Seventeen

I rested my back against the closet door for a moment, allowing time for Max to drive away and for me to compose my thoughts.

When I was certain he was gone, I yanked open the attic closet door. “It’s safe.”

“I hope the boy did not ruin any of your books,” Dorian said. His gray arm was wrapped around Brixton’s shoulder. The two stood, and Brixton helped Dorian step out of the closet.

“He lost his balance,” Brixton said. “That’s why there was a crashing noise. We didn’t know you were back until we heard you and Max raise your voices. So when Dorian fell down, I thought I’d better make this place look like you said it did.”

“Max knows that you exist. Why didn’t you just say you came over to raid the fridge or something?”

Brixton and Dorian stared at each other, both frowning.

“She is a smart one, this alchemist,” Dorian said.

I pressed my fingers to my temples. I didn’t remember signing up to take care of two adolescents.

“Don’t be bummed, Zoe,” Brixton said. “I’m sure Max’ll come around.” He made sure Dorian could stand without toppling over, then put his hand on my shoulder. Okay, sometimes he could be a thoughtful kid.

I looked at the two of them. “Why are you here, anyway? I didn’t know you were coming over. I thought you’d be at Blue Sky to help your mom with the Sunday brunch crowds.”

“Yeah, that was the plan, but then I heard about the guy who was killed by the alchemist—”

“We don’t know for sure that’s what happened.”

“Alchemists,” Dorian said, “are known to have gone to drastic measures to protect their secrets.”

“You were the one who said we should give him the benefit of the doubt!” Brixton said, gaping at the gargoyle.

“My young friend,” Dorian said to Brixton, “bring me the local newspaper, s’il vous plaît.”

Dorian didn’t usually ask for help like that. His left foot hung at an unnatural angle. He saw me looking and tossed a small throw blanket over it.

He cleared his throat and opened the paper. “Wallace Mason was an important enough man to have a short obituary in the newspaper. He founded a wellness center in Portland in the 1960s, where he extolled the virtues of vegetarianism and herbalism, and he took in many troubled people. He’s survived by a daughter who lives abroad.”

“That’s it?” I asked.

“Hey guys,” Brixton said, “there’s a lot more online.” He scrolled on the screen of his phone. “He was quoted in the media after that sapphire necklace from the Lake Loot was found.”

“Aha!” Dorian said.

“He was one of the treasure hunters?” I asked. His presence at the theater took on a new meaning. “What did he say?”

“That they should allow people to search,” Brixton said, still reading his phone’s screen, “because that’s the best chance at recovering the loot for the family. Why didn’t he want it for himself?”

“Use your little grey cells,” Dorian said, tapping his forehead and making me wish I hadn’t checked out every single Poirot book from the library for him during the winter. “A 1960s wellness center. This means he is a do-gooder. Of course he would wish to find the trésor for the family.”

“Unless he’s lying,” I pointed out.

Dorian scowled at me as he stretched his shoulders, his wings flapping gently as he did so. “We would know more if someone would confront the alchemist. Then we could learn if he might help us.”

“We’ve already discussed all the reasons why that’s a terrible idea.”

“Yes, but this is a democracy,” Dorian said. “The boy and I have outvoted you.”

“This isn’t a democracy.”

“Of course it is,” Brixton said. “I slept through a bunch of government classes, but even I know that.”

“This house isn’t a democracy,” I said.

“But we will not confront him inside the house,” Dorian said, his black eyes opened wide in a deceptively innocent expression.

I groaned. A simple life, Zoe. You really believed you could have a simple life? I wished I could say that if the magician was a murderer, the police would figure it out. But if he was an alchemist?

“Maybe Zoe has a point,” Brixton said.

“Thank you,” I said.

“I mean, Franklin Thorne is a really good magician, with his Prometheus character. If you confront him directly, he might capture you before you knew what was happening.”

I tried to stop Brixton to tell him that wasn’t what I meant, but he kept going.

