Oceans & Potions Read online

  With a feverish beating of her wings, Florence took flight, crashing through the cave wall—it felt like we were wading through a giant tub of jelly—and soaring over the yeti community as we climbed up, up, up until the mountain was a mere speck beneath us. Merry was clutching at my waist and whispering feverish prayers beneath his breath, his talon-like fingernails digging into me each time Florence adjusted her altitude.

  Before long, we were gliding over the open water, Magic Island nothing but a dot on the horizon until it disappeared completely, and, lost in the moment, I left all of my problems behind with it. The ocean glittered like a million shards of light beneath us, and I threw back my head to allow the sun to play across my face as we coasted above the clouds, so close I could reach out my hand and allow them to whisper through my fingertips.

  Night fell, and twenty hours disappeared in the blink of an eye as Merry and I dozed on a bed of Florence’s soft fur, the gentle beating of her wings lulling me into a pleasant stupor. All too soon Florence began decelerating and we dipped beneath the clouds as the Frozen Island sprawled out beneath us, a glittering mass of ice and snow that seemed to stretch on to infinity. A snow-packed volcano sat majestically in the middle of the island, and as we swept in for a landing beside a glimmering lake, a herd of walruses swam up to us, grunting and rasping as we slid off Florence’s back.

  I stroked her head and whispered my thanks in her ear, tears swimming in my eyes as she nudged me gently with her snout and took flight again. I watched her wings sparkling in the cerulean sky until she disappeared into the clouds and Merry began tugging on my arm impatiently.

  “We don’t have all day,” he groused, pulling a map of the island out of his pocket and studying it millimeters from his long nose. “According to this, Emeril’s estate is half a mile down the road that way.” He pointed down a path carved through the snow, and it occurred to me for the first time that the island didn’t have any roads, probably to preserve its natural beauty.

  Merry and I trudged along the path, our breath mingling in the icy air. The island was far more remote than I expected, and I could see why a celebrity like Emeril would choose to spend much of his time here, far removed from prying eyes.

  We approached a bungalow carved entirely from ice that sparkled in the sunshine, its chimney emitting puffs of blue smoke that dissipated in the air. As we passed by, the door opened and a woman emerged, carrying a load of laundry that she strung up on a line pinned to the ground by two icicles. “How many people live here, anyway?” I asked Merry, entranced by the simple beauty all around us.

  “Only the loony-tunes,” he grunted, then nearly toppled over as his boot got stuck in a pile of snow that hadn’t yet been shoveled to the side of the path. He wrenched himself loose, grabbing onto me for support and swearing copiously, and I kept my mouth shut for the rest of the walk so I could enjoy the beautiful landscape without being interrupted by Merry’s persistent bad mood.

  Emeril’s estate was as magnificent as I expected—a sprawling structure of ice and snow situated along a private lake with a canoe dock, diving board, and a group of furry baby penguins dipping their beaks into the water to search for fish. As we approached the gate, which looked to have been spun from pure gold, I came to a sudden halt, my hand on the lock. I felt like an intruder, a voyeur into Emeril’s private world, the little slice of heaven he’d carved out for himself.

  Sadness enveloped me as I bowed my head and silently wished that wherever Emeril was, he was at peace. Since I’d started investigating his death, I noticed that all anyone could talk about was Emeril’s money and celebrity status—did anyone out there actually miss the yeti he was on the inside? It all seemed unbearably sad to me, and it made me even more determined to uncover the truth.

  “What the devil are you waiting for?” Merry asked, interrupting my thoughts.

  He shouldered past me impatiently and stormed through the gate as if he owned the place. As we neared the front door, made entirely of white marble, I saw that a few moving boxes were still stacked outside and swallowed down the lump of nerves that had crept up my throat. I still hadn’t worked out exactly what I’d say to Isla if she happened to be home—thanks to my previous run-in with her, there was no lying about my true identity. I’d just have to pray that she was in the mood for warmer weather today.

