by Gigi Pandian
“Oui. I know you wish Tobias could be here. Now he is.”
Careful to drive the speed limit, I watched the nighttime greenery bounce off my headlights, then give way to houses. “What’s going on, Dorian? A long-dead man was found in a backward alchemy lab. Another man, ‘creepy guy,’ who must have known about the dead body, was following Ivan—possibly the same person followed us back there by the cabin.”
Dorian peeked out from the folds of the cape. He was sitting on the floor of the passenger side of the truck. “Do not forget the woman in Paris who wishes to expose you.”
The brakes screeched as I came to a stop at a red light. Dorian bumped into the glove compartment. “How,” I said, looking down at the scowling gargoyle, “could I possibly forget her?”
“You are upset,” Dorian said. “Perhaps we should continue our discussion in the morning.”
Feeling the effects of being awake so late at night, I had to agree with Dorian. Talk could wait for tomorrow. But I had one more thing to do before I could sleep.
I dialed the Paris bookseller’s shop to check again on the book he was sending. It was early afternoon in Paris, yet there was no answer at the bookshop. As the phone continued to ring, a disturbing thought tickled my brain. Someone was following alchemists. They’d spied on Ivan and they’d broken into my house. Had they also been following me in Paris when I’d visited the bookshop? Had they done something to the bookseller?
What had become of the bookshop proprietor?
Twenty-One
I dreamt of a fierce sea.
Dressed in a feedsack dress with scratchy fibers that bore into my skin, I watched from a rocking boat as water serpents gracefully spun their lean bodies through the water, circling each other in an underwater dance. What at first looked like a benevolent action morphed into a scene of battle. The creatures curled their bodies around one another and bit into each other’s flesh. Above them, bees circled and toads fell from a dark sky.
A pelican swooped from the air and caught a toad that was about to fall on my head. She nodded at me, then flew back to her nest, where she would give the toad to her offspring. I watched her flapping wings until the bird disappeared in the clouds. These dream clouds weren’t the clouds of reality. They were faces of women.
These were the faces from Heather’s new paintings, with reflections in the women’s eyes. One of the reflections was of a man. Was it her father who’d fled? No, I recognized this man. It was the Frenchman who owned the bookshop, Lucien Augustin. His body was bound in thick ropes, and he’d been lashed to the mast of a ship. The ship that I was on. The raven I remembered from one of Heather’s paintings appeared behind him, only the bird was no reflection. The black bird flew out of the clouds and dove straight for me. The ominous feathered being would have crashed into me had it not been for a toad I had assumed dead. The amphibian jumped from the boat at the last moment and caught the bird in its mouth.
I woke up.
The cotton sheets of my bed were tangled around me like tentacles. I was drenched in salty sweat. If I’d been fanciful, I would have sworn the salt came from the sea of my dream.
Sometimes I really hated that Freud was right about our subconscious speaking to us in our dreams. I’d found him to be a terribly arrogant man, but I grudgingly admitted he was a smart one. In alchemy, serpents represent the life force that’s exchanged in each transformation, pelicans represent sacrifice, and toads represent the First Matter that both begins and ends the creation of the Philosopher’s Stone. My subconscious was definitely trying to work out the confusing events around me.
A sweet aroma brought me back to reality. The scent of fresh apricot tarts told me that Dorian was back from his predawn baking at Blue Sky Teas and had brought back misshapen pastries, as usual. The treats tasted as good, but customers were less likely to buy a lopsided tart, so he brought these malformed treats back to the house … if he didn’t eat them first.
I made myself a cup of jasmine green tea from tea leaves Max had given me and sat down with Dorian at the dining table. Built by a craftsman I met in the south of France shortly after the turn of the twentieth century, the table had been in storage during the years I’d lived out of a trailer. It was nice to have a home again, even if I always made sure to keep the curtains drawn tightly so that Dorian could have the run of the house.
