by Ami Diane
She exchanged a wicked smile with Marge. “I hate to see people drink alone.”
“He sure looks lonely to me,” Marge agreed. “It’s the least we could do.”
When they reached his table, Libby pulled out the chair across from him, making sure the legs screeched on the floor while Marge turned around a third, vacant seat and joined them at the café table.
Marty’s expression upon seeing them was a mixture of shock and dismay followed immediately by paranoia. His eyes cast about the room.
“What are you doing? I can’t be seen talking to you.”
“Why not?” Libby leaned casually on the table. “Can’t a few friends sit and have coffee together?” She tore into her donut. “We heard your… fishing buddy is being looked into for stalking Beatrice.”
Marge clicked her tongue, still trying to adopt a pose that was both indifferent and comfortable, in the end, settling on a half-attempt at crossing her legs. “Such a shame.”
“Funny thing,” Libby said, taking another bite of donut, “the police suspect a fisherman might be behind the attack.” A little exaggeration and creativity might not be moral, but she certainly wasn’t going to lose sleep if it meant catching a killer.
“Yeah? I have it on good authority they’re not.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Who’s your source?”
“Who’s yours?”
They stared, at a stalemate.
She cleared her throat. “Out of curiosity, how much fishing does Brent do?”
“N-none? I don’t know. Why’re you asking me?”
“Look, the man was spying on our friend, yet oddly, the night of the murder, he’s mum about his whereabouts. Why do you suppose that is?”
“Because,” Marge picked up, “he doesn’t want to implicate himself.”
“Sounds about right.” Libby studied the journalist’s face for a hint of a micro-expression that might give him away.
Marty’s eyes hadn’t stopped their constant swivel of the room, but now, they settled on Libby. “He didn’t do it.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he wasn’t scheduled on watch that night. I checked the logs myself when I heard LEOs were asking him questions.”
“You guys actually draw up a schedule to spy on us? Well, that’s not creepy.” She drummed her fingers, thinking. “Maybe he went to Bea’s anyway.”
One of his trench coat-clad shoulders lifted in a partial shrug. “I suppose that’s possible. But…” He stopped and drank from his cup.
“But what?” Marge prodded.
“Well, the man has seemed preoccupied lately. Don’t get me wrong, he’s committed to the cause.” The word “cause” sounded like profanity to Libby’s ears, but it lit a spark behind his eyes. “He seemed as if he had other stuff on his plate. He missed a few meetings, skipped a couple of his watches. Stuff like that. It’s probably on account of his problems with the missus.”
He downed his coffee and stood abruptly, donning his fedora. “I can’t be seen with you lot. You’ve no idea what they’ll do to me.” He took a step. “Don’t contact me again, you hear?”
With that, he marched out the door. After a minute of lead time for the man, Libby and Marge wandered to the front. Two coffees to-go sat cooling on the counter.
Libby handed one to Marge, and they left. Outside, they walked at a slow pace, drinking in the fresh, salty air as they made their way towards Mother Nature’s Apothecary.
“If Brent really wasn’t there that night,” Libby began, “then that means we’ve been looking at the wrong man.”
“It also begs the question: where was Brent if he wasn’t at home and wasn’t scheduled to stalk Bea?”
Libby swallowed the last of her donut, mulling over these questions. “What if he was working with someone? What if he knew someone was going to attack Bea, so he made sure not to be there?”
“Then wouldn’t he have made sure to have a foolproof alibi?”
“You got me there.” Maybe the man had gone to Bea’s after all and kept it off the books, so to speak. “Can we use the Pathfinder potion to see where he was that night?”
“If we knew an origin point, yes. But I believe it’d be so riddled now with more recent paths, it’d be next to impossible.”
Libby’s feet stuttered, and her hand flew to Marge’s arm, stopping the woman. “I know how we can find out if Brent is the murderer.”
“How?”
“Max.”
The older potionist’s eyebrow knitted. “But we already talked to him.”