“You were there at the show,” he said. “You saw him. Prometheus is, like, Houdini good.”

Dorian made a squawking noise I’d never before heard escape his dignified gray lips. “Houdini! Non! Ehrich Weiss stole my father’s name and dishonored him! Houdini is but a poor imitator of the great Robert-­Houdin! Those illusions you witnessed at the stage show? These were not inspired by the crass, escapist acts of Houdini. Non. Many were created by the prodigious Robert-­Houdin.”

Brixton stumbled backward as Dorian’s heavy wings flapped back and forth.

“He’s a bit overly sensitive on this topic,” I said to Brixton.

“Overly sensitive?” Dorian parroted back at me. “I am not the egotistical man who could not understand a family’s wish to grieve for their relation in solitude. That was Houdini. Since the day he was turned away from visiting his idol’s grave, Houdini set out to destroy Father’s name.”

“Wow,” Brixton said, reading his phone screen. “Son of a—”

“Language,” I said automatically.

“Sorry, D,” Brixton said, ignoring me and speaking to Dorian. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I just meant that Prometheus is a wicked good magician who probably has lots of handcuffs and stuff, so Zoe should come up with another good cover story before she goes and talks to him.”

“I’m right here,” I said.

“Yeah,” Brixton said, “but you look like you’re resisting coming up with a plan. So Dorian and I should come up with one for you.”

I sighed and tried to think of anything I could say that wouldn’t result in them skewing the intent of my words and investigating for themselves.

“As long as you two stay out of it completely,” I said, “and I do mean completely, I’ll look into it.”

“Bon,” Dorian said. “In one hour I shall have lunch ready for you. That way you can keep up your energy for your investigation.”

The scene outside the theater was much as I expected it would be. The building at the base of Mt. Tabor was roped off with crime scene tape, and officers milled around.

Peter and Penelope sat together on the bumper of a powerful, late-model SUV that loomed over the tiny Portland cars surrounding it. With a hitch on the back, I presumed they used the SUV for hauling a trailer of the items for their magic act. They were no longer wearing their stage makeup or formal wear from the day before, though the sleek curls of Penelope’s hair were ready for any stage. She puffed on a cigar and looked at the sky.

“If it isn’t our friendly neighbor,” Peter said in a voice even a toddler could tell was sarcastic. “Come to tell us our new gargoyle is ready? I’m so sorry, but as you can see, it’s the world’s worst time for a visit.”

The man struck me as far too immature to have been alive for 100 years. He was immature even for 50. I’ve known alchemists who’ve lost sight of their humanity, but it tends to express itself in a different tenor. Aloofness and a lack of empathy, yes. But sarcasm? Not that I’d encountered. But then again, I’d never known any alchemists who practiced backward alchemy. And that’s what he had to be, coming back from the dead.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said, though what I was really thinking was how murders followed Peter Silverman wherever he went.

“We didn’t know him,” Penelope said, blowing smoke rings into the sky. She gave what appeared to be a heartfelt sigh, then extinguished the cigar. “But yes, it’s a tragedy nonetheless.”

“I assumed you knew him, since he was a volunteer.”

“Everyone thinks they know how a show works,” Peter said with a resigned smirk. “That’s cheating, my dear.”

Penelope turned her sharp gaze to meet mine. “Don’t mind him. He’s upset that the police are wrecking all of our earthly possessions as we speak.”

“Looking for the murder weapon?”

“I don’t know what they’re doing,” Peter said, “but that’s certainly not what it looks like.”

My phone buzzed in my pocket. “Excuse me,” I said, scowling at the phone.

“Zoe, thank God you picked up,” said the voice on the other end of the line. “There’s an emergency. Listen—”

“You can’t keep crying wolf, Brixton,” I snapped.

“You don’t understand! It’s Ethan. I found out he took a photograph of a page in the alchemy book—”

“That’s okay. It’s not like the existence of the book is a secret—”

“You’re not listening to me, Zoe! He read it out loud. The Latin. He brought a stone garden gnome to life.”