Not beat the door senseless.”

  “Hurry. I don’t know how long he’ll be outside.”

  As they stole towards his office, she gave a rushed recount of her ruse.

  “Stand guard,” Marge instructed before bolting into the exposed office.

  Libby’s mouth fell open. How was she supposed to guard an office made of glass? Muttering under her breath, she stood in front of the glass door and tried to make herself bigger to conceal as much as she could, because looking like an inflated bear wasn’t suspicious.

  If anyone passed by, not only would they see Marge doing whatever the deuce she was doing, but they would see Libby standing like a sumo wrestler.