The Masquerading Magician (13 page)

Twenty-Four

I hadn't yet decided
how much would be prudent to tell my old friend—that a living gargoyle was living with me, that a murderous alchemist had recently come to town, or perhaps that a book of dangerous backward alchemy was in my possession—when he sent me a second email.

Too much to say over email
, he wrote.
Checked my schedule and I've got a couple of days off work this week. As long as you're in the U.S., I can catch a flight to see you.

I agreed there was too much to say over email. In person, I would also be able to confirm that he was still the same good man I'd known over a century before. Some things about people change over time, but some don't. I hoped Tobias was still the pure-souled Toby I'd once known.

We made plans for him to fly to Portland in two days. I also had an email from Veronica, apologizing for the joke she and Ethan had played and saying she'd started work on my website. I sent quick email replies, then practically flew down the stairs in search of Dorian, my sickness nearly forgotten.

“Salut!”
the gargoyle said as I came through the kitchen's swinging door. He hopped down from his stepping stool and wiped his hands on his flour-covered apron. His balance was a little off, with two missing stone toes, but he quickly recovered. “You are well enough to venture to the market! I have made a shopping list.”

“Dorian, I found someone who can help us.” I didn't even care that flour and some sort of red paste covered a swath of the kitchen walls, including the curtains that prevented curious onlookers from spotting Dorian. I took the list and set it on the countertop.

“You are feeling braver about the magician?”

“No, I found a man I
trust
.” I accepted a miniature red velvet cupcake from Dorian's outstretched hand, and told him about Tobias.

“And he will be here in two days?” Dorian asked once I concluded.

“He's flying in on Wednesday. Can I have another cupcake?”

“
Non
.”

“No?” That was a first.

“You have not yet eaten lunch.” He gave a sniff. “Have I taught you nothing about being a civilized person in these months we have known each other?”

I threw my arms around the gargoyle.

“Nor have I taught you enough about being dignified,” he mumbled, though he hugged me back. “Your fidgeting is making me nervous, Zoe. I can see you do not wish to be cooped up in the house with me today. I will pack your lunch as a picnic basket to take with you.”

“Take with me?”

He gave a Gallic shrug. “Your friend is not arriving for two days. Plenty of time for exploring more leads that might help us,
n'est pas
?”

With a heavy picnic basket loaded into the passenger seat of the truck, I drove to the theater. I didn't know what I hoped to find, but Dorian was right. There was so much going on that if I was well enough to leave the house, I should be doing something productive.

As I approached the theater, I caught a glimpse of Penelope's distinctive hair. She was driving the SUV I remembered, with Peter in the passenger seat. They were pulling away from the theater.

Should I?

I followed them for several minutes, careful not to get too close in my distinctive 1940s truck. It turned out I was
too
careful. In a city of narrow bridges with hidden entrances, it was impossible to hang back and still see where they turned. I lost them.

I pulled off the road and realized I was next to River View Cemetery. Could that be where they'd gone? The cemetery land was on a hillside overlooking the Willamette River, near where the sapphire necklace from the Lake Loot had been discovered by the young boys. I put the truck into gear and eased up the winding hillside drive that lead through the cemetery.

I could see why Dorian liked this graveyard, one of the forested areas he frequented under the cover of night. River View Cemetery cultivated a peaceful beauty, from its welcoming walkways and weeping cherry trees to its personalized headstones and mausoleums, each in its own style rather than dictated by the cemetery board. It didn't have as many ornately carved statues as some, such as Highgate Cemetery in London, but it was calm and hospitable.

