Brewing the Midnight Oil Read online

  Brewing the Midnight Oil

  by

  Constance Barker

  Copyright © 2020 Constance Barker

  All rights reserved.

  Similarities to real people, places or events are purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Chapter 1

  “Why do you insist on being in the way, sugar?”

  Ivy sat on the far end of the kitchen counter. Mama was cooking. While Mama was renowned as a terrible cook, tonight she was frying chicken. She always said no True Southern Woman could claim her rights to the title if she couldn’t make fried chicken.

  “I’m ten feet away from you, Mama.”

  Davinia Light frowned. “I may need an emergency ramekin or some such. Go sit at the table like a civilized person. You’re making me nervous.”

  “Oh, Mama, you’re doing fine.” Ivy looked at the pitcher of sweet tea on the dining room table. It needed a stir. Mama and Aunt Abitha could stir a pitcher just by gesturing. Ivy wasn’t quite in their league yet. She needed practice. Breathing deeply, she focused on the spoon. It was a wooden spoon, and her abilities centered on foliage. That gave her an advantage, right?

  Blanche, Ivy’s cousin, looked up from her laptop. She eyed Ivy, then the pitcher. Casually, she moved her computer a few feet to the left.

  Ivy felt the smooth handle of the spoon in her mind. She considered the angle, the turn, and turned up the power. Ice rattled in the glass container. The spoon shook. It then moved an inch, two, three. Then, a tiny bud sprouted from the tip of the handle with a little pop!

  She sat back, exhausted. “Dang it all.”

  “When’s supper?” Aunt Abitha strolled into the dining room. “Card reading is hungry work.”

  Ivy noted a client in the library when she rolled up. Abitha moved with a little bounce, so the reading must have gone well.

  “Won’t be long now, said the cat when they cut off his tail.” Mama had worked herself into a regular lather.

  “Want some help, Sissy?” Abitha laid her tarot deck on the table.

  Mama growled. “Is a five pound robin fat?”

  As Auntie Abitha walked over to the stove, she waved an off-hand gesture over the pitcher. The spoon acted like a cattail in a whirlpool. Ivy sighed.

  “Well, it smells good, and it looks delicious,” Abitha said,

  “Like to make your tongue slap your brains out,” Mama said.

  Abitha took a boiling pot to the sink and drained the water. “Even if you are as slow as cream rising on buttermilk.”

  Feet clumped down the stairs. Abitha’s husband, Uncle Roby, strode into the kitchen. “Ahoy, the galley, when’s grub?”

  Roby manned the lighthouse across from the St. Augustine Inlet. It was not as famous as the big St. Augustine Lighthouse down on Salt Run, but nearly as important. The meeting of the Tolomato and Matanzas rivers stirred up shifting shallows boats needed to avoid. The Light family had operated the Spanish-style watchtower since the sixteen hundreds.

  He kissed his daughter on the head. “Whatcha working on, Daughter?”

  “Hey, Daddy,” Blanche didn’t look up from the screen. “Just working on my dissertation.”

  Roby scratched his head and sat down at the table. “Aren’t you studying on pottery?”

  “Ceramics,” she both agreed and corrected. “I’m hoping to get my PhD at the end of next semester. But I have to get my thesis approved by the department head first.”

  Academia was a foreign port to Uncle Roby. “Pottery doctor. You still gonna work at First Trust?”

  “Until I can get a good studio set up and go into business. I think it would dovetail nicely with Ivy’s shop.” Blanche closed the laptop.

  Ivy owned August Botanica, which sold tropical plants for both in- and outdoors, as well as herbs, and, if you knew how to ask, potions for just about any ailment. Maybe her physical magic was still pretty low-powered, her potions kicked ass.

  “I can see that. Be nice if you offered an assortment of decorative pots and vases,” Roby said. “Cousins, working together. I like it.”

  “Vah-zes,” Blanche said. “You can get vay-ses at the dollar store.”

  “Pardon my rough upbringing.” Roby put on airs. “Vah-zes. Heavens, my manners.”

  The sound of sizzling fat and conversation diminished and the air grew thick and heavy. Finally, Ivy thought. A meeting of the minds with her twin brother, Harmon.

  Hey, Sissy.

  What the heck have you been up to, Bro-Chacho? I haven’t heard from you for days.

  Suez Canal was kind of a bitch. My agent got me through no problem, but the pilots I had to hire were douche bags. Harmon was singlehanding around the world, recording it all for his successful YouTube channel.

  Ivy could sense tension in his thoughts. She walked out of the kitchen through the sliding doors for privacy. This was silly, since no one could overhear the psychic communication. Everything okay? Miss Fields still seaworthy?

  Boat’s shipshape, but I’m sailing the Red Sea. In a couple days, I’ll be off the coast of Somalia.

