by Gigi Pandian
I knocked on the basement door. My knock was met with no response.
“It’s me,” I called out.
A few moments later, the lock slid open and Dorian peered out at me.
“We need a special knock,” he said, “to be sure it is you.”
“Can’t you just listen for my voice?”
“Interesting point. Yet a knock is more dramatic. That must explain why it is employed in fiction.”
“You’re enjoying the detective novels, then?”
“They are most entertaining—and also enlightening.”
“Enlightening?” That couldn’t be good.
“I have had an inspired idea,” he said. “I will tell you about it as I prepare lunch.”
I followed Dorian into the kitchen as he began cooking. He banished me to the far corner of the kitchen, where I jumped up to sit on the pristine counter. The cleaning crew who had cleaned the house before my arrival hadn’t been able to clear away the years of grime as well as Dorian had. I watched as he created a roux out of olive oil, flour, and broth, transforming an oily, clumpy mixture that looked like clay into a creamy sauce that made my mouth water.
“These books from the library,” Dorian said as he whisked, “it is interesting how they are all unique and stand the test of time, yet, at the same time, there is a common type of resolution.”
I eased down from the counter and poked my head out the kitchen door to look over at the assortment of books strewn across the room on the coffee table. Agatha Christie, Ellery Queen, Dorothy Sayers, Arthur Conan Doyle, Margery Allingham.
“In this resolution,” Dorian continued, “the hero of the story has put together facts in his mind—using his little gray cells as Poirot would say—to reveal that the killer is someone we already know, and one of the least likely suspects.”
“Dorian—”
“This person,” he said, “we now know to be Ivan.”
“This isn’t fiction.”
“Mon dieu. Art imitates life. Life imitates art. This is why we must do what they do in the books. We must bring all the suspects together for a dinner party at which all will be revealed.”
“I don’t think so.”
“But you must think so.”
“Why is that?”
“Because it is already done.”
My skin prickled. “What do you mean it’s already done.”
“While I was trapped in that dank room, I shared my plan with Brixton, via text message.”
“Wait, how? You don’t have a phone. You can’t even use a phone screen with your fingers.”
He pulled a Blackberry out of the apron pocket. “Brixton got this for me from his friend Ethan. I can punch the keys with my fingers.”
“You told Brixton you thought Ivan was a murderer?”
“It is not nice to keep secrets from the people we are working with.”
“He’s fourteen!”
“I explained the plan to ensure he would not run off and do anything stupid before the dinner party. What are you doing?”
“I’m calling Brixton to tell him to forget whatever you told him.”
“It is too late, Zoe.”
“Why?”
“He has already emailed all the guests. The teashop regulars were overjoyed to be invited over to a home-cooked housewarming meal tonight from ‘great chef Zoe.’”
twenty-nine
I spent the afternoon preparing the house for the dinner party. There’s nothing like the combined fear of knowing a murderer might be coming over for dinner—along with your new neighbors. Surrounded by moving crates in my leaky house, I wasn’t sure which was scarier.
The party was to take place that night, just hours after Brixton invited everyone. Didn’t these people have lives? I supposed it was the same human curiosity that made people crane their necks to get a better look at a car accident. Whatever plans people had, they had cancelled them so they could be here. I wasn’t surprised. They were curious about me, had heard about my cooking, and had the natural human pull toward the macabre. And here I was throwing a housewarming party with gourmet food at the haunted house where a murder had taken place.
In addition to our suspect, Ivan, Brixton and Dorian had invited five other teashop regulars: Brixton’s teacher Sam, Sam’s aunt Olivia, Olivia’s friend Cora, Brixton’s mom Heather, and because the instigators claimed they were being responsible, Detective Max Liu was the final member of the guest list.
The plan was for Dorian to cook the meal ahead of time and for Brixton to serve the meal, leaving me free to sit with the guests and help steer the conversation where I wanted it to go. I would also be on high alert for any hint of poison. Between my keen ability to detect the poison and our quest for justice and a cure for Dorian, I was confident in the plan. Somewhat confident. Okay, at least I knew it wouldn’t be a disaster that ended with someone dead. I admit I was desperate.
Brixton enlisted the help of Veronica and Ethan to clear the worst of the weeds from the front yard, promising them a tasty snack plus cake to take home. Though the dinner party guests would be arriving after dark, I wanted to at least have the tall, wild grass pulled away from the path leading to the front door.
I had to run a couple of errands, so Brixton’s job was to make sure the kids stayed in the yard and didn’t come into the kitchen without warning. I’d rigged curtains in the kitchen so it was impossible to see in from the outside, including a curtain that blocked the herb garden’s glass window box, but couldn’t do anything about the swinging door leading from the living room to the kitchen.
After cooking, Dorian was going to turn to stone, playing the part of the antique stone gargoyle he originally was. I would have felt more comfortable with him hiding, because returning to life from stone was becoming increasingly difficult for him, but he insisted he wanted to be present to see what was happening.
