From the Typewriter of Dorian Robert-Houdin
The Culinary Alchemist’s Toolbox
Beware of unwanted visitors. Cooking and baking are not team sports. Meals are when you can come together with those you care about.
Dorian reviewed what he had written. This was perhaps too harsh for a cookbook he wished people to buy. His wisdom was correct, of course. If guests nibbled at your carefully measured ingredients, the meal they were waiting for would not be as delectable.
It was mid-afternoon. Zoe would now be with Perenelle Flamel, and presumably Dr. Graves. This was not an ideal situation, for Zoe would not entertain the notion that Gwendolyn Graves could not be trusted. Zoe and Perenelle were biased! Yes, they had lived through times when women were the property of men and so few rights it was as if they had none.
Dorian understood they were predisposed to trust a woman who sought to right the wrongs done to talented women after their deaths. Yet this did not mean they should overlook her tainted past! What was Dr. Graves hiding?
He wished he could speak with Nicolas. The old alchemist was a trustworthy companion, yet he was entertaining Veronica’s father while the girl practiced her painting.
Dorian was deep in thought when he heard the sound of creaking below him. There should not have been anyone else in the house. Another burglar?
On high alert, he wrapped his cape around his shoulders, brandished a carved walking stick as a weapon, and crept down the stairs.
He winced as he neglected to step over the attic step that creaked underfoot. Yet the intruder did not appear to hear. He swept silently through the second floor, yet did not find a soul.
He scampered down the main stairway to the first floor. He walked quickly, as those steps were much more solid and would not give away his presence. Again, there was no one in the house.
The creaking sounded again. It was coming from the back porch.
Of course! Dorian chuckled to himself. Veronica was receiving an art lesson, therefore school had let out for the day. Brixton often came by to tend to Zoe’s backyard garden. It had begun as punishment for breaking into Zoe’s house. That was before any of them had been properly introduced. How far they had come.
Dorian knew better than to go into the backyard during the daylight hours. He hurried back upstairs, where he used Zoe’s computer to text Brixton. Less than one minute later, the boy used his spare key to let himself into the house through the back door.
“Why are you sulking?” Dorian asked when the boy’s sullen visage appeared in the attic doorway. “It is raining, so are you disappointed you cannot water the garden?”
“I’m not sulking.”
“I will fix you a snack.”
“Not hungry.”
The boy was definitely sulking. He was always hungry.
“In that case,” said Dorian, “you can assist me with a serious problem.”
Brixton perked up. “Oh?” Yet his face fell immediately. “If you’re talking about looking up who might’ve seen that burglar two nights ago, Ethan and Harry are on it. They’re way better at that stuff than I am. I’m no good at anything.”
Ah. This explained the sulking.
The boy was a loyal friend, yet he did not think these words would help at the moment. Nor did an assurance that his skills at the guitar and banjo were more than adequate. If he stuck with it, he would be quite good one day.
“It is not the search for the thief’s movements by way of social media sightings,” Dorian said. “There is something else I wish you to do. I wish you to be my eyes and ears on the ground.”
“What does that mean?”
“You must befriend Dr. Gwendolyn Graves.” Dorian explained to the boy that Zoe and Perenelle were already working with Dr. Graves on setting the historical record straight.
“Wicked,” said Brixton. “It’s about time stuff like that’s getting done. But I don’t see how I can help.”
“Dr. Graves has had a long career. She has published many books and papers, which I am reviewing. I wish you to talk with her colleagues and former students. Say you are doing a class project, and you wish to tell the untold story of Dr. Graves, as a parallel to how she tells the untold story of the artists previously written out of history.”
“But I don’t know anything about art stuff. Like I said, I’m not good at anything. It’s Veronica who’s good at art. All she wants to do is practice painting, learn about art history, and hang out with her new art friends.”
Ah. A deeper reason why the boy’s sulking could not easily be counteracted.
“Yet you possess a characteristic none of them do,” said Dorian.
“I do?”
“You are, by nature, skeptical. You will assess what you learn with an impartial eye that Zoe, Perenelle, and Veronica do not possess when to comes to Dr. Graves. They wish to believe in her, making their judgement biased.”
“You know something.” Brixton leaned forward.
“I suspect,” said Dorian. “The truth and what one suspects are two different things. I need you to help me discover if my fears are warranted.”
“I’m in.”