I felt myself fading, so I was glad Dorian had insisted on packing me a picnic lunch. My body was too exhausted to carry the picnic basket far, so I found a sunny spot on a patch of cut grass with views of the river, a small grouping of ornate mausoleums, and headstones with loving memorials from families. I spread out a blanket and opened the basket from Dorian. The heaping picnic basket contained enough food for at least four people. I found two homemade baguettes with vegetables flavored with olive and walnut tapenades, an assortment of fruit, a thermos of chai tea, and a large mason jar of homemade green juice made with apple, celery, parsley, spinach, and ginger. I knew what was in the juice because of a handmade label with Dorian's distinctive French handwriting that adorned the outside of the jar. While he'd taught me many things about transforming food through cooking, I'd taught him the importance of labeling all of one's transformations.

Though picnicking in cemeteries has fallen out of fashion, the Victorians loved it. Society wasn't always death-phobic in the way it is today. Death used to be much more integrated into life. It was difficult to dismiss it so easily when it was more common, but it also wasn't hidden from sight when it did happen. Though sorrow was involved, it was a natural part of life, and therefore it was celebrated as such, in part through beautifully constructed cemeteries.

I wondered how I would one day die. Through violence while helping someone? An incurable sickness? Or simply a car accident I never saw coming? I thought of it often. Though I had achieved a degree of immortality in a more natural way than alchemists who practiced the “death rotation” of backward alchemy, I hadn't purposefully sought out this aspect of alchemy. Yet I would never end my own life as my old love Ambrose had, when he took his own life after he outlived his son. My life wasn't easy, but it brought many joys, including many new ones I'd found here in Portland.

The reason most true alchemists seek out the Elixir of Life is so they may live long enough to achieve a greater understanding of life. Especially in past times when life spans were so much shorter, there was so much unfinished business. Therefore a longer life goes hand in hand with alchemy's quest to turn the impure into the pure. The Flamels used their longer lives and alchemical skills to transmute gold that they gave to charities. I and others I had once known used our herbal healing skills to help others, such as what I'd done for Toby. We couldn't purify all of the world's evils, but maybe one day the world would be ready.

I sipped Dorian's chai tea and wondered what it would be like to see Tobias (as I should now call him, apparently) again, until I was startled out of my thoughts.

I was under the impression that the treasure hunters had packed up and left the area, but that didn't appear to be the case. Not completely. A fence was in place in an attempt to keep people out of the unstable areas where a minor landslide had occurred due to the winter flooding, but I spotted two men with metal detectors. They were cutting through the cemetery on their way to the steep public lands beyond that had suffered the brunt of the landslide. That was the area where experts speculated the sapphire necklace had come from before it washed down the hillside.

I froze when I spotted a third man with a metal detector. This man stood out.
I knew him
. A thick head of gray hair that fell to his shoulders and hearty black eyebrows gave him a distinctive look. This wasn't someone who could be easily forgotten. He was one of the two men I'd seen sneaking around the theater. The friend of the dead man, Wallace Mason.

Twenty-Five

“Hello there!” the dead
man's friend called to me.

Dammit. I'd been staring.

“I couldn't help notice you looking at my metal detector.” He walked over to my picnic blanket, eyeing it suspiciously. “You here for the same thing? Got one concealed in that gargantuan picnic basket of yours?”

“I read about the treasure hunting in the paper.” I stood and extended my hand. “I'm Zoe. And I'm not here searching for the missing loot. Only enjoying the view.”

“Earl Rasputin.” He took my hand. His hand was rough, calloused. It matched his gritty, deep voice.

I also noticed his eyes were rimmed with red. Of course. His friend had been murdered.

He scratched his stubbly cheek. “You look familiar. Have we met?”

Had he seen me inside the theater with Dorian? Had he and Wallace still been there when I spoke with Peter and Penelope? I would have seen him if he'd been in my line of sight, but perhaps he'd heard my voice. That could have been why he thought I was familiar.

“You look familiar to me too,” I said. “I've got it. You were with the man who volunteered for the
Phantasmagoria
magic show.”

“You were there?”

“I love a good magic show.” I cringed inwardly at my inept response. Clearly it wasn't just my body that was lacking at the moment; my mental faculties weren't at 100 percent either. Plus, his bushy black eyebrows were distracting.

