“The sidewalk isn’t the best place for us to talk.” Special Agent Mitchell stepped aside as a woman attempted to open the door to The Alchemy of Tea. “My car is across the street.”
I hurried after the agent to an old car with a few layers of mud on the bumper and tires. She tossed her gear into the back before sliding into the driver’s seat.
“Door’s open,” she said as I stood on the sidewalk.
“Let me see your ID one more time.”
She stood and held it over the top of the little car, close enough for me to see but not grab.
“Dora,” I read. “Special Agent Dora Mitchell.”
“Friends call me Mitch. You can call me Special Agent Mitchell. Ms. Faust, we’re wasting time.” She gave an exasperated sigh. “You said your boyfriend is missing and there’s poison—”
“You already knew my name when you came over to me.”
“A perk of being in law enforcement. Can you get in the car?”
I stared at her over the top of the dirty car. Max’s shop and Blue’s café were in my line of sight, but they barely registered as I looked at the special agent in a new light. I knew who she was.
Special Agent Mitchell wasn’t trying to kidnap me. She was indeed who she said she was. But she was also so much more.
“The given name Dora,” I said. “Isn’t that often a diminutive for a more formal name?”
She scowled at me. “I’m not in the mood for riddles. Were you being serious about poison and Mr. Liu being in trouble?”
“I’m going to tell you what’s going on,” I said, now certain I was right. She knew Max’s name in addition to mine. “I’m going to be truthful with you. Because I need your help. I think you understand a big part of what’s going on, from information you’ve already collected, so I can get you up to speed quickly. But you need to get us into Max’s shop, so we can make sure he’s not hurt.”
Without a word, she pulled open the car door. But she wasn’t getting inside. She reached into the glovebox and put something in her pocket.
“Let’s go,” she said as she held up her arm to stop the car that was driving down the popular street. She did it with such authority that the driver didn’t even honk as they stopped for us.
I jogged across the street after her. “There’s a back door in the alley. Less conspicuous.”
She didn’t break stride as she went around to the back. By the time I reached her side, the door was already open and the overhead light on.
“Max?” I called out. The shop’s back room was small enough that I could immediately tell he wasn’t there. Dorian would have pointed out that one of the cardboard boxes was large enough for a body, so I reluctantly peeked inside. A dozen boxes of tea pots rested neatly inside.
“Talk while we look around.” Agent Mitchell quickly scanned the small room, then poked her head into the tiny bathroom.
“The idea for poison starts with Perenelle Flamel,” I said. “But she’s not the one who created it. You can think of her as my godmother, to understand my relationship to her. She’s an artist who knows a special process to create beautiful pigments for oil paintings. She’s originally French, from a line of artists who passed down these secrets. Her secret recipe involves principles from alchemy, so it’s very complex. It can’t simply be written down as a recipe and copied. And it involves dangerous ingredients that are rendered inert when handled properly.”
“Which is where poison comes in,” said Special Agent Mitchell.
“Exactly. Well-meaning people who handle the pigment recipes incorrectly can accidentally create poisoned substances. A new line of artist paints from Renaissance White already has hundreds of samples out in the world, and thousands more are about to go on sale, with even more planned if they succeed.”
“Sounds like a bad business model.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think they realize it’s poison. The poison will only take effect once the paint breaks down. I don’t know exactly how long that will take, but it was created with a corrupted process and is already starting to break down. The same night I had a work of art stolen, the Renaissance White lab was burglarized and a painting stolen. Both paintings were from that line of artists Perenelle is descended from.”
“Made with pigments from this secret technique that’ll result in poison if it’s done incorrectly.”
“Exactly. The paintings are known as Brother and Sister and The Apothecary’s Cabinet. Max was checking in with Detective Vega of Portland PD, who’s having a paint sample tested for poison, and before he left her, he said he had to go deal with a cabinet. His shop doesn’t need a cabinet.”
“But it’s shorthand for one of the stolen paintings.”
“And he’s not answering his phone.” I checked my phone for messages. Still no Max. “He might have left his shop closed for something important, but he would have told me. And he wouldn’t have gone offline like this.”
Special Agent Mitchell shook her head. “He doesn’t have any specialized knowledge here. It sounds like Mrs. Flamel is the one who’s in danger.”
I froze. She was right. I dialed Perenelle’s number. It went straight to voicemail. I frowned at the phone as I called Nicolas.
“Zoe, my dear!” The sound of his voice put me at ease.
“Perenelle isn’t answering her phone,” I said.
“But isn’t she with you and Max?”
“She’s not home with you?”
“She left when Max called,” Nicolas said. “Is something wrong?”
Something was very wrong.
“Keep me posted if she calls you,” I told him before hanging up.
“She’s missing too?” A look of real concern showed on the agent’s face.
“Let’s stop playing games. You know more about Perenelle Flamel than I do right now. You’ve been investigating both her and Nicolas.”
I wasn’t worried that the FBI was investigating the Flamels for a crime. The agent had called the Flamels’ neighbors and contacted them using the fake identity of art collector Joni Mitchell right before the Flamels’ backstories came through online. Special Agent Dora Mitchell was looking into whether they were worthy of her help disguising their identities.
“Thank you for helping the Flamels,” I said. “Thank you, Theodora Mitchell. Or should I call you Theo?”