From the Typewriter of Dorian Robert-Houdin
The Culinary Alchemist’s Toolbox
It is essential to set up a sacred space devoted to your craft. An aspiring culinary alchemist might not have a room of their own, but a cubby of one’s own will suffice. The two most important elements are to have selected your ingredients carefully and prepared your space with intention.
Warning: If you share a home with someone, be very clear about what you expect of them in the kitchen. If not, you will be sorely disappointed when your carefully considered ingredients disappear.
Dorian stepped out of the pantry of the kitchen. Zoe needed rest and had gone to sleep, and Dorian needed to clear his mind so he could best determine next steps. Therefore, he had spent the last hour organizing the pantry. This would help him with his cookbook as well as reset his cluttered mind.
Using a green marker from the squeaky junk drawer in the kitchen, he wrote “CAUTION: Do Not Enter!” on a piece of stationery and taped it to the pantry door. He would have preferred black ink to convey the severity of the message, but most things Zoe bought were green, as it was her favorite color.
Dorian did not feel bad for banning her from the pantry. Zoe did a small amount of cooking in their shared kitchen, but she cared more for growing vegetables, fruits, and culinary herbs. She did much in the garden but required very little in the kitchen. He left a dish of sea salt on the counter next to jars of garlic-infused olive oil and apple cider vinegar. A wicker basket of lemons, apples, and avocados was also on the countertop. She kept almonds and sunflower seeds in the freezer, so Zoe did not need anything else from the pantry.
Satisfied with his sign, he climbed the stairs to the attic. With a clear mind, he began work on his biggest project of the night: a murder board.
Dorian had learned of the concept when reading a novel about a true crime podcaster. He had implemented the idea on a previous case, to good effect. They knew so little about this baffling case that a murder board was a good place to start.
He retrieved his stack of notecards and fountain pen.
On the first notecard he wrote Arthur Finder — Alias.
He opened Zoe’s laptop and looked for the two pieces of information they had about the man, which were the email messages exchanged with Nicolas and the website he had set up pretending to be a solicitor in England. The police would be conducting digital forensics with these bits of information, which Dorian had to admit was beyond his own skillset.
He frowned at the card. How else could he find information about this “art finder”? Was he an art collector seeking Perenelle’s artwork for himself? An art dealer working on behalf of an unscrupulous client? Was he Betty Kubiak’s killer? Was he even a he?
Perhaps it was best to begin with the person for whom they had a name.
On the second notecard he wrote Betty Kubiak — Impersonator of Dr. Gwendolyn Graves, Actress, Artist.
Here was someone with a true online presence. In her younger days, she had acted in many plays in various cities along the West Coast of the United States. Her photograph was occasionally on the poster advertising a production, but more frequently she was a supporting actress. Betty Kubiak was no twin of Dr. Graves, yet they were not dissimilar. They might have been sisters, yet after more digging online, he decided this was not the case.
In recent years, the roles were less frequent, but her artwork became a greater part of her life. Her work had been featured in a smattering of gallery shows, but her medium was watercolor, not oil paintings like Perenelle Flamel’s. She could have been interested in other forms of art, of course, but he had the strongest suspicion it was Arthur Finder—a man who did not exist—who was pulling the strings. Deviously manipulating the poor woman, taking advantage of a fading career with promises of riches to save her impoverished nephew…
Zut alors! He had not meant for his imagination to take over the investigation. Surely this story would make an incredible Gothic novel. An innocent young man imprisoned in a crumbling tower, his desperate relation willing to do anything to help him even if it corrupted her soul. This was an inversion of the gender roles so frequently seen in Gothic fiction, but for this reason it was imperative that he write the story.
Non! He must not get distracted. He had a cookbook to write and a murder to solve. Alas, he was not making as much progress as he had hoped in the most pressing task at hand: solving the murder and getting Zoe’s painting back. There was much more to be discovered about Betty Kubiak’s past. But first, perhaps it was time for a midnight snack.
Before heading downstairs, he checked his email. There were not many people with whom he emailed, so he was not in the habit of checking it.
“C’est magnifique,” he whispered. Ethan had emailed earlier this evening with information. Dorian knew the teenagers would come through. Dorian had assumed it would be Brixton who would follow up with him, for it was Brixton with whom he was closest, but it made sense that Ethan was the social media expert. As Ethan’s parents fought, he had retreated into the online world.
Dorian opened Ethan’s message.
Social media sightings in the neighborhood didn’t find a thief carrying a painting, but these are the weirdest sightings in your neighborhood last night:
Hawthorne at SE 40th: Man with a beard carrying the top half of a mannequin. Close to the theater, so probably easily explained.
Hawthorne at SE 33rd: 2 people with 10 boxes of Voodoo Doughnuts. Where were they going with so many donuts at midnight?
Lone Fir Cemetery: 6 Senior Serenaders singing and holding candles at a grave. (Harry told me the alliteration of that line was distracting, but it really was 6 of them, so it stays.)
Under Hawthorne Bridge: 3 figures wearing capes with hoods. Too early in October for a Halloween party, right?
That last group wasn’t nearby your house, but still in East Portland, so I couldn’t resist including it. Hooded figures at midnight sounds like a secret society.
A secret society, indeed. This was most interesting.