  I steeled myself and grasped the door knocker—stifling a laugh when I realized it was custom-carved in an exact replica of Emeril’s face—then waited for the sound of footsteps from within. Though the key Amelia had given me was tucked safely away in my purse, I only planned on using it as a last resort. Normally I didn’t go around barging into people’s homes unannounced, though, to be fair, I supposed I wasn’t above lying my way inside… Still, a girl has to draw the line somewhere, right?

  When no one responded, I pressed my ear against the door, listening intently, frowning as I heard what sounded like dozens of mice chattering on the other side. Were they the lucky few that had escaped Emeril’s last meal?

  “What is it?” Merry asked, standing on tiptoe to try and see in Emeril’s front window.

  Just then, the door swung open, sending me tumbling over the threshold. Groaning, I lifted my head a few inches and was confronted by a tiny pair of hairy brown feet attached to knobbly legs, a round belly, and a small, bald head with a pointed chin. The creature was wearing a gold and white bellman uniform complete with a cap, and he was peering down at me with wide, suspicious eyes.

  “What is it?” the creature asked, wrinkling his bulbous nose in distaste as his eyes landed on Merry, who growled and cracked his knuckles threateningly.

  “Stop,” I hissed to Merry, then turned to the creature and extended my hand. “Hi, I’m Wren, and this is Merry. We’re working with Kellen, the Magic Island police chief, to investigate Emeril’s death.”

  I held out an official-looking document that Garnet had helped me forge that morning, then whipped it out of sight again before the creature could get a good look at it. “We’ll need access to the house and all pertinent documents. It won’t take long—I promise we’ll be out of your hair… er, way, soon.” I folded my arms across my chest, trying to look somewhat imposing.

  The creature looked at my extended hand but didn’t reach for it. He studied my face for several long moments, eyes narrowed, and I held my breath as he turned and conferred to someone—or a group of someones, I couldn’t be sure—standing off to the side. Their high-pitched chattering strained my ears, and at one point I had to physically restrain myself from clamping my hands over them. That would have been the height of rudeness.

  By the time the creature turned back to me, his thin lips pressed together grimly, I was fully expecting to be given the boot. But to my surprise, he stepped aside and opened the door wider, allowing me entry. He hesitated when Merry stepped through the door, looking very much like he wanted to slam it squarely in his face, but though his long fingers twitched on the door handle, he let the gnome pass.

  I stifled a gasp when I stepped into the entryway and saw that there weren’t two, ten, or even fifty of the creatures lined up in rows behind the door, but at least a hundred of them, all dressed in identical bellman uniforms, though the females sported neat little skirts in place of pants.

  I had just opened my mouth to ask who they were when I remembered Amelia mentioning that Emeril employed brownies, hobgoblins typically hired by the rich or famous to take care of mundane household tasks. They were an ugly bunch, resembling week-old baked potatoes with the skin left on, but they seemed friendly enough, bowing and curtsying to Merry and me as we walked past.

  “I’m Wendall,” the creature who’d answered the door said, whipping off his cap and bowing smartly, “lead brownie for the winter estate of the late Emeril Mabel III. May he rest in peace,” he added, his gaze downcast.

  A tear slipped from his eye, wobbling at the end of his nose for a moment before dripping to the floor. The lone tear was soon followed by an entire flood as th
e brownie fell to his knees and began beating his fists against the plush carpet, howling in agony and prostrating himself in front of a life-sized portrait of Emeril—nude except for a billowing purple cape—displayed above the fireplace.

  One by one, the other brownies did the same, until the air was filled with their high-pitched wails of anguish that felt like a thousand shards of ice being drilled through my forehead. Merry, his face screwed up in pain, began shouting at them to stop, but their fevered yowls drowned him out completely until, exhausted from the effort, they fell silent once more.

  “Our apologies,” Wendall said, his leathery face streaked with tears as he climbed unsteadily to his feet and adjusted his cap. “But we have been under Emeril’s employ for a great many years, and we only found out about his death when the usurper began moving her things into the estate.” His pouchy cheeks colored with anger as the other brownies began nodding fervently in agreement; apparently their devotion to Emeril didn’t extend to Isla.