Even at the familiar table that had brought me joy from the moment it was handcrafted, with a perfect breakfast and my best friend at my side, I couldn’t relax. I was plagued by the troubling idea that the bookseller had been harmed by whoever was following me and Ivan. Could the book he found be more important than either of us thought? Could Backward Alchemists of Notre Dame hold a real clue to finding a backward alchemist? And if so, was someone trying to stop me from getting it?
“Breakfast is unsatisfactory?” Dorian asked, his horns twitching in alarm. “I will cook fresh food. I suspected I had gone too far trusting the malformed atrocities. This scone resembles your Richard Nixon, no? It is the chin.” Dorian frowned at the scone. “What would you like? Buckwheat crepes? Chickpea pancakes? Almond milk porridge?” He jumped down from his chair, falling onto the creaky hardwood floor in the process. His left ankle was now unbending, solid stone.
“These pastries taste perfect, Dorian.” I helped him back into his chair and held my tongue about his stone lower leg. “I simply didn’t sleep well.”
“If you are certain.”
“I am.” I took a huge bite of a heavenly apricot tart to prove my point.
“Bon. Then we can get to work. My little grey cells have been mulling over this most unusual problem: not one but two old alchemy murders. Both of which are distracting you from helping me and my brother.” He tapped his claws on the wooden tabletop. “When we have eliminated the impossible, the only thing that remains, however improbable, is the truth to which I will apply my little grey cells.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re mixing your fictional detectives.”
“I am being most serious, Zoe. Murders across time and location, yet they have one thing in common: you.”
“The connection,” I said emphatically, “is alchemy.”
Dorian shook his head even more emphatically. “This week has stirred up two alchemical murders relating to you. You cannot think this is a coincidence.”
“Jasper was killed in France seventy-five years ago. The unknown man in the cabin was killed in Oregon around a decade ago. I was careless in Paris and Brixton was snooping in Portland because we want to get alchemical answers to help you. In that sense, you’re right: they’re connected. But only because of dangers we both stepped into.”
“You miss the logical next step, mon amie. You being recognized in Paris could have set forces in motion—”
“I can’t think straight. Everything seems connected right now. Even Heather’s paintings remind me of alchemy.”
“Oui. She has a vivid imagination. I can see why the themes of transformation remind you of alchemy.”
“You’ve seen the paintings?”
“When I arrive in the café’s kitchen at three a.m., before removing my cape I look around to make sure there is nobody there.”
“Now you think Heather is an alchemist? Heather? The woman who dropped out of high school at sixteen, who can’t be bothered to wear shoes for half the year, who’s more interested in weaving daisy chains in her hair and finding the perfect shade of green paint than making sure where her son is?”
“I agree, it does not make sense that all of Portland is overflowing with alchemists. I have explored enough to know that is not the case. There is something else at play, Zoe. You. You must investigate the unknown dead man to find out his connection to you—”
“The police are already doing that.”
Dorian flapped his wings at his side. “But there is a connection to the man who has been spying on Ivan!”
“The only thing I have to investigate is the alchemy that will save you. I’m so close to understanding what’s going on, Dorian. So close to saving you.” I swallowed hard, willing my eyes not to fill with tears. “As soon as that book from Paris arrives, I’ll be able to find a backward alchemist and have the last piece of the puzzle.”
“And in the meantime?”
“The book will be arriving soon. Maybe even later today.” If someone hadn’t gotten to Lucien first.
“Alors, the meantime? We are well equipped to solve these past mysteries, you and I.”
“I know you’re careful, but you can’t move your left arm. And your foot … ” I let the words trail off as I looked at his poor foot. His stone ankle was frozen at an awkward angle. Was it painful?
Instead of protesting, as I suspected he would, Dorian’s wings folded as he nodded sadly. “I nearly fell from the roof the other day. No, no. Do not worry. I have since compensated and know how to hold on with one hand and foot. But you are right that I cannot investigate as I once could. Yet I have other skills to assist you. In addition to reading the entire Christie canon, I read Tey’s Daughter of Time. Twice.”
