From the Typewriter of Dorian Robert-Houdin
The Culinary Alchemist’s Toolbox
What makes a work of art valuable?
A work of art can refer to a delicious meal as much as a painting. Both expressions of art are more than the sum of their parts. Cooking and traditional expressions of art both involve alchemical transformation.
Alchemy is the process of using your intent to transform imperfect raw elements into something greater than the ingredients you begin with.
The intentional selection of materials and a good recipe can result in a transformative feast. This is the same process that gives an artist pure pigments (though, of course, with different ingredients).
Similar to a meal that is elevated to a gourmet experience that results in you being called upon to be the primary chef for your social circle, some works of art become masterpieces that generate far more interest than the artist intended.
When you begin your journey, be clear in your intent. Stated more plainly, so there can be no mistake: Be careful what you wish for.
Before turning to his stone form, Dorian had forgotten to remove the typewritten words he had left in his typewriter, so now that he had the attic to himself once more, he was relieved to discover it was only inconsequential musings.
He was also thankful that modern fingerprinting was not as invasive as in the past. The indignity of being fingerprinted was well worth it, for he was able to hear firsthand what the detective thought about the two interwoven cases. And Zoe, to her credit, had led the crime scene technician away from Dorian’s stone form when she lingered there for too long.
Dorian had hoped he would get additional details from Zoe after les flics had departed, yet Zoe did not have time to remain at home for a proper breakfast. She felt it urgent to meet with the other person who had been burgled, Adam White of Renaissance White. Zoe believed the cases to be connected because both stolen paintings had been created by Perenelle Flamel. But why was a thief after these paintings that would not be appraised for much money at all?
He could not speak more with her until she returned. For the moment, Dorian was left to his own devices. Yet Dorian Robert-Houdin was not one to wait for others to act. He was a self-reliant gargoyle.
The sun had risen, and Brixton and his other young friends would be getting ready for school. Dorian opened Zoe’s computer and considered how to convince Brixton, Veronica, and Ethan to pay him a visit. Mentioning a burglary might be enough to entice them, yet peer pressure of messaging all three was sure to do the trick. This was key in convincing them to visit him before school, when time was short. He used a program that allowed him to text them simultaneously.
A burglary??? It was Veronica who was the first to respond, mere seconds after Dorian had sent the message.
!!!??? Ethan texted next.
On our way. Brixton wrote.
Dorian left the laptop open in case they wrote more, but turned his attention elsewhere while he waited. The device was an eye-sore, yet a necessary one.
Dorian had recently fixed three old typewriters that had not functioned properly when he bought them. He preferred the solid metal keys of a typewriter to the plastic buttons of Zoe’s laptop.
There was some value to be had, he grudgingly admitted, from saving words in an electronic document, which could then be edited. Yet it did not make up for the clickity-clack of the typewriter keys that reminded him of the sound of rain falling on stone.
Screens of modern devices did not respond to Dorian’s fingertips, and he did not enjoy the use of a magic pen that allowed him to fumble on such screens. He could use computer keyboards and was indeed a fast typist, yet he still felt awkward using them. It did not feel natural. And it would not do for the great Dorian Robert-Houdin to feel awkward!
He was, at heart, a creature made of stone. Though alchemy had given him life beyond stone, he felt at peace with the heavy, natural elements that constituted his typewriters.
Or, if he were being truly honest with himself—he was a self-aware gargoyle, after all—he might admit that the typewriters gave him a better excuse to abandon his works in progress. Each page was a fleeting expression, not easily revised or shared with others.
He had begun writing two Gothic novels in the past year, both of which he had abandoned. One about the Witch’s Castle, a crumble of stone ruins near a Portland wildlife trail. The other about a Frankenstein’s monster who befriended a cat. The beginnings, those were easy. Yet how did one stay motivated? It was très difficile! Now that there was another mystery afoot, in addition to his cookbook musings, he could begin another Gothic novel based on an art thief. Surely this would help his subconscious work through the mystery.
Bof! He should not be thinking of a Gothic tale at this moment. What kind of host was he to have neglected to think of his guests who would be there in ten minutes or less?
He scampered to the kitchen and put together a platter of the misshapen pastries he had brought back from Blue Sky Teas before dawn this morning. He was still selecting the least misshapen of the lot when he heard an engine.
He carefully peered through the front curtains. It was the three teenagers, in Ethan’s shiny white car. Ethan’s parents had bought him the new car for his sixteenth birthday. The boy was far wealthier than either Veronica or Brixton, and until meeting his boyfriend Harry, far unhappier as well. Ethan’s miserable parents were acrimoniously divorcing, so they thought a new car would cheer their boy. Dorian wondered how so many of the people who were the most successful with money could be so idiotic in other realms of their lives.
“My parents will kill me if I’m late to school,” Veronica said as she dumped a huge backpack onto the floor. “Be quick.”
Veronica Chen-Mendoza was now several inches taller than either boy, though Brixton had also grown in the time since Dorian had met him two years prior. This height differential had once bothered Veronica, but since this new school year had begun, she held herself more confidently. With her tall frame and effortless style—for she wore no discernible makeup and had repaired a red vintage coat she’d discovered at a local thrift store—he believed she would fit in very well in Paris, if she were to visit.
Dorian sniffed the air and frowned. “Did one of you step in what our neighbors euphemistically call ‘doggie doo-doo’?”
They inspected their shoes and shook their heads.