  I frowned. “No one told you about Emeril’s murder?”

  “Murder!” Wendall swayed on his feet, his thin lips trembling dangerously, and I reached out a hand to steady him before he could launch himself back to the ground. “We were told only that there had been a mishap at the fashion show and that Emeril had fallen to his death.”

  “Yeah, well, it was murder,” Merry grunted, slicing one hand across his throat and bugging out his eyes. I shot him a dirty look—couldn’t he see the state of distress the brownies were already in?

  I was outraged that no one had thought to tell them the truth about the yeti’s death, and when I said as much, a delicate female brownie stepped forward, smoothing out her skirt. “Please, miss,” she said, curtsying once more, “don’t be angry on our behalf. We are used to such treatment by the more powerful members of our society, who consider us nothing more than servants.” A rash of mutterings broke out amongst the group as several of the brownies bobbed their heads in agreement, looking mutinous.

  “Well I’m terribly sorry to be the one to break the bad news,” I said, looking around at the group, “but now I’m sure you can understand how important it is that we search the estate for anything that might point us toward Emeril’s killer. We want to bring him or her to justice as quickly as possible.”

  “Of course, miss,” Wendall said, snapping his fingers twice. The other brownies immediately fell silent as they scurried into two neat lines facing me, clasping their hands in front of their chests and squaring their little shoulders. “Anything we can do to be of service to you, please do not hesitate to let us know. We know this estate like the back of our hands. But first”—he aimed his forefinger toward the fireplace, and flames immediately sprang from the grate—“let us make you more comfortable.”

  “Now this is more like it,” Merry said gleefully as a handful of the brownies scurried off, returning moments later with a tray groaning under the weight of platefuls of cakes, pies, and macaroons. He began shoveling them into his mouth by the fistful, grunting with pleasure as bits of frosting dripped down his chin, though he didn’t bother stopping long enough to wipe them off.

  Wrinkling my nose in distaste, I turned from him and addressed Wendall. “Can you show us to Emeril’s office, if he has one?” I figured that if the yeti was keeping any secrets that would have led to his murder, that would be the best place to start looking for them.

  “Certainly,” he said, twirling on his heel.

  He snapped his fingers once more, and the brownies clustered around us began dispersing, picking up brooms and dust cloths and getting to work polishing the already immaculate floors and sweeping invisible dust from the surfaces. The fireplace warmed my back pleasantly as I passed it, grabbing Merry by the wrist and practically dragging him away from the tray of sweets. We followed the diminutive brownie down a long hallway, and I had to smother a giggle as we passed under picture after picture of Emeril striking a variety of poses, many of which seemed to be clothing optional.

  “The master was certainly special,” Wendall said, his voice wobbling as we stopped beneath a massive portrait of Emeril posing like Michelangelo’s David statue, his furry face angled off into the distance. The brownie entwined his long fingers as if in prayer and whispered something I couldn’t hear before pressing a noisy kiss to the portrait’s hairy feet before we continued.

  Emeril’s estate was staggering in its grandeur, and it occurred to me then just how much money the yeti must have amassed during his long and illustrious runway career. No wonder Amelia was furious that she hadn’t inherited his estate, especially if Yancy’s tales of warning about her unhealthy spending habits were to be believed.

  “Here we are,” Wendall said as we came to a tall doorway at the end of the hall. “The master’s private study.” He turned severe eyes to us. “Do what you must, but do not disturb anything. I imagine the estate will be turned into a museum someday soon, and we must preserve the treasures within.”

  I snorted with laughter, thinking he was making a joke, then immediately turned it into a hacking cough when the look of reverence on his face told me he was dead serious.

  “Er, right,” I said, pushing open the door. “I’ll be careful, Scout’s honor.”

