Forty-Four

I texted Brixton that Dorian was home safe and sound, in hopes the kid would get some sleep. I needed more time to figure out the best next steps, and I didn’t want Brixton running off doing anything foolish.

If Peter was lying about his motivation, could he also have a motive for murder we didn’t know about? Or was he simply an innocent victim who incorrectly believed his father to be innocent? He was only a child at the time of his father’s death.

“Something strange is afoot at Persephone & Prometheus’s Phantasmagoria,” Dorian said. “Do you think he is framing you for the murder of the treasure hunter, so he may find the loot for himself?”

I briefly considered his suggestion that I might have been framed in such an obscure way, but dismissed it as the lingering effects of the coffee. “I don’t know, Dorian. That seems pretty far-fetched that he’d find a stone toe in the theater, associate it with me, and leave it in the fingers of the dead body in hopes that it would lead the police to me.”

“Oui, without facts it is only a theory. But magicians are masters of misdirection. We must investigate!”

“Hold on, you two,” Tobias cut in. “I understand that you’ve been pulled into this inquiry because of Dorian’s missing toe, but investigating yourselves?”

Dorian blinked his black eyes at Tobias. “Have you not read the works of Agatha Christie? She was an Englishwoman, yes, but her investigative skills are unparalleled. She has taught us that it is the amateur sleuth who is most capable of using his little grey cells to solve the most complex of crimes.”

“That’s fiction,” Tobias said. “Anyway, Poirot wasn’t an amateur.”

“Semantics,” Dorian mumbled. “He was not un flic. He was not a policeman. Those who work outside of the law are privy to more—”

“The backpack!” I cried.

Dorian grinned. “Merci, Zoe, for proving my point.”

“What backpack?” Tobias asked.

“Dorian and I saw Peter and Penelope taking a small backpack out of a trunk in the theater. They were acting in secret, and at the time I believed he was an alchemist, so it made perfect sense that he’d be acting secretively. I didn’t give it another thought. But since his secret is that he’s Franklin Thorne’s son who’s looking into clearing his father’s name, what was in the backpack?”

“I remember thinking,” Dorian said, “that it looked like the possession of a child.”

“It did. It wasn’t a briefcase of research papers. It looked like a child’s backpack. I wish I could remember what the two of them said to each other.”

“Let us return to the theater,” Dorian said.

“No,” Tobias and I said simultaneously.

Dorian scrunched his snout. “Dual-faced alchemists! I thought you were on my side.”

“I’m so much on your side that it would kill me if you were taken into police custody again. We take no unnecessary risks, which means we don’t return to a crime scene.”

Dorian’s wings slouched. “Your heart is in the right place, Zoe Faust. No matter. It is nearly time for me to return to Blue Sky Teas to bake for the upcoming day. You need not remind me to be careful.”

After spending the night in the basement fruitlessly rereading Not Untrue Alchemy from cover to cover, Tobias, Dorian, and I breakfasted on the misshapen leftovers Dorian brought back from the teashop kitchen before sunrise. Today it was a feast of chickpea-flour pancakes. Though his recipe was tasty, he decided pancakes didn’t work well for the teashop’s glass pastry display cabinet. Presentation was an important last step of Dorian’s culinary alchemy. A strong flame under a cast-iron skillet could transform flour, water, ground seeds, and a few herbs into a stack of blissful breakfast. But transformation wasn’t always pretty. Dorian didn’t think his pancakes were attractive enough to entice people from a display case.

Tobias and I prepared breakfast plates in the kitchen. Tobias inhaled deeply as he fixed an espresso for Dorian, who was waiting impatiently in the attic, then made a pot of tea for himself. I was still drinking my restorative tea blend to combat the effects of creating Dorian’s Tea of Ashes and accidentally eating coffee-saturated cookies. This morning I had an extra cup, since I hadn’t slept a wink. My large solar infusion batch was nearly used up.

“I wish I didn’t have to leave,” Tobias said as he lifted a tray of tea and coffee in one hand. “Rosa and the job need me. I’ll think about your problem, though. Maybe I’ll come up with something that’ll help you from afar. I keep thinking that the crumbling gold has to play into this puzzle.”

“I’m glad we found each other again, Tobias.”

“Even if it took a pickle of a mess to drive you to seek out other alchemists, I’m happy you did, too, Zoe. I’m happy you did too.”

I scooped up the second tray, and we joined Dorian in the attic’s safe haven with his escape route in the slanted roof above.

“You carry that tray with such alacrity, Monsieur Freeman,” Dorian said, “that I believe you must have been employed as a waiter in your past.” He took a sip of the espresso Tobias had fixed. “Oui. This espresso is très bon. I am correct, no?”

“Guilty.”

“You do not look pleased! Le garçon is a worthy profession. You help the chef present his creations.”

“You’re an optimistic fellow for a Frenchman, Dorian.”

“But of course.”