By four o’clock Sunday afternoon, when the kids came in from the yard for a much-deserved snack, the house was beginning to look like I envisioned it would when I bought it. Between the weeded front yard and the few boxes I’d unpacked, I allowed myself a moment to appreciate the transformation. I’d been so focused on my frantic search for a cure for Dorian that I hadn’t had many moments to step back and enjoy what was in front of me.
“Wow,” Brixton said, rubbing the soles of his sneakers on the welcome mat.
“Is this stuff from Paris?” Veronica asked.
“Some of it is. I lived there for a few years.”
She ran past me to the mantle, where I’d set up a display of antique alchemical items I found deep in my storage crates: two hermetic vases, a spirit holder, matrix vase, and in the center, a philosopher’s egg. Honestly, I sometimes think the secret language alchemists created had as much to do with trying to outdo each other with clever names than with conveying information. The pelican made sense, because the glass vessel resembled the bird’s beak. A snake was self-explanatory too. But a matrix vase? I was pretty sure that the motivation behind names had at least as much to do with guy trying to be cool as it did a spiritual connection to laboratory supplies.
I stood back and looked at the display. Rooting through the crates, I selected two brass apothecary boxes that would go nicely.
The curated display was my contribution to the plan. Dorian had initially suggested that once I gathered everyone together, I should lock all the doors and declare that I knew who the killer was, somehow forcing Ivan to confess. I countered with the idea that we let things unfold more naturally by placing alchemical objects on display in the living room to provoke a reaction from Ivan. Much more sensible than kidnapping people and making unsubstantiated accusations. I hoped it would work.
The boys made a beeline for a different section of the room. They headed straight for the dining table. Two large loaves of homemade bread, one a nut loaf and
one a simple Parisian-style baguette, dominated the center of the table on a wooden cutting board from Marseille. A Spanish platter of nut cheeses sat to one side of the bread, its twin platter loaded with a pile of savory scones. Poking out from the baby lettuce leaves in a wooden salad bowl from Lisbon were tangerine wedges, thinly sliced roasted beets, and toasted almonds. I smiled to myself, watching the boys eat. I was glad I’d been able to unpack the special serving items I’d had in storage for too long.
Veronica ran her fingers along the carvings on the mantle before joining us at the table. I was glad Dorian was hiding for the time being; otherwise I had no doubt Veronica would have run up to a Dorian statue and patted it on the head. Dorian didn’t care about eavesdropping on the kids, so he was brushing up on his Poirot deductive skills in the basement before the kids departed and he could finish preparing the evening meal.
“Thank you, Ms. Faust,” Veronica said as she sat down.
The boys grunted in between bites of food.
“I can’t thank you enough for helping with the yard,” I said, pouring them ice water with fresh mint leaves.
“No problem, Zoe,” Ethan said. “I should be thanking you. Now Brixton owes me a favor.”
Veronica kicked him under the table. “Can’t you do anything out of the goodness of your heart?”
“That hurt! I totally came, didn’t I?”
“Remember,” Brixton said, “she’s paying you in cake too.”
Veronica and Ethan stopped glaring at each other, and they departed half an hour later with chocolate cake. Dorian would have been horrified at the brevity of the meal, but he had to finish cooking.
“Sorry, man,” Ethan said to Brixton in a low voice as he left.
“What was that about?” I asked, closing the door behind Veronica and Ethan.
“He thinks I’m staying longer to help out so you won’t press charges for that day I met you last week.”
Had it only been a week? Before coming here, months could go by without much happening. I would tend to my small herb garden and go on long walks wherever I had parked my trailer. I’d stay for a short duration of time, ranging from a week to a year, careful to never put down roots. Occasionally I became immersed in something I didn’t plan on, but this had been the longest week I’d experienced in decades.
“I couldn’t tell him the truth,” Brixton continued, “that I’m helping you catch the guy who framed Blue and is keeping Dorian from getting better.”
“You aren’t catching anyone. Remember what we talked about. Anything bad starts to happen and you run out the door and call for backup.”
“I’ll go get Dorian,” Brixton grumbled, knocking on the basement door. “Hey, why isn’t he answering. Do you think he’s okay?”
“He doesn’t respond to knocks on the door unless it’s a coded knock you worked out in advance.”
“Oh. So how are we supposed to get him?”
“Just call his name. He’ll recognize your voice.”
Brixton’s summoning worked, and the gargoyle and his assistant spent the afternoon preparing dinner.
The guests began to arrive at five minutes after seven. At the sound of the doorbell, I nodded at Dorian.
He limped to the side of the fireplace and gave me a curt nod. He pulled back his shoulders, stretched his wings, and squatted into a pose resembling a watchful stance on a perch. Dark, cracked lines covered his soft gray skin. Dorian was once again stone. I shivered and pulled the door open.
thirty
Heather held a bunch of long-stemmed snowdrops. The winter-blooming white flowers were held together with twine.
“Thanks for the invitation.” She grinned and handed me the flowers. “And for looking after Brixton while I was painting.” She had shoes on her feet tonight, but in spite of the cold she wore only a light shawl over her white cotton dress.
“He’s a great kid.”
“I think helping you around the house is really good for Brix. There’s my baby!” She squealed and enveloped Brixton in a big hug.
