Ghostly Garlic

by Ami Diane

  How on earth was a person supposed to walk backward by a tree trunk and collect fungus?

  She stared at her plaid walls, floor, and ceiling. The pattern remained, but it had turned to the color of a blueberry. So, a slight improvement, she supposed, if one liked the sensation of being swaddled in a kilt.

  Sighing, she checked her watch then dashed towards the ladder. Laboratory aesthetics would have to wait. It was time to follow a hunch and, if successful, discover Brent’s alibi during the time of the murder.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  LIBBY PRESSED HER nose to the display glass and drooled at the birthday cake batter ice cream. Sprinkles gave the cream-colored dessert a festive appearance.

  “You know, she has to clean that, right?” Marge said near her ear before squealing like a little girl. “Look! They have Rocky Road!”

  The apothecary scurried over to another display and pressed both hands to the glass. When she dropped them to her sides, there was a nice set of prints on the glass.

  Behind the counter, fellow-potionist Allison Harper planted her hands on her hips and told them both to knock it off.

  “Now that you’ve dirtied up the glass, what can I get you?” A dimple pinched one cheek as she smiled.

  Even over the rich aroma of fudge, taffy, and caramel that lingered in the air, the woman’s perfume of lavender, vanilla, and ginger won out.

  Libby pointed at a waffle cone. “I’ll have one of those with the birthday cake batter ice cream.”

  “That’s not your lunch is it?”

  “Good call.” Libby tapped her chin, eyeing the array of sweets that spanned the shelves all around the old fashioned ice cream parlor. “What about that fudge? It has nuts in it. On second thought, who am I kidding? I’ll take that mint fudge there.”

  Allison tutted but began scooping Libby’s ice cream into a cone. “How you’re not a million pounds, I’ll never know.”

  She began to hand over the cone but stopped. “Wait, you don’t have a—” her voice dropped as her eyes darted to the other customers swarming around the candy bins “—you don’t have a you-know-what that burns calories, do you?”

  “No, I wish,” Libby replied then regarded Marge who just joined the conversation. “But can someone please invent that because there’s this contest I heard about, where if you finish a whole cake in one sitting, you can get free cakes for life.” She stared dreamily at nothing. “Imagine that. Cake any time you want.”

  Marge cleared her throat, bringing Libby back to reality with an order of cherry chip ice cream.

  Once both Libby and Marge were happily licking their cones, Allison cut off a thick block of fudge for Libby.

  “That looks delicious,” Marge said. “I want one of those too, please.” A rivulet of melted ice cream dribbled down her chin.

  Shaking her head, Allison lobbed off another chunk, set the two pieces in a to-go box, and totaled their goods. Libby sniffed at the closed lid while Marge paid.

  “It was kind of pointless putting it in here,” she said to Allison while shaking the container. “We’re just going to eat them once we finish our ice cream.”

  Marge nodded in agreement.

  They stayed, working on their sweets and chatting with Allison about the weather. Since the weather rarely changed, it was a short conversation.

  “Are we keeping you?” Libby asked her and inclined her head at the group of tourists still congregated near the candy.

  Allison waved dismissively. “No, they’re just browsing.” Her smooth hair fell forward as she leaned on the counter.

  Despite Libby being closest in age to Allison out of all of the other society members, she’d never felt a strong connection to the woman. But she’d also been preoccupied with other matters and had little time for socializing, a fact she now felt guilty about.

  “So,” Libby began, “as you know, Marge and I have been looking into Bea’s murder.”

  “You are? I didn’t know that. I thought the police were handling it.”

  “They are. But we’re sort of privy to information they don’t—or can’t—have,” Libby said pointedly.

  Understanding flickered across Allison’s face. “Right, of course.”

  “The thing is, one of our suspects might be a close, personal friend of yours. A very close, personal friend, if you catch my drift.” By her expression, Allison didn’t. Libby sighed.