  Pirates, Ivy thought. You worried?

  I’ve partnered up with some other yachters who watch my channel. Safety in numbers. But we’ll have to go lights-out at night and no communication. We checked in with some patrol boats. It’ll be fine. But I smelled Mama’s fried chicken through your nose. Are you gonna be okay?

  That was just like Harmon, trying to put her at ease. I’ll be fine. But you be careful. Do you want me to ask Aunt Abitha for more fair wind?

  No, I’ll just take the regular weather, thanks. Auntie Abitha, Mama, and Harmon were weather wizards, with Abitha having some control over the fickle winds.

  Why is that? Did she overdo it?

  Harmon chuckled in her head. No, I had enough wind to run through the canal by sail. Unfortunately, my so-called pilot wasn’t used to sailboats. I paid him two hundred dollars and a carton of cigarettes just so he could upchuck over the side on the whole passage.

  Sakes!

  Don’t worry. I got it on tape. Listen, I’m getting a message from my little convoy. I’ll be in touch.

  You’d better be, and regularly. Because I do worry.

  At once, the air pressure reduced. Ivy was alone on the patio. She looked up at the square-sided light. The sunset made it a brooding gray shape. What time was it on the Red Sea?

  “Sit down to supper, Ivy,” Mama said. The rest were already seated and digging in. “How’s my boy fairing?”

  Ivy grabbed a plate. “He’s fine. He says thanks for the wind, Auntie.”

  Abitha colored a little and waved her hands in an obscure gesture. “Oh, I do what I can. Let me do a reading for him.”

  As powerful a witch as Abitha was, her tarot readings were on the lame side. While her psychic reading side-hustled was humored by the family, no one put much stock in it. She shuffled the fat deck like a Las Vegas dealer.

  “Oh, not at the table, Mama, you’ll get them all greasy,” Blanche said.

  Abitha shuffled away. “Nonsense. Cards need to be used so they get more accurate. Here we go.”

  She laid down a card; the king of cups.

  “Oh, that could be Harmon,” Mama said, pointing with a leg bone.

  The next card was the six of swords. “Smooth sailing ahead,” Abitha smiled.

>   The three of wands came next. Ivy got an uneasy feeling looking at it. It showed a man surrounded by three wands sticking out of the ground. He was looking down on a boat in the water.

  “Huh,” Abitha said. She dealt a two of coins.

  “Okay, that’s enough,” Ivy said. The card showed a man juggling two huge coins while ships bounced around on enormous waves behind him.

  “Twos are always a matter of balance,” Abitha said. “It must be difficult, sailing a boat on your own. Let’s see the outcome.”

  It was, of course, the Death card. Abitha was about to explain, for the umpteenth time, that the Death card did not necessarily signify a death. Blanche interrupted.

  “Okay, let’s put those cards away and eat, Mama.” Blanche gave Ivy the eye; then pointedly gazed toward the parlor.

  A figure coalesced in the dimming light. Moira. The ghost had lived a life as Marvin. When Ivy and her cousin were girls, they were terrified of Moira. Then, she came out to them in a number of ways. The three had become friends. Mama and Aunt Abitha, the Biddy Committee, couldn’t see or hear the ghost, and had decided that this was the cousins’ imaginary friend.

  “Oh, that smells so divine! It’s a good thing I can’t eat, or I’d lose my girlish figure.”

  Moira didn’t have a girlish figure. She had the figure of a dumpy, thirty-something guy, but she dressed it up with mood-specific outfits. Currently, she sported a pink smoking jacket, velvet pantaloons, and the perpetual (and odd) gold Roman sandals that featured a French pedicure.

  The ghost also had a huge crush on Harmon. Any bad news was likely to spring all the cupboard doors open and send dishes flying. Moira seemed unaware of this poltergeist side of her personality. That was fine if you were incorporeal. If you were a living person who disliked getting beaned by flying objects, it could be a problem.

  “All right, all right!” Abitha protested as Blanche slid over to help her restack the deck.

  Blanche gave her Mama a kiss on the head. “Just a normal family dinner. And it is delicious, Auntie Davinia.”

  “Thank you, dear. But I’ll be happier tomorrow when it’s Roby’s turn to cook. I have a new book that needs editing.” Mama was a retired history professor and an expert on local lore. Anyone who wanted an accurate book hired her as an editor.

  Ivy expected some bemoaning the fact that he was surrounded by academics from Uncle Roby. Instead, the man sat in silence, staring at the restacked tarot deck. He claimed to have been born on a fishing boat, and knew everything about the sea. Given that he was superstitious, as any sailor was, only set Ivy’s teeth on edge. She hadn’t liked the look of those cards either.

