The Accidental Alchemist (7 page)

“Morning, Blue,” he said, giving her a sad smile. “The usual.”

“Coming right up.”

I brought my chai to a table near the tree while Blue helped the customer, who got a tea to go in a personal travel mug. Now that my attention wasn’t focused on Blue, I noticed the vast array of teas in metal jars lining several narrow shelves behind the counter.

The man smiled at me as he left with his tea. Blue came out from behind the counter and joined me at my table.

“I’m an early bird,” Blue said, “so I like to get started early, even though I don’t usually get many customers this early. Tea isn’t the usual choice of commuters looking for a quick caffeine fix on their way to work. A lot of my teas are actually decoctions that take a while to brew.”

“How long have you run this place?” I asked.

“It’s why I stayed in Portland. This tree was here on the corner and was about to be cut down to build more storefronts. I was able to save it.”

“I love it,” I said. I wasn’t just being polite. The old tree brought so much life to the shop.

“I can tell you’re going to like it here. Brixton told me you moved into that haunt—I mean the house that’s been sitting empty for years.”

“You don’t have to censor yourself. I’ve already heard it’s known as the local haunted house.”

“We’re a tight-knit community. It’s all well-meaning. So don’t you worry about what they’re saying about you.”

“Wait,
what?
”

“Looks like the rush is starting,” Blue said, standing up and turning her attention to four people who were walking up to the counter. “Stay and enjoy the chai.”

eight

I was in no
hurry to get back to my trailer overlooking the crime scene. I didn’t yet know how I could help Dorian, no matter how much I wanted to. I didn’t have any faith I could decipher his book, especially when I was left with only the few pages I’d photographed. Furthermore, was it possible a murderer had followed him from Paris? Someone who wanted this book badly enough that they wanted to make doubly sure the person standing in their way was dead? A tingling fear crept over me as I thought about what that might mean.

I breathed in the aroma of the chai to calm my nerves. As I did so, another chilling idea occurred to me: Could the murder have something to do with
me
?
Dorian wasn’t the only one who had things of value in his possession.

Neither scenario made sense. Both Dorian and I lived off the grid, and we hadn’t been in Portland long enough for anyone to know what we were. The murder had to be about Charles Macraith himself. It had to be. Didn’t it?

With shaking hands, I looked at the photos of Dorian’s book that were saved on my phone. On the screen, the images were too small to see the details, but zooming obscured the bigger picture. I preferred tangible photographs to computer screens. The only two modern inventions I adopted early were automobiles and blenders, both of which were perfected in the 1940s, as far as I was concerned. My vintage blender now sat behind the crime scene tape. Crime scene tape! I’d been so careful over the years. In two days I’d drawn more attention to myself than I had in the last two decades.

Having a nervous breakdown wasn’t going to help anyone. I had to relax if I was going to make sense of any of this. Placing the phone facedown on the table, I took a beaten-up paperback from my coat pocket. One of the things I had learned the hard way was that when faced with a stressful task, it’s important to take a few deep breaths before beginning. Books served as a psychological deep breath. Before I tackled the task of deciphering the pages of Dorian’s book, I could give myself these few minutes to enjoy a cup of tea and a few of my favorite passages.

Living out of my trailer, I didn’t have space for many books, so I owned only a few dozen favorite paperbacks. If I wanted to keep a new book, something old had to go. It was a small cost for living on the road, but a difficult one.

One of the very few purely positive things about living so long was getting to read so many books. While styles of prose changed over time and varied across different cultures, storytelling remained fundamentally the same. People have changed how they express themselves, but the human condition doesn’t change, and neither does how we relate to it. Instead of making new stories unnecessary, each successful storyteller puts their own twist on a familiar tale and finds a way to connect with the readers of their time. Especially successful writers reach across time, ending up as classics.

It was fascinating to see how history created false images of famous authors after their deaths. Even the author whose book I now held in my hand, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, was far different than popular culture would have people believe. Casual fans of Sherlock Holmes assume his creator was a scientific-minded man like his famous detective. People who study his life in more depth believe he gave up rationalism for spiritualism. Neither was the whole story. He was grieving for deceased loved ones—his wife and son, among others. It was a feeling I knew all too well. One part of his life was blown out of proportion as he sought to reconnect with those he missed dearly.