  Marge picked up the thread of conversation. “There’s no easy way to ask this delicately, so we’re just going to come right out with it. Were you with Brent Stevens the night of the book club? The night that Bea died?”

  Allison recoiled as if she’d been struck. “I beg your pardon?”

  “We’re not trying to get you in trouble,” Marge added, hastily. “And we’re not implying you were involved.”

  “We’re not?” Libby asked before catching an elbow in her ribs. “Right, we’re not.”

  “You most certainly are.” Allison’s face was purple, and her jaw clenched and unclenched.

  Marge held her ice cream-covered hands up. “We simply want to know where Brent was that night.”

  “What makes you think I know?” Allison’s voice had gone loud and shrill in the past minute, drawing several looks from the other customers. Now, however, it dropped to a dangerous whisper.

  Libby ticked off points on her fingers. “Well first, you inferred that you were dating a married man—”

  “Insinuated,” Marge interrupted.

  “What?” Libby said, turning.

  “She insinuated or implied. You inferred.”

  “Fine, whatever—wait, no. That can’t be right.” Libby looked from Marge to Allison. “Is that the right way to say it?”

  Allison’s nostrils flared. “Yes. I implied. You inferred from my insinuation.”

  “Huh. How about that? I’ve been saying it wrong my whole life.” Libby licked her dry lips, shaking off this new revelation. “Where was I? Right. I inferred—” she paused to revel in the correct usage of the word “—that you were dating a married man.” She held up a second finger. “Two, that perfume he gave you. Max smelled something similar on Brent.”

  Allison’s face scrunched in confusion. She opened her mouth, but Libby cut her off. “Three, wait, did we have a three?” She twisted her head in Marge’s direction.

  The woman took over, allowing Libby to take a bite from her cone. “Three, you arrived a bit late to the book club meeting.”

  “Way late,” Libby added helpfully around a mouthful of waffle cone.

  “Which you’ve never done. We know for a fact Brent wasn’t scheduled to watch Bea that night, and we also know he wasn’t home.”

  Allison’s mouth hung ajar. “How do you know that?”

  “Which part?” Libby asked before taking another bite. “The part about him not being at Bea’s that night or not being home?”

  “Either. Both.”

  “Told you. We’re investigating. It’s what we do. Investigate and what not. This is a really good cone, by the way. Is it homemade?”

  Allison nodded absently. “Made fresh every couple of days.”

  “Wow. Fresh. You hear that, Marge?”

  “I’m right here. Of course, I heard it.”

  “I wasn’t sure, you know, with your hearing and all.”

  “I have excellent hearing,” Marge snapped. She brushed crumbs off of the counter, adding softly, “When I remember to use my elixir.”

  “Sure, sure.” Libby raised her eyebrows at Allison. “So, how about it? Were you with Brent that night?”

  The tips of the woman’s ears reddened. “Maybe.”

  “More importantly,” Libby continued, “did you go to Bea’s at all?”

  “No.” The word was spat from Allison’s mouth with such conviction and vehemence that left little doubt. Her face wilted. “I loved Bea. My own grandmother passed away when I was young. Bea took me in like family.” She blinked rapidly, her eyes glistening.

  Af
ter she’d dabbed at the corners of her eyes with Marge’s discarded napkin, she said in a weak voice, “After the carwash, we had dinner at my place. I’d made a meal in the crockpot earlier that afternoon because he doesn’t like going out. Said too many people would talk.

  “I didn’t want to miss our meeting because I love them and I’ve never missed one.”

  “So, you were with him from the carwash all the way up until you left for our meeting?”

  Allison nodded, and she studied the crumpled napkin in her hands. “You must think I’m awful.”

  “No.” Libby placed a comforting hand on Allison’s arm.

  “Yes,” Marge said.

  Libby’s mouth fell open. “Marge!”

  The apothecary stepped closer and lowered her voice to a dark whisper that matched Allison’s. “I know what it feels like on the other end. What you did, cavorting with a married man, is unforgivable.” Her eyes blazed.