He sighed. “You haven't seen the news.”

“Oh, how stupid of me. Yes, of course.” I fiddled with my hands, trying to appear flustered as if I'd only just now remembered that Wallace was dead. It wasn't difficult, since I was flustered for another reason. I tried to think of a good segue to warn him about the magician without sounding crazy. I also needed to find out what he knew about the loot that had led him to spy on the magicians, when nobody else seemed to have made the connection. But all I came up with was, “I'm so sorry. I did hear about the man who was killed. He was your friend?”

“You get to be my age, and you lose a lotta friends,” he said. “It's not an enjoyable experience, but you learn to live with it. But this one's different. I'm not used to losing friends through violent death—if you don't count war.” He paused and his dark eyes bore into me. “In the face of death, what you learn most is that you've gotta keep on living. That's why I'm out here today.”

I looked around. A lot of trees and birds, but not a lot of people. “His funeral?”

“Nah, the police still have him.”

“That's awful.” I shivered, and I wasn't acting for Earl's benefit. When I thought of Wallace Mason's dead body falling onto the stage floor, the image replayed itself in slow motion in my mind, as if I could have done something to prevent it. “Do you know what happened?”

“He went and got himself stabbed to death.” Earl shook his head. “He always had a temper, so who the hell knows who he pissed off this time. Stupid bastard. Gets himself killed just when we're so close!”

“So close?”
What did he know about Franklin Thorne, aka Peter Silverman, and his loot?

“Wallace and I are treasure hunters. Been doing it for close to a decade now. Instead of sitting at home alone drinking the bottle of rye he bought me for my last birthday, I thought I'd honor his memory by coming out here today. See if I can find the treasure.”

“You're talking about the Lake Loot? I thought everyone had given up on it.”

He looked from me to the picnic basket, his eyes narrowing as he did so. “You know a lot about it for someone who says they're not here for the treasure. You having a party here? Where are the rest of your friends hiding?”

“It's just me. Would you like to sit down and have something to eat? I was hungry, so I overdid it.”

“You got that right.” He set down the metal detector and a fanny pack, then hitched up his jeans and sat down on the plaid picnic blanket. Apparently he'd decided I was harmless. I wasn't so sure about him, though, when I caught a glimpse of what was in the fanny pack. Flyers about Bigfoot sightings.
Bigfoot
.

Yes, I'd just invited a conspiracy theorist to join me for a late lunch in a cemetery.

Well, since he was already sitting down, I might as well sit back down, too, and give him a sandwich. After all, I needed to warn him to stay away from the magician-alchemist.

“What's a pretty little lady doing all alone in a cemetery?” Earl asked, taking a bite of the olive tapenade and vegetable sandwich.

“It's peaceful here.” I pressed my locket to my chest, my daily cemetery reminder. “I'm surprised they allow metal detectors in here. Seems like that's an open invitation for grave robbing.”

“Some poor sap was arrested for that very reason. Nah, they run a tight ship here. You stick a shovel in the ground and they'll stop you before you toss the first pile of dirt over your shoulder. But I know what I'm doing. I was just passing through to the landslide area.” He waved his hand over to where I'd seen the other treasure hunters headed.

“The landslide area that's blocked off—”

“You work for the police, missy?”

“No, but—”

“Then maybe you should mind your own business.”

I contemplated skipping the warning to stay away from the alchemist's hoard, but my conscience got the better of me. “I was only trying to help. It seems awfully dangerous. It seems like you'd be doing a disservice to your friend to get arrested or die trying to find the loot.”

“Neither is gonna happen.”

“Do you know something more than the others about the Lake Loot?”

Earl narrowed his eyes at me.

“Don't you think it's suspicious,” I said, “that your friend was killed right when you two were so close to finding it? I don't mean to be nosey, but I'd hate to see the same thing happen to someone else.”