Libby bounced on her heels, excitement bubbling up. “You up for a nighttime investigation?”
“You know I am.” Marge’s expression brightened. “Oh, and I just bought the perfect outfit too.”
This last statement gave Libby pause, but she decided to roll with it. They made a plan to meet up at the apothecary’s house after dark, around eleven o’clock that evening.
Chapter Nineteen
THE DOME LIGHT in Libby’s car lit up, revealing a figure with a black ski mask and extra tight, form-hugging yoga pants that left nothing to the imagination. Marge sat down then pulled the face mask up, revealing a wide grin.
“What do you think?”
“I think you attract more attention than if you’d just worn normal clothes,” Libby said, doing her best to keep her eyes from traveling anywhere below the woman’s neck.
Marge sniffed, mumbled about Libby’s lack of fashion sense, and closed the door.
The car continued to idle, and Libby’s eyebrows rose expectantly. When it was clear Marge wasn’t catching on, she prodded, “Forgetting something?”
Marge patted her body as if her bodysuit had any pockets that weren’t suckered shut. “No… no, I’ve got my purse with everything needed: potions, binoculars, handcuffs—”
Libby held up her hand. “I don’t want to know what’s in that bag, plausible deniability and all that. But I was referring to Max. Is Max in that handbag of yours?”
With a soft curse, Marge jumped out of the vehicle and climbed the porch steps, pausing at the top to catch her breath before disappearing into her house.
An agonizing few minutes later, she returned, canine in tow, both of their tongues out. Max’s tail whipped back and forth, eagerly.
Libby called out through her window that the dachshund would have to relieve himself before she’d let them in the car. Outside the passenger-side door, Marge reached for the handle.
Quickly, Libby locked all of the doors. “I’m serious, old woman. Bathroom first.”
She couldn’t hear what Marge said, but she could tell from the roll of the potionist’s eyes and the flash of her middle finger that she was cursing Libby.
A few minutes later, they were cruising down the highway, a happy pooch in the backseat and a sour potionist pouting in the front.
When they neared the north end of town, where the bay curved and met the ocean, they reached the RV resort. Her headlights hit the row of arborvitaes bordering the property, and she slowed.
“Houston, we have a problem,” she said as she pulled over to the curb just outside the entrance.
She killed the lights, eyeing the hedge and the gated entrance. During the day, it had been easy to drive through because the registration booth had been unmanned. Now, however, a female with curly brown hair and deep red lipstick visible from several yards away stood in the lit booth, letting cars through after they checked in.
“Can we just say we’re visiting someone?” she asked the apothecary.
“We have to say who.”
“Looks like we’re sneaking through then.” Even in the dim light, Libby could see Marge’s eager expression and warned her not to get too excited. “Maybe I should’ve had you go to the bathroom first too.”
Marge’s excitement shifted to concern as if mentally ensuring she didn’t need to use the restroom. She sighed with relief. “No, I’m good. False alarm.”
Shaking her head, Libby
reached over to retrieve Max’s Pet Whisperer from the glove compartment. Next, she set a timer on her phone for fifty-five minutes then turned it to vibrate so it would silently alert her when they had five minutes left.
Beside her, Marge watched. “You do know the decay time’s not that precise, right? Our adrenaline will metabolize the potion faster.”
“Speak for yourself. I’m cool as a cucumber.”
“Right. So, that wasn’t you who dove under a picnic table when I lit off those child-sized fireworks a couple weeks back?”
“First of all, I’m from Oregon. Most of your so-called fireworks are illegal in my state. And second of all, what you call a ‘child-sized firework’ was a bomb and a blowtorch that set a tree on fire.”
Marge coughed before rolling her ski mask over her face. “It did burn rather quickly. It’s a good thing you had that fire extinguisher nearby.” After opening her door, she struggled out of the low-riding car.
Libby considered informing the woman that she’d intentionally grabbed the fire protection device when Marge had announced her early Fourth of July plans but decided against it.