  In hindsight, Libby probably should’ve given Marge a heads up about the cheating thing.

  Allison’s lip quivered. “But they’re separated.”

  “Actually,” Libby said gently, “I don’t think they are. They’re still living together, presumably sleeping in the same bed. Don’t ask how we know that. I mean, really. You don’t want to know.” Then gently again. “He lied to you.”

  Marge was a statue, carved from granite and rage. Hesitantly, Libby brushed her fingers on the woman’s shoulder. “Maybe you should wait outside. I’ll be right out. Here, eat some fudge. It’ll help.”

  After an eternity, the older potionist nodded and whisked out of the shop.

  “You okay?” Libby asked Allison. She certainly didn’t condone the woman’s behavior, but she blamed the potionist’s naivety more than any intentional malice.

  “She’ll never forgive me.”

  “Shirley?”

  Allison groaned and buried her hands. “I forgot about Shirley.”

  “Ah, you were talking about Marge.” Libby looked back at the door. “She’ll come around. Eventually. If there’s one thing she does understand, it’s men who lie.”

  She hated to leave Allison in such a state, but the woman had brought it upon herself. “Last question, then I’ll leave you to your work. It’s really important. Were you wearing heels that night?” She wanted to believe the doe-eyed potionist incapable of murder, but people continued to surprise her.

  Allison blinked. “Heels? As in, high-heels?”

  Libby nodded.

  “No. I own a single pair, but they were for a wedding. I haven’t worn them in three years.” She sighed. “How sad is that? I haven’t gone anyplace nice in three years.”

  The way she said it made it sound as if it was the saddest revelation in the world.

  “Want to know what’s worse?” she continued. “I’d hoped Brent would take me dancing, and I’d get to wear them.”

  “Yeah, that is sad.”

  She made a disgusted noise with her mouth. “I hope that man rots.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  LIBBY LEFT ALLISON to stare vacantly at the candy, and she stepped outside. The salty air was a fresh reprieve from the cloying sweetness inside.

  Marge paced up and down the short sidewalk in front of the ice cream parlor and candy shop, her mouth smeared with fudge. A few feet away, the discarded box sat on top of an overflowing trash bin.

  “Did you eat my fudge, too?”

  “You told me to eat some fudge. So, I ate some fudge. What’s wrong with that? I eat when I’m upset.”

  “I see that.”

  Marge glared. “Can you believe her?”

  “Right? Some people are just so inconsiderate.” Libby looked longingly at the empty box in the trash then added more to herself, “All of it, huh?”

  She shook her head. “Look, was what she did wrong? Absolutely. Even if Brent and Shirley actually were separated. But I also believe she got taken in by him, which is a whole other level of gross we need to discuss.”

  Marge rounded on her. “Did you know?”

  “Hm?”

  Seething, Marge spoke slower, each syllable deliberate and dripping with anger. “Did you know Allison was seeing him? In there, you said Allison insinuated she was seeing a married man.”

  Libby shifted on her feet. “I mean, she hinted at dating a married man but didn’t come right out and say it. I didn’t know it was Brent.”

  Marge resumed her pacing.

  “Maybe we should continue this conversation in my car,” Libby intoned.

  The gaggle of customers from inside the shop—presumably a family—had just exited, ladened with bags of candy. She gave them a polite nod before steering Marge over to her Honda.

  “I get that you’ve been hurt, but I don’t get why you’re this upset. It’s not like Shirley is your bestie, and Brent, well, he’s one of them.”

  Marge shrugged off Libby’s hand. “Because Shirley’s a decent woman who doesn’t deserve this. I’m tired of selfish, narcissistic people walking around, ruining others’ lives without any repercussions.” She shot a nasty look back at the parlor.

  “Alright, alright.” Libby unlocked her door and waited until Marge slumped into the passenger seat before starting the ignition. “Maybe we can find a way to sneak that Jackass potion into Allison’s coffee sometime.”