Regardless of how history documented the man, there’s no arguing that his stories stood the test of time. I opened my battered copy of
The Hound of the Baskervilles
.

The teashop didn’t sell coffee, but that didn’t prevent it from doing a bustling business. From the moment Blue went back to the counter, people funneled into the teashop, keeping her busy. Though an assortment of pastries was available, most customers only ordered tea.

“Did you hear about the murder?” a woman whispered loudly to her friend as they stood in line.

My shoulders tensed and I felt an instinctive desire to flee. I shoved the book back into my pocket and stood up to leave.

“Oh, don’t go.” The voice came from the table next to mine. The older woman sat alone. She sat with her back to the wall, giving her a full view of her surroundings. “You’re the one who bought the house on the hill, aren’t you?”

So much for settling in quietly.

“I need to get going,” I said, forcing a smile.

“Nonsense. What an awful introduction to our neighborhood you’ve had. Let me buy you another cup of tea.”

“Thank you, but—”

“I won’t take no for an answer.”

She stood and swooped in on the counter. That was really the only way to describe it. She wore a blood-red shawl and timed her approach to the counter perfectly to correspond to a lull in customers. I had a moment to study her unobserved as she ordered two teas. She knew who I was, knew about Charles and his murder the previous day, and nodded at several of the people in the teashop. I guessed she spent a fair amount of her time here. Though it was difficult to discern because of her perfect makeup and rich brown hair that was pulled back into a bun, I guessed she was old enough to be retired, giving her plenty of time to spend at the teashop. She couldn’t have been much taller than five feet, and I doubted she weighed a hundred pounds.

She returned a minute later with a pot of tea and two small mugs. The aroma told me it was a simple black tea, but smelled high quality and delicious.

“Olivia Strum,” she said.

“Zoe Faust. And thank you for the tea.” I wondered how quickly I could drink it and extricate myself. I should have known people would know who I was. With the murder fresh in everyone’s minds, this wasn’t how I wanted to meet people. Especially before the police had solved the crime.

Olivia leaned in. “You mustn’t order the food here. Blue knows how to make the most superb tea that tastes sublime and makes you feel alive, but she couldn’t cook a decent pastry if her life depended on it. She insists on making everything herself, so she can make them
healthy
.” She shuddered. “Can you believe that her desserts are mostly
vegan
? Life is too short to eat inedible food because it’s healthy. My nephew Sam is the one who convinced me to try the teas here. One of the few sensible suggestions he has ever made. I should also warn you Blue only accepts cash. She doesn’t trust credit cards. Ah, Ivan! Come sit with us.”

An unshaven middle-aged man with a newspaper tucked under his arm approached our table. I wondered how long Olivia would have gone on talking if it hadn’t been for the interruption.

“This is Zoe, the woman who bought the house on the hill,” Olivia said to him. “Zoe Faust, this is Ivan Danko.”

He nodded politely but without smiling, then headed for the counter, pausing first at the sole photograph on the wall. Other people had done so as well, but Ivan’s gaze lingered.

“Don’t mind him,” Olivia said. “He hates retirement. He’s still getting used to it.”

“What’s the interest in the photograph of the young woman on the wall?” I asked. “Is she Blue’s daughter?”

“Anna passed away several months ago,” Olivia said. “She wasn’t Blue’s daughter, but she was a regular here.”

“She’s so young.” No wonder the photograph interested customers who must have known her. I could see, now, that it was a shrine that had been set up for the poor girl. Though the death of Charles Macraith was tragic, the death of someone so young was especially devastating.

In the midst of unfamiliar faces, a familiar one came through the door. Max Liu breezed by us and
headed straight for the counter. For a detective, he wasn’t very observant that morning. Though he passed by quickly, I noticed the dark circles under his eyes. Only when he turned around with a cup of tea to go did he notice me.

His body gave a jerk as he stopped abruptly.

“Will you excuse us a moment?” he said to Olivia.

Being pulled aside by the police in gossip-central? Not good.

I stood and followed him outside, feeling Olivia watching me.

Max’s hand brushed against my elbow as he opened the door for me. I felt a little jolt of electricity. It was a feeling I hadn’t felt in years.
Get a grip, Zoe. This guy is investigating a murder—a murder he thinks I might be involved in.
What was the matter with me?