“And a great chef. If only you weren’t a gargoyle, you could head any restaurant.”

“You are a sly one, Monsieur Freeman. You are leaving momentarily for a flight, which will not provide edible food. I will prepare a basket of sandwiches and snacks to see you safely home.”

Encumbered with enough food for Tobias and his wife to eat all week, I drove Tobias to the airport to see him off. As I drove, he looked through the assortment and chuckled.

“What’s so funny?” I asked. “The amount of food?”

“Dragon’s tongue, dragon carrots, and even dragon’s mugwort. There’s a pattern here.”

“I doubt it. You’re the one who likes patterns, so that’s what you see.”

“I’m not kidding, Zoe. He’s got them all in here.”

“I’m sure he does. He loves using Tuscan kale, purple carrots, and tarragon. Texture, color, and flavor.”

Tobias rewrapped a fragrant baguette sandwich in its parchment paper. “You’ve got a point. Gardeners might have even more vivid imaginations than alchemists.”

The drive to the airport was far too short. After I saw Tobias off, I couldn’t help thinking more about him and his elderly wife. It was the right choice for them. Would I be able to have that for myself? Did I even deserve it? I wasn’t even sure I could save my closest friend from an unnatural fate trapped between life and death.

I listened to “Accidental Life” on the drive home, keeping my old friend near me.

When I got back to my house, two unexpected guests were waiting for me: the magicians. They’d made themselves comfortable on the porch in front of my Craftsman. Peter juggled d’Anjou pears that looked suspiciously like ones from a neighbor’s tree, and Penelope sat on the top step while twirling a cigar deftly between her long fingers.

I slammed the truck’s door. “How did you find me?” Like Peter Silverman, I knew how to stay under the radar. I walked cautiously toward them.

“Your young friend had a card for Blue Sky Teas in his pocket the other night,” Peter said. As he spoke, the pears vanished. They didn’t drop to the ground, but I didn’t see where they could have gone.

“The young woman with bare feet was incredibly helpful,” Peter continued.

I groaned to myself. He had to be referring to Brixton’s mom, Heather, the free spirit who would never entertain the notion that she was being conned.

“She was so sorry to hear you’d left your locket at the theater,” Peter continued.

My hand flew to my locket. It was there. He certainly had the skills to remove it without my noticing, so I was relieved he hadn’t actually lifted it as part of his ruse.

“I didn’t mean to worry you,” he said. “Especially since I came here for help. May we come inside?”

“Now’s not a good time.” I willed myself not to look toward the attic.

The front and back doors to the house could be opened by a skilled lock-picker, but the attic and basement doors had extra locks on them, so I wasn’t too worried about whether they’d already let themselves into the house. Disturbed at the thought, yes; worried by it, no.

“I’m sorry I butted in before,” I added. “I wish you luck on your quest, but I can’t help you.”

“We were looking at your new website,” Penelope added.

“My new website?” I said. I’d forgotten Veronica was working on that.

“You’ve got some antique puzzle boxes for sale,” Peter said. From the small backpack I recognized from the theater, he pulled out a carved puzzle box made of sandalwood. It was smaller than the palm of my hand and the irregularly shaped flower carvings told me it had been hand carved. He handed it to me. The words “ashes to ashes” were carved on the bottom.

Don’t engage, Zoe. The box is intriguing, but it’s not your problem.

“What’s this?” I asked, running my fingertips over the soft wood. A raised rose was carved onto the box, with thorns circling the edges. I’d seen that image before.

“I’m hoping you can help me open it,” Peter said. “It has nothing to do with the matter you came to see us about, but being back in Portland to clear my father’s name has made me sentimental. This box belonged to him. He made it in his toy studio, and he left it to me.”

His father, Franklin Thorne, the supposed thief and murderer, had made the box.

“I know what this is,” I said, a disturbing realization dawning on me.

“That’s great,” Peter said. “I knew you’d know how to open it. Didn’t I tell you, Pen?”

“Quite,” Penelope said, her eyes never leaving mine.

“Could you show me?” Peter asked.

“I didn’t mean that I know how to open it,” I said. “I doubt anyone besides the person who put it together could open it without breaking it.”

Peter frowned.

“I know that’s not the answer you were hoping for,” I said, “because I know you don’t want to break what’s inside.”

“This is ridiculous.” The muscles of his lithe body tensed. “How do you possibly know what’s inside?”

“I saw the Thorne family crypt at the cemetery,” I said. “The carvings on the mausoleum walls are etched into the stone. They’re carvings of roses and thorns that match this box. You think this puzzle box contains a key to the Thorne family crypt. But there’s only one reason you’d be secretive about your motives—”

“There’s nothing secret about my motives,” Peter said with false calmness.

“That’s where your father’s plunder is hidden, isn’t it, Peter?” I said. “You know he’s the thief—you’ve always known—but you haven’t been able to get inside the stone mausoleum to get at his hidden loot.”