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.