  When he cocked his head in confusion, mouthing the last two words to himself soundlessly as if trying to work out their meaning, I hastily added, “I promise.” I didn’t want to break the poor little fellow’s heart by pointing out that based on the expression of glee Isla had worn at Emeril’s reckoning, she had no such altruistic plans for the yeti’s estate.

  He gave another bow and scurried away, though not before grabbing a solid gold wristwatch from Emeril’s massive desk and tucking it into his pocket, casting us a suspicious look as he closed the door behind him.

  “Where should we start?” I muttered to myself, then jumped as I heard a crash behind me. I turned to find Merry standing beside a toppled statue of Emeril flexing his muscles.

  “What are you doing?” I hissed, hurrying over to right it again. “You’re going to compromise my investigation.”

  Glancing around the room, my eyes landed on a closet tucked in the corner, and I pushed the gnome over to it. “Why don’t you make yourself useful? See if there’s anything in here that might point us toward what happened. If you find anything, give me a holler.” I pointed toward a file cabinet standing against the opposite wall. “I’m going to start here.”

  With only one small grumble that I pointedly ignored, Merry buried himself in the closet, only his round bottom poking out as he shifted its contents around with muffled grunts. I settled myself cross-legged on the floor in front of the file cabinet and tried yanking open the bottom drawer only to find it wouldn’t budge. I swore loud enough for Merry to poke his head out of the closet, his brows raised in amusement as I aimed a solid kick at the file cabinet’s lock and came away howling and clutching my foot in agony. He shuffled over to me and pushed me roughly out of the way.

  “Hey—” I started angrily, by now feeling mighty sorry that I’d ever thought it was a good idea to bring him with me, but the gnome silenced me with a withering look. He took off his left shoe and shook it, and a tiny metal contraption fell out and bounced across the floor.

  “What is that?” I asked suspiciously as he flicked it open before standing on his tiptoes to examine the file cabinet lock. Ignoring me, he clicked the contraption three times and a key sprang from its end.

  “That’ll do the trick,” he said, inserting it into the lock and turning. It was a perfect fit. “My great-great-grandfather was an island-famous inventor,” he said in response to my look of amazement. “And a bit of a thief,” he added with a wink, “but we don’t like to talk about that part.” He yanked open the file cabinet drawers with a grunt, then pocketed the contraption and stomped off to the closet again before I could thank him.

  I knelt in front of the cabinet and began nosing through each drawer, though I hadn’t the faintest idea what I was looking for.
Most of the paperwork inside turned out to be past modeling contracts, though I found a few eveningwear sketches that neither proved nor disproved Preston’s claim that he and the yeti had collaborated on the designs that had caused their feud.

  A search of the topmost drawer turned up an envelope stuffed with photographs of Emeril and Preston, their arms wrapped around each other, though most of the time the designer’s eyes had been gouged out with what I imagined to be a very sharp yeti talon. So Amelia’s claims about the two of them being in a relationship were true, and it seemed that Emeril was just as hurt by its demise as his sister had described. But Yancy had been adamant that Amelia had a penchant for lying, and I couldn’t see any reason why the ice cream shop owner would volunteer that information to me if it wasn’t true.

  I filed those thoughts away for future perusal and got back to work, smiling as I pulled out several stacks of autographed headshots that Emeril never had a chance to distribute to his loyal fans. I glanced down at his signature, which was filled with unnecessary flourishes and loop-de-loops, and frowned, something niggling at the back of my mind that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. I made a move to tuck the headshots back where I found them, then grabbed one on a whim and stuffed it into my pocket, figuring that no one would miss it.

  The rest of the file cabinet was equally disappointing, and I closed the last drawer with a sigh, disappointed that it had revealed nothing of importance. Next I moved on to Emeril’s desk, spending the next hour paging through pile after pile of paperwork, some dating back as far as twenty years. Emeril, it seemed, was a packrat.

  I was just about to give up when I came upon an envelope tucked away at the very bottom of the desk. At first it looked unassuming, like one of the hundreds of old bills I’d tossed aside during my search, but a quick glimpse of the contents showed it to be handwritten, and very brief.