“Were you looking for me?” I asked. We stood just outside the teashop, under the blue awning that matched the painted blue sky inside.

“Stopping in on my way back to the station, but I’m glad I found you.”

“You are?”

“How did you know?” he asked. Up close, I saw further evidence of sleep deprivation beyond the dark circles under his eyes. He hadn’t shaved, his eyes were bloodshot, and his collar wasn’t folded properly, as if he’d dressed in a hurry, or perhaps slept in his clothes.

“Know what?”

“About the poison.”

“So Charles Macraith
was
poisoned in addition to being stabbed?”

He held my gaze, ignoring his tea. I could smell the faint scent of jasmine from the hole in the lid of his traveling mug.

“Do you believe what I told you or not?” I asked.

“I want to know why you thought it was poison.”

“I already told you,” I said. “I smelled it.”

“But how did you know what you smelled was poison if you couldn’t identify it?”

I took a moment before responding. How could I answer that question? The real answer was complicated—more complicated than could be explained to a detective on a Portland street corner. More complicated than could be explained in any way Max would understand, for that matter.

Ever since I was a small child, I’ve had more of an affinity to plants than most people. People with my gift were called “simplers.” I’ve always been sensitive to the elements that make up plants. Their smell, texture, taste, healing properties—and their poisonous properties, too. It never seemed magical to me as a child. I still don’t think of it as magic.
Natural
magic, perhaps, but not a sorcery type of magic. I wasn’t born with unexplained knowledge. I merely let myself be open to my natural sensitivities, then studied to learn what the sensations I was experiencing meant.

When I was forced to flee my home with my little brother because my talents were equated with witchcraft, it was the alchemists who took me in. They were the ones who shaped my knowledge of plants, turning my natural aptitude into a skill to practice alchemy. I hadn’t even heard of alchemy before an alchem
ist found me—or, I should say, before the alchemist found my brother Thomas. We were selling the healing tinctures I made, and the strange man assumed it was Thomas who had the aptitude for transforming plants. Thomas was more amused than I was.

“The foul smell,” I said, choosing my words carefully. I was tempted to say more, but I knew it wasn’t a good idea. Saying less was almost always better. I’d learned that the hard way.

“Why did your mind jump to poison, though? Did you recognize it as something specific?”

“No, not really.”

“Then why didn’t you think it was garbage nearby? Why did your mind jump to poison if it wasn’t something you could identify.”

It was a good question. But it wasn’t odd that I hadn’t identified the exact poison. There are many different ways plant essences can be manipulated, causing toxicity in different ways.

I glanced into the teashop. Olivia wasn’t attempting to hide her interest in watching us. When she saw me look at her, she gave a little wave. The sleeve of her blouse fell to her elbow, revealing scars on her forearm. Ivan’s face was hidden behind a newspaper.

“As I told you before,” I said, “I work with plants. Scents fall into different general categories. I didn’t know with absolute certainty it was a poisoning, but I thought I smelled a foul herbal odor. The type of thing that’s suggestive of poison. Since there was a man lying at an unnatural angle who wasn’t breathing, I jumped to that conclusion. Since you’re asking me about it, I’m guessing I was right that he was poisoned in addition to being stabbed.”

“I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation.”

“Then what exactly are you asking me?”

“If you happened to have ideas about the type of poison we might be dealing with …”

“Is the lab having trouble identifying the specific poison?” Though modern toxicology had come a long way, I knew it was far easier to detect damage to internal organs than it was to determine the cause.

He took a sip of his tea but didn’t speak. Instead his face contorted into a pained expression
.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“It’s nothing.” He rubbed his lower back with his free hand, again wincing in pain. “I got hurt chasing a suspect last month. It’
s the stupidest thing, really. I fell through a trap door. They say you never see it coming, but
that
I truly couldn’t have seen coming.”

Max’s cell phone beeped. He read something on the screen and put it back in his pocket. “We’re done with your house. You’re free to go back inside.”

“Before you go, there’s something I forgot.” I held up my cell phone showing a picture of the cover of Dorian’s book. “I have a photograph of one of the books missing from my house.”

Was it just my imagination, or did Max Liu’s breath catch when I showed him the photograph of
Not Untrue Alchemy
?