Once she and Max had joined Marge on the sidewalk, Libby stole a glance around then sipped the potion before passing the slime green sludge off to Marge. The activity felt illicit, like high schoolers stealing nips of alcohol on school property. The older potionist’s attire certainly didn’t help.
Libby waited with bated breath as the now-familiar sensation warmed her insides and traveled to her extremities. The taste lingered on her tongue, a mildly pleasant flavor, despite the horrible ingredients she knew were in it. She especially tried not to think of the centipede legs and vaporized dog hair.
“Max,” she said, getting eye-level with the canine, “you mind saying something so we know this works?”
He panted. We’re outside. Can you believe it? I can’t believe it. Are we going to play? I smell grass. Hey, is that a ball over there? His tail worked furiously, causing the rest of his body to sway.
“No, bud. We can’t play right now.” She glanced up to be sure Marge was listening. “But that human behind you with the crazy hair, the one who feeds you, she told me she planned on taking you on a long walk tomorrow. And would throw a ball for you to fetch—” Marge glared and waved her hands to stop Libby “—for as long as you want.”
“Did you not see me?” Marge hissed.
“I sure did.” Libby returned her attention to the dog. “Do you remember the bad human who hurt your human? Remember their scent?”
His tongue slurped into his mouth, his ears shifting before he said, Yes. The bad human smelled like outside. Hey, we’re outside.
“Yes, that scent. Remember that smell because we want to take you to a human and see if he doesn’t smell like the bad human.”
His tongue lolled out again as if it had a mind of its own, which she took to mean he was ready. Marge wound the leash once around her hand then nodded that she, too, was ready.
“So, how do you want to play this?” Marge asked. “You want to distract Miss America over there while Max and I slip past?”
“Sure, sure. Or we can go with a less crazy plan and sneak through the hedge here.”
Marge’s eyes and mouth were the only visible parts of her face, but she was clearly frowning. “Fine, if you want to take the fun out of it.” She indicated for Libby to go first.
Forging ahead, Libby plunged between two towering Chinese Arborvitae (Thuja orientalis). As she did, she spoke to Marge over her shoulder. “Did you know that the first tree from North America to be introduced to Europe was the Chinese Arborvitae?”
Marge fired back with, “Did you know its bark and leaves, when brewed to make tea, cure scurvy?”
“Whatever,” Libby mumbled.
However useful the plant was, she found them annoying at the moment as their scraggly needles rubbed her skin and pulled at her clothes. Also, she was pretty sure she swallowed a moth while searching for an opening.
In the middle of ninja chopping a cobweb from her face, she touched a metal chain link fence.
Blast. She instructed the figure breathing down her neck to “Turn back.”
Back on the sidewalk, she wiped Marge’s smirk off her face by telling her she had a spider crawling on her mask. Turning, she listened to the sweet sounds of the potionist frantically pulling off the ski mask and stomping on it.
“Come on, Fred Astaire. We’re losing precious potion time.”
“Looks like we’ll have to go with my plan,” Marge breathed out with glee, as she fell into step beside Libby. She rolled the spider-free mask back into place, much to Libby’s disappointment.
At their feet, Max’s nails clipped happily over the sidewalk, the noise a syncopated percussion to a cricket symphony.
Libby left the two in the shadows at the edge of the gate and strode towards the registration booth. She stood in line behind a minuscule pop-up trailer while they checked in. It was the kind of camper that didn’t have a commode and didn’t have room for standing unless you liked hunching over or were a small child.
As the camper pulled away, she realized that the vehicle and driver had just provided the perfect distraction, not to mention obstructing the registration booth worker’s view. She silently chided herself for the wasted opportunity as she stepped up to the booth.
She plastered a wide smile on her face. “Hi there…” The woman’s name tag was faded and not angled for the best view, so Libby took a stab. “Hiffy?”
“Tiffany.”