“I don’t smell anything,” Brixton said.
“Me neither,” Ethan said. “Only a good smell—these muffins you baked. And you know I wouldn’t have let them in the car with dog—”
“I’ll clean it up after school if anyone brought anything gross into Ethan’s new car,” Veronica interrupted. “We only have five minutes until we need to leave.”
“At least eight,” Ethan said, taking a cran-apple muffin.
“Ignore them.” Brixton was the only one not to have sat down. “What was stolen?”
Dorian sniffed once more. “Do none of you smell that strange scent? It is quite metallic.”
Brixton and Ethan shook their heads, but Veronica’s eyes grew wide. “Are you having a stroke? My grandmother smelled burnt toast that wasn’t there when she started having a stroke.”
Dorian gasped and flapped his wings. Every part of his body reacted as it should. He did not feel as if he was falling ill. “Non. I am certain there is an odd aroma.”
“Was your grandma okay?” Ethan asked Veronica.
“My mom knew what to do right away, so she was fine.”
“I am glad for this,” Dorian said with a smile. He was both pleased for the girl’s grandmere, and for having located the aroma. “The scent is from your backpack.” He pointed at Veronica’s overly stuffed backpack.
“My lunch?” Veronica reddened.
“That’s messed up,” Brixton said to Dorian. “You shouldn’t criticize people’s food.”
He glowered at the boy. “I am not referring to her lunch, which has no scent at all.” He presumed it was in a sealed lunch case. “There is something else.”
Veronica grinned. “Must be my paints, then. I’ve got a couple of tubes in my bag. They’re strong, I know.”
“She’s taking an art class,” Ethan explained. “She’s really good.”
“The class is amazing,” Veronica gushed. “My parents say art can’t be a career, but I have a free elective, so I can do what I want with it. Do you want to see what we’re studying?”
“Um, didn’t you say we needed to leave soon?” Brixton asked.
Veronica’s eyes grew wide. “Sorry! What happened with the burglary? What was stolen? Zoe found something valuable for Elixir?”
“Zoe’s most beloved painting was taken.” Dorian paused and drummed his clawed fingertips together. “The portrait of her and her brother.”
Veronica gasped. “That’s horrible!”
“What can we do to help?” Brixton asked.
Zoe did not like it when Dorian enlisted the help of the teenagers. She said they were children, which was quite insulting. They were sixteen now, which was as old as Zoe when she was forced to flee Salem Village for being suspected of witchcraft. Perhaps Veronica was only fifteen, but no matter. His young friends had proved both trustworthy and resourceful.
“I wish to utilize your social media talents to search for anyone who mentions a person carrying a large, framed artwork through Portland last night,” Dorian explained. “Since I was unable to stop the intruder who stole Zoe’s painting—”
“You were here when it was stolen?” Veronica gaped at him.
“I attempted to stop the thief, but I was kicked aside—”
“Are you okay?” Brixton asked, his gaze searching for injuries.
Dorian pointed at the small dark gray lump that had formed on his temple. “Only a minor inconvenience. I am physically well, but emotionally bereft. I have failed Zoe. I cannot go in search of the painting, and the police are not treating the theft as a priority because they are more concerned with the murder—”
“Murder?” The three young people said as one.
“Is this always what it’s like being friends with a gargoyle?” Ethan asked his friends. The boy looked pale.
“Pretty much,” Brixton answered.
Ethan and Veronica had learned the secret of Dorian’s existence more recently than Brixton’s accidental sighting of Dorian in Zoe’s house. Veronica had adapted much more quickly. Ethan was indebted to Dorian for a courageous act which Dorian was quite proud to have performed, but the boy was going through a challenging time of life, with his parents flinging cruel accusations at each other as they divorced. He understood this to be challenging for children. If he could give the boy something productive to do, this would surely help his self-esteem.
“Who was murdered?” Veronica asked.
“The thief who stole the artwork,” Dorian explained, “may also be the killer of another person interested in the artwork.”
“He murdered someone?” Ethan said. “Truly?”
“An art historian is now dead.” Dorian attempted to remove all emotion from his voice. It would not do to dwell on the tragedy. They could not save the woman, but they could avenge her. “It is possible that the thief saw her as a rival, as she was also interested in the painting. A second painting was stolen during the night, yet the recovery of the paintings are secondary to the police. They will only pursue the artwork as far as it leads them to their murderer. I, however, care most for my friend.”
“That’s beautiful.” Veronica smiled at him.
Brixton rolled his eyes. “He also cares about solving a mystery.”
Dorian clicked his tongue. “I have information that will help Zoe, which we are unable to tell the police, for they do not know I exist. This is why I need your assistance.”
“What do you know?” Veronica asked.
“I did not hear the sound of a car. I believe the thief was on foot. Alors, someone may have seen the thief with Zoe’s painting. Will you help?”
“Of course,” Brixton said. “What else can you tell us—”
“We can’t be late to school.” Veronica scrambled up. “We already know what Zoe’s painting looks like. I have photos as well. We’ll figure it out. Ethan, come on.”
She pulled the stunned boy from his seat.
Brixton grabbed another muffin as they hurried out. He paused in the attic door.
“Dorian.” Brixton leaned in the doorway. With the hesitancy in his voice and naked concern on his face, he looked more boy than man. “If the thief killed a historian for being interested in the painting, doesn’t that mean Zoe is in trouble as well?”
“She could be,” Dorian said. “She very well could be.”