“Like I said, Wallace had a temper. He was a good man, and helped me out years ago when I was going through a rough time, but lots of people would say he had it coming. I already told the police. Don't you worry about it.
Damn
.”

My skin prickled. Had he remembered something? “What is it?”

“This is the best sandwich I've eaten in years. You a chef?”

I sighed. “I cook pastries for a café part-time. But you've got me curious. What do you know about the loot?”

“I used to work as a chef.”

“You did?”

He nodded. “I was born at the wrong time. I owned a food truck twenty years before they became popular.”

“What did you cook?”

“Chocolate fondue. Now, I can tell what you're thinking. That's pretty dang messy for a food truck. But that was the genius of it. I've got a knack at tempering chocolate, bringing it to the right temperature so it doesn't melt when you don't want it to. Each morning dip an assortment of sweet and savory foods in chocolate, then pop 'em into the truck's fridge. Voil
à
. I'd have fresh chocolate-covered fruit, scones, bacon, you name it. I'd take custom orders. Those were the most popular. I never understood grilled cheese sandwiches dipped in chocolate, but to each his own.” Earl shook his head. “I'm a man ahead of my time. When I was ready to retire I sold my truck to a young punk for a song, and now the kid's got lines down the street for some sort of curried chick pea burrito. Baffles the mind.”

“And now you look for lost Oregon treasures?”

“You've got talent, young lady.” He tucked the last piece of a sandwich into his mouth and closed his eyes as he chewed, giving me a chance to study his face. As he ate in blissful silence, his weathered skin accentuated the lines around his mouth and eyes. He gave a contented sigh, then his dark eyes popped open and startled me with the intensity of his gaze. “I don't give out praise willy-nilly. You mind?” He indicated the basket.

“Help yourself. And thanks. But you never answered my question. What's your secret information about the Lake Loot? You've got me intrigued.”

He squinted his eyes at me. “If I told you, how do I know you wouldn't take it for yourself?”

“Why would I do that? I don't understand why
anyone
is after it. Whoever finds it can't keep it. It belongs to the Lake family.”

“You're forgetting about the reward.”

“You're in it for the small reward?”

He picked up a second sandwich and stood up. “You wouldn't understand. It's the thrill of the hunt, honey. The thrill of the hunt. And now that Wallace is gone, I'm going to find it to honor his memory.”

After Earl left, I again felt like I knew less rather than more. Earl was a strange fellow. Bigfoot sightings? An inside track on the treasure? He knew a lot more than he was telling me, but what? It couldn't be a coincidence that he'd been sneaking around the theater. What had he discovered about Peter Silverman's connection to the Lake Loot? If he believed in Bigfoot, did he believe in alchemy? Or could it all be an act? Could he have killed his friend once they were close to finding the treasure?

I was tired of thinking. At least Earl had saved me from lugging a heavy picnic basket back to the car. He'd eaten almost everything.

I was still tired from the effort I'd expended that morning, but a walk would do me good. I was cold despite the warm spring air and my thick sweater, another indication that my energy was depleted in ways that food couldn't heal. Either that or this polyester sweater wasn't nearly as warm as my favorite wool sweater that had been impaled by a sharp piece of ceiling.

I followed a winding path past a set of mausoleums. Either by accident or design, the plants circling several of the raised crypts mirrored the family names. I imagined that in late summer, giant sunflowers shadowed the Sun family mausoleum. The Thorne mausoleum was surrounded by thorny rose bushes, destined to bloom vibrant and fragrant. And a skilled gardener had somewhat successfully coaxed blackberry bushes into growing up the outer stone walls of the Blackstone crypt.

There weren't any funerals taking place that Monday afternoon, so I had the place mostly to myself. Until a figure caught my eye. Though he was on a path below me on the hillside, it was impossible to miss him. He was juggling three pine cones in his left hand. In his other hand, he held the hand of a woman who stood a head taller than him.

Peter and Penelope Silverman. The magician-alchemists.