I crossed my arms and stared down at the gargoyle. “Then you should stay in the attic instead of following phantoms. If memory serves, the hero in that novel about solving a centuries-old mystery didn’t leave his hospital bed the entire time.”
Dorian’s snout twitched. “Well played, Alchemist. Well played.”
“If you want to play armchair detective, why don’t you help me look through online archives of newspaper accounts from 1942 Paris?” I didn’t think learning more about Jasper Dubois’s death would help, but it couldn’t hurt, and it was a safe line of investigation for Dorian. I handed him my laptop.
“I have already done this.”
“You have?”
“You thought I would not use my little grey cells to help you?” His shoulders and wings fell. “I searched for clues for many hours, while you slept. Alas, I have not discovered any new facts, only theories. This is why I have not spoken of my findings. As for my brother—”
“The other gargoyle,” I corrected.
Dorian narrowed his eyes.
“I should run to the market,” I continued. “There’s a farmer’s market today.”
“You are a très intelligent woman, Zoe. You knew the one thing you could say that would not cause me to object to ending this conversation.”
Though it was early summer, an unexpected rainstorm had blown in that morning, though I probably shouldn’t have called it “unexpected” since this was Portland. I grabbed my silver rain coat and walked to a local farmer’s market. I found myself looking over my shoulder the entire way. Could Dorian be right that the two murders were connected to me? It wasn’t possible. Jasper’s death might have been connected to me, but I wasn’t in Portland a decade ago.
I was so distracted I barely noticed the early-summer fruits and vegetables. I was vaguely aware of a pyramid-shaped stack of apricots, but didn’t stop wandering until I reached a stall that sent me back to another century.
The farmer had freekeh, a preparation of durum wheat in which the young green stalks are set afire to stop the process of the wheat aging and to give the grain a smoky flavor. It would be a perfect complement to the green onions from my garden. And I knew Dorian would love it. For a brief time he’d missed the smoky flavor of cured meats, but he’d been delighted to discover a whole other world of smoky spices and grains.
The more I got to know Portland, the more I loved my new home. A stab of frustration overcame me. I was so close to having a happy life here. If only I could solve the riddle of Dorian’s alchemy book to save him and rid myself of the murderous mysteries that had followed me, I knew that life was within reach.
I was almost hopeful on my walk home. I let myself appreciate the moment, taking in the scents of the smoky freekeh and sweet summer peas in the bag over my shoulder, and the roses and pine from the nature that surrounded me.
I quickened my pace as I approached the house. A package was sticking out of the mailbox. I’d let my imagination run wild in thinking something bad had happened to the bookseller. I tore into the package.
It wasn’t the book from Paris.
The book-shaped package contained a bound stack of magazines. I flipped through the pages. All back issues of a vegan magazine Dorian had recently discovered.
It was probably still true that I was jumping to conclusions about the bookseller. An unsettling thought about Lucien crossed my mind: The French police could have tracked me down to the bookshop. If they told the bookseller about Jasper’s murder in 1942, Lucien might have decided that he didn’t want to help a criminal.
Or worse. If the authorities had traced my movements in Paris, could they have traced me back to my house in Portland?
Dorian had an escape-hatch in the roof of the house; if anyone entered the house with a search warrant, he could make an easy escape. What did it say about my life that I’d already had to think about such matters multiple times this year?
Being traced here didn’t seem especially likely, though. The supposed granddaughter of a possible criminal who was most likely long dead wouldn’t merit the French authorities sending their American counterparts to follow up with me. But Madame Leblanc cared enough. I tensed as I remembered her high-end clothing. She could very well have the resources to hire a private investigator to look into anything related to alchemy in Portland.
I couldn’t sit at home doing nothing, so I walked to Blue Sky Teas. It was early afternoon, but as I drew near I saw that the teashop was dark and the sign set to CLOSED. A little rain never stopped a Portlander. I peeked in the windows but saw nothing amiss.