  Marge huffed. “Not good enough. I’m thinking a real doozy…”

  A few of the deep crevices that had been lining her face melted away. She seemed to be thinking of multiple ways for Allison to get her comeuppance, her lips moving wordlessly and fingers counting off an unknown list.

  Libby patted Marge’s arm. “That’s good. You just keep thinking.”

  The car nosed onto the main road as they headed north in the direction of Mother Nature’s Apothecary. Now wasn’t the best time to broach the subject, but Libby had been going over her finances recently, and her mother’s money was quickly running out.

  Marge had mentioned a couple of times in passing about hiring Libby to work at the shop, and she wanted to know if the offer still stood. But that question was for another time, preferably when Marge wasn’t plotting the demise of a friend.

  When Libby pulled up to the curb to drop off the potionist, Marge didn’t get out immediately.

  “I’m sorry about back there.”

  “About you eating my fudge? Because I got to say, it’s going to take me a little time to get over that.”

  Marge’s cheeks reddened. “No, the other stuff.”

  “I mean, did it have to be all of my fudge?” Libby said, barely listening.

  “I’m sorry for getting so upset about Allison and Brent.”

  “Hm? Think nothing of it.”

  After a hesitant nod, Marge got out. While Libby drove home, her mind churned over Allison’s confession which, indirectly, provided Brent’s alibi. Cheating aside, their main suspect had been somewhere else during Beatrice’s murder.

  That left Stacy as her top suspect, along with pretty much any other AWC member—except maybe Marty. She wondered how big of a pool that was. Since learning about the Potion Master Society, she knew nothing more about the Anti-Witch Coalition other than they stalked PMS members and tried to catch them in the act to expose them to the public.

  The car wound up Cottage Grove Lane. Just over the steep, rocky embankment to her left, waves crashed onto a wide swath of sand, indicating low tide. She rolled down her window to listen to the gulls cry overhead as they rode the breeze.

  After pulling into her circular driveway, she parked in front of the garage, which only served to remind her that she needed to clean it out. As she strolled along the cracked concrete path that led to her porch, the same densely overgrown Hairy manzanitas shook.

  Libby held a key out like a small shiv and stalked forward on the balls of her feet. “Hello? Who’s there? I’ve got a knife, you know.”

  The bush shivered again, this time accompanied by footsteps and an “Ow” as whoever it was attempted to
escape. A fedora flashed between branches.

  After shoving her key-turned-weapon into her pocket, she plunged both arms into the foliage and yanked.

  “Ow,” Marty howled again. He grabbed a small cut on his cheek.

  She released him, and he tripped to the gravel drive. “Marty, what in the sweet psycho are you doing in there? And don’t even try to tell me you’re searching for sand dollars. I may not have grown up on the coast, but I know you find them in actual sand.”

  Her hand shot out in the direction of the thundering ocean. She blinked. “Right? Yeah, right. Because they wash up on shore.” She nodded, satisfied with herself before remembering that the man had been prowling on her property.

  His hat had been knocked askew in the scuffle. He adjusted it then stood, brushing the gravel and sand from his slacks. “I was just taking a stroll.”

  “Isn’t the beach access that way?”

  “Yeah, but I like cutting through here.”

  “With all the sharp rocks?”

  “Yep.”

  “And bird poop?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  They stared at each other awkwardly.

  “Marty, tell me why you’re really here or I’ll call the police.” Her eyes widened as a thought occurred to her. “Oh my gosh. You’re my watcher. You got assigned to me, didn’t you?”

  The way he studied his shoes told her she was spot on. “Oh, that’s rich.” She slapped her thigh and laughed.

  “I fail to see why that’s funny.”

  “Because you’re, you know….”

  “Handsome?”

  Libby choked. “What I meant was you’re not exactly covert. I knew someone’s been prowling around here the last couple of days. I just didn’t know who or why.”

  “I can be sneaky.” He buttoned up his trench coat.

  “Are you offended that you’re not a good stalker? I’m sorry, but is that something you actually want to be good at?”