  Moira bumped around the kitchen, wafting the smell of the fried chicken platter up to her nose. She passed right through Auntie Abitha, stirring her iron-straight gray hair like a passing breeze. “Slightly green mashed potatoes, slightly less green collard greens, and an opalescent sheen on the gravy, why, I’d say Mama Davinia has been cooking.”

  The cousins didn’t admonish Moira, because they would look like nitwits in front of the Biddy Committee. But they wouldn’t forget it, either.

  Moira hadn’t been haunting Ivy’s shop recently, nor stomping around the attic in Light House. Heck, she hadn’t even been surprising Ivy in her apartment by dressing like Norman Bates’ mother and standing outside the shower with a knife. Maybe that’s why she felt so listless and bored.

  She helped clear the table and wash the dishes with her mother. Moira wandered in and out of the kitchen. The ghost asked if Blanche would put on RuPaul’s Drag Race. Hopefully that would keep her occupied for a while.

  “I saw you trying to stir that spoon, sugar,” Mama handed her a dish to dry.

  Ivy shrugged and dried. “I learned to live with the fact that my powers aren’t all that cool long ago.”

  “Not that cool? Witches would’ve killed to have dominion over foliage back in the day. It’s the most powerful magic. The rest, the bells and whistles, that will come with time.” Mama rinsed another plate.

  “I’m happy enough with what I got. I’m sure you’re happy with dominion over lightning, and Blanche is happy with dominion over light and color.”

  Mama snorted. “She can’t be that happy.”

  “Hey, I’m only in the parlor!” Blanche called out. “Who took the purple out of your spaghetti sauce, Auntie Davinia?”

  Her mother couldn’t help but tease. “Oh, like that was some trick.”

  “It was red as a monkey’s butt when it came out of the jar.” Blanche fired back. “What seasoning did you use? Ink?”

  “What I’m trying to say is that I think you’re on a good path, Ivy,” Mama said. “Stirring the lemonade from across the room is handy as a pocket in a shirt. But your potions help people. It’s a good kind of magic.”

  Ivy put the last plate in the cupboard. “Speaking of which, I have to get home.”

  “You’re not staying the night?”

  “I’ve got a stomach remedy to brew.”

  Mama nodded, understanding. “A sunrise concoction. Better get some rest. Sun comes up early.”

  Ivy headed out, saying goodbye to Blanche. Moira ignored her. Eyes glued to RuPaul, her outfit changed with each featured drag queen. Blanche shifted focus between the ghost and the TV. “I’m not sure which is more entertaining.”

  Chapter 2

  Ivy worked in the tiny kitchen of her shop, August Botanica, grinding wolf’s bane with a mortar and pestle, careful not to rub the sleep out of her eyes. The plant was as poisonous as it was rare. She had to cultivate her own hybrid in the botanica, which was dangerous and probably illegal. Still, it was better than getting it off the black market. Wolf’s bane was an endangered plant, and she didn’t want to add to its troubles.

  Aconitine was the name of the plant’s poison, with high doses in the stem and roots. Ivy used the flowers. It didn’t take a lot to kill a person. She deglazed the mortar with baijiu, a potent alcoholic drink from China. In the past, she’d used vodka and rum, but the baijiu had a higher proof and evaporated more quickly. She stirred and strained the brew into her cauldron.

  Ivy checked the clock. She had ten minutes until sunrise. Plenty of time. Mundane ingredients now went into the mortar; dried ginger flower, yarrow flowers, aloe leaves. She ground this into a paste, once again adding liquor. She stirred again, filtered again, and, at the moment of sunrise, turned on the burner beneath the black cauldron. She raised her hands and recited:

  Cerberus mad, Arachne vane

  Dawn’s light purify black wolf’s bane

  From poison foul to remedy

  Ease ailment to serenity

  Pink flames whooshed from the pot. Ivy grabbed a gold ladle and a blue glass jar. Once filled and corked, the blue of the jar morphed to clear glass. Smoke rose from the cauldron, the mortar and pestle, the ladle. All traces of left over ingredients vanished. Success.

  With the potion in the commercial glass fronted fridge, Ivy cast about. Now what? The shop didn’t open for more than two hours. As she debated whether to go back upstairs to her apartment and watch the news or putter around the shop, she heard a knock.

  August Botanica occupied a Spanish-style building, the courtyard now glassed over on the first floor to serve as a greenhouse. A barn door closed off the foyer area. During the day, it would be open. Ivy slid it to the side and saw a man standing at the glass double doors. It was Everett Klein, a private detective. Ivy had worked with him to find a missing friend. She never expected to see him again.

  “Sorry to show up so early.” He gestured inside. “I saw a light.”

  “C’mon in.” Ivy held the door for him.

  Klein’s nose wrinkled. “Smells like you’re brewing moonshine.”

  “Plant food.” It was the best she could come up with.

  They walked into the courtyard, Everett eyeing the tall tropical plants. “I should get you to