Is everything all right? I texted Brixton.
Where are you? he texted back.
Teashop.
Meet me at the morgue.
The morgue? This couldn’t be good.
Twenty-Two
“Mom is supposed to identify the body,” Brixton said. “They think it might be her dad.”
“Oh God, Brix. I’m so sorry.” In the sterile hallway outside the morgue, the astringent scent in the air was stifling. It didn’t help that none of this made any sense. Brixton’s grandfather? Brixton and his mom didn’t have anything to do with alchemy.
“Why do they think this man—”
“Unsolved missing persons cases from that time. Mom’s dad was one of them. Her mom filed a report after he disappeared.”
“I didn’t realize. I thought he … ” What was a nice way to say his grandfather fled instead of sticking around to support his young daughter and grandson?
Brixton shrugged. “Yeah, Mom thought he ran out on the family. You don’t have to look so uncomfortable, Zoe. I never knew him.” He shrugged again, trying to look aloof but fooling nobody. “Looks like he might have been killed right here in Portland.”
And Brixton was the one who found the body.
“All these years we hated him,” Brixton whispered.
Abel tried to give him a hug, but the kid shrugged him off, opting instead to shove his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. Abel tapped his foot nervously. Brixton fidgeted and began to bite his fingernails.
Abel straightened and put his hands on Brixton’s shoulders. I followed his gaze. Heather was walking down the hallway toward us. Her blonde braids were a mess, her face set in a stoic mask unlike any expression I’d seen on her before.
Heather could be an immature flake, but she was always full of vitality and hope. Until now. This was the first time I’d seen her with a cloud over her face. Even when Brixton had been in trouble in the past, she met the challenge with energy and love. The woman in front of me wasn’t the same person. Her face was cold. Defeated. When she reached us, I could see her arms were shaking.
“Was it him?” Abel whisper
ed.
For a fraction of a second, I could have sworn she stared at him as if he was a stranger who had no business talking to her. When she recovered, her reaction wasn’t much better. “How could I tell? Tell me, Abel, how am I supposed to know what that thing was?”
I cringed. The body had been decomposing for more than a decade.
Abel’s muscles tensed. “They showed him to you, even though he was beyond recognition?”
“They thought I might recognize identifying markings.”
I would have expected her to shudder or break down. Instead she was emotionally distant.
“Let’s get you home,” Abel said.
“The teashop,” she said. “I have to open Blue’s teashop.”
“It’s okay for it to be closed for a day.”
“But there’s no need. I don’t know who that poor man is.” She paused, and I saw the first hint of emotion cross her face. “He didn’t have any teeth—they’d all been removed.” She shuddered. “Dental records won’t work, so they might have to do a DNA test to identify him. They’re sure to get an answer. A real answer. Oh, God, Abel. What am I going to do if it’s him? All this time, I thought he hated me. But what if, what if he went off and did something dumb, trying to get money for me? What if that’s why he never came home? He might have sacrificed himself for us, and I never knew it.”
I left the morgue understanding far less than I’d known going in.
Had Brixton and the police been wrong about the old cabin in the woods being an alchemy lab? The person Brixton had seen leaving the shack had been spying on Ivan, and possibly on me, but that man wasn’t necessarily here in Portland years ago when the murder took place.
Did we even know it was murder, and not just a recluse who’d died of natural causes? That would be a less gruesome answer for why he didn’t have any teeth. Why hadn’t anyone found the body before? Had it been hidden until now? Had the man spying on Ivan moved the body?
The more I thought about my unanswered questions, the more my theories fell apart. Was I being narrow-minded to think these deaths were connected to me? Or, at the very least, to alchemy? Guilt at being so self-absorbed replaced my confusion. Heather’s dad, Brixton’s grandfather, might have been cruelly taken away from his family. Was it him in the morgue? Did he die with regrets, or was he happy to have died trying to provide for his family?