“Hey, watch it!” Brixton extricated himself from his mom’s hug and straightened his collar. “I should have stayed in the kitchen.”
“Look at you. A tuxedo! We can’t afford—”
“It’s just a rental,” I said, “and I’m taking care of it.”
Dorian was enthusiastic about the idea of hosting a proper English manor house dinner party. That meant Brixton’s role was that of the butler-slash-server, which of course required a tuxedo. Finding one at the last minute had been one of my errands that afternoon. I hadn’t expected Brixton to go for it, but he’d taken to the idea. So much so that he took a picture of himself in the tux and texted it to his friends.
“Such a handsome young man,” Heather said, taking over for Brixton’s clumsy attempts to straighten the collar.
“Mom.”
The doorbell rang a second time. Rather than opening the door, my butler retreated into the kitchen. I wasn’t sure what Brixton thought a butler was supposed to do, but clearly opening doors wasn’t one of his presumed duties. I opened the door and found Max standing on the porch. He smiled and handed me a mason jar filled with tea leaves. His face was unreadable, but he looked sexy as hell in black slacks, black and white wingtip shoes, a slim gray dress shirt, and black leather jacket.
Olivia, Sam, and Ivan arrived before I closed the door. Sam held a bottle of red wine and Ivan raised a bottle of Becherovka, a Czech liquor I was quite fond of that tasted of cinnamon and ginger. Sam had the same sad smile I remembered from the first time I’d seen him, and I wondered if his aunt had bullied him into attending when he’d had other plans.
“Cora sends her regrets,” Sam said.
Olivia clicked her tongue. “That woman has been in mourning for her daughter for too long.”
“People grieve differently,” Max said.
Brixton saved us from an awkward conversation by backing out of the kitchen. He held a silver platter with seven crystal glasses of sherry. I hated the stuff, but Dorian insisted that it made the dinner party more authentic.
“Aperitif?” Brixton said.
Heather squealed, then whispered to me, “You’re such a good influence on him, Zoe. I can never get him to study for vocab tests.”
I wasn’t entirely sure “good influence” was the best way to describe our relationship over the course of the past week. Especially since he was currently carrying a tray of alcohol.
“Brixton, my man,” Sam said, “you clean up nicely. Looking quite dapper tonight.”
“Thank you, Mr. Strum,” he said, doing his best impression of a British accent and not failing too terribly.
Everyone laughed. Brixton joined along. He’d done a better job at breaking the ice than anything I could have planned.
“Where is this French boyfriend of yours?” Sam asked. “I expected he’d be here. Veronica told me after class that he’s, quote, ‘dreamy.’” He laughed. “I have no idea what counts as ‘dreamy’ these days, so I wanted to see for myself.”
“He’s only a friend,” I said, feeling all eyes on me, “and he’s not big on parties. Anyone need another drink?”
“I just handed out the first ones,” Brixton said, squinting at me like I’d lost my mind.
“Right.” Right. Why had I made up that stupid lie?
“Interesting gargoyle statue,” Max said.
I would have been thankful for the change of subject except that I wondered if he recognized Dorian from the other night.
“He’s a replica of one of the gargoyles of Notre Dame in Paris,” I said. “In case you were wondering why you recognized him.”
“Isn’t it heavy?” Heather asked. “I thought I caught a glimpse of him in your kitchen before.”
“I haven’t yet found the right place for him.”
“I know what
you mean,” Heather said. “I’m always moving my artwork around until I find the perfect spot where the light hits a painting just right. At least canvas isn’t as heavy as stone.”
“He’s a handful,” I said, “but I can handle him.”
From there, I talked of Paris, which kept the group interested for some time. I had to stay on my toes not only because I was watching Ivan, but because most of my memories of Paris were from before everyone in the room was born. I’d occasionally slipped up over the years, but since people never believed I could have been alive centuries ago, they assumed I was “eccentric” when I covered up my mistakes by explaining I was an avid reader who got lost in the stories.
Once we finished our drinks, only Heather wanted a second glass of sherry. The rest of the group opted for wine or seltzer water.
I purposefully didn’t bring up the alchemy display as we mingled before dinner. I wanted to gauge Ivan’s natural reaction. Instead I tried to keep conversation light—until Olivia brought up the death of Charles Macraith.
“We should raise a glass to our departed comrade,” she said.
We clinked glasses awkwardly, before an even more awkward hush fell over the group.
“Has anyone heard how Blue is doing?” Sam asked. “I can’t believe it. Max, do you know more—”
“I’m not on the case. Besides, we’re here to welcome our new neighbor. Let’s not worry about all that tonight.”
“Are you all ready for the first course?” Brixton asked.
Ivan laughed. “You have gone from an English to a Russian accent.”
“Crap, I was thinking of the wrong movie character.”
“Language,” Sam snapped, then grimaced. “Sorry, a teacher’s force of habit.”
“Remember to carry the bowls one by one, Brixton,” I said.
He rolled his eyes before disappearing into the kitchen. He came back carrying two bowls of pumpkin bisque, one in each hand. A splash of soup fell to the floor as he served Olivia and his mom. When he returned for the next round, he carried a single bowl.