“Yeah, that makes more sense. Anyway, Tiffany, I was taking on evening stroll like you do—” the worker’s eyes glanced at the clock in her booth, clearly marking the late hour “—and, gosh, if this isn’t a nice-looking park. I have an aunt wanting to come visit, and she owns a travel trailer. One of those thirty-footers. I was hoping I could tell her your rates and amenities.”
“We have a website.”
Like most females she’d met named Tiffany, her hair was a dish-water blonde and perfectly framed smooth skin and blue eyes.
“That’s great, except she’s not too comfortable using the internet, if you can imagine.”
Tiffany’s blue eyes went wide as if she couldn’t imagine anything of the sort. “Let me get a brochure you can mail to her.” She ducked behind the counter.
Meanwhile, Libby took the opportunity to glance back into the shadows. Both Marge and pup were gone.
“Here you are.” Tiffany’s lips cracked a genuine smile as she slid the brochure over.
“Do you mind if I ask you something?” Libby said abruptly. “Do you get scared working this late at night?”
Tiffany tensed. “Why do you ask?”
“Just curious,” Libby added quickly. “Seems like a fun job but a bit lonely and scary at night.”
“I keep Lucy near me.”
“Is Lucy your dog?” Libby craned her head around, searching the booth.
“No. My Glock.”
“Ah.” Libby rocked back on her heels and lifted the brochure. “Thanks for this. Hey, do you mind if I use the restroom?”
“Don’t you live around here?”
“A couple of miles away.” At the woman’s blank expression, she added, “I like long walks.”
“Maybe you should think about packing a weapon, as well.”
“Maybe.” What she couldn’t say was that if she did pack anything for defense, it would be a potion.
Tiffany pointed her in the direction of the clubhouse. The main doors were locked, the lights off. However, there was a side entrance that led directly to the restrooms.
Libby stood just inside, next to the showers, and counted silently to a minute. Peeking out, she saw Tiffany’s back as the gal appeared to be filing her nails.
Libby’s shoes slapped across the pavement, and she tried not to think of the precious minutes of Pet Whisperer she had wasted trying to get in. A quick glance at her phone revealed that they had only thirty minutes before the potion
would wear off. They should’ve waited until they were already inside before consuming it.
Pools of lights from lamps and campers made it hard to hide—not that there were many people out. Instead of stealth, she strolled casually as if she were another camper and belonged there.
A man walking a dog in the opposite direction passed her, and they exchanged greetings. Since she hadn’t set up a meeting spot with Marge, she aimed towards Brent’s parked trailer.
When she reached his spot, there was nowhere to hide except for hugging the white bark of the red alder in front of his trailer. A form moved in front of her.
Libby choked on a scream.
“Relax, Red. It’s me. What kept you?”
“I was distracting Tiffany,” she said defensively.
“Were you exchanging life stories or something?”
“If I had been, it would take half the time it would for you,” she retorted.
“Huh? Oh, I get it. Because I’m so old. Good one.”
Libby ignored the obvious sarcasm. “Since you’ve been waiting, have you poked around here at all?”
“A little. I heard Brent inside. He and Shirley sounded like they were going at it a bit ago.”
There was a long, uncomfortable stretch of silence before Libby broke it.
“Just to clarify, by ‘going at it’, you mean…”
“Fighting, Red. Fighting. Get your mind out of the clouds.”
“It’s ‘get your mind out of the gutter.’ But more importantly, did you happen to notice any fishing gear?”
“A few poles underneath. A crab pot. But nothing any other resident in Oyster Bay doesn’t own.”
Libby gnawed on her lip and tried to fight the disappointment. “Any tackle boxes?”
It was hard to see in the dark, but Marge shook her ski mask-covered head.
“Well, it was a long shot.” Even if Brent had used a fishing knife to kill Beatrice, only an idiot would keep the murder weapon. Then again, Brent didn’t strike her as a Rhodes Scholar, so maybe it was a possibility.
Squatting so she was nearer to Max, she asked him if he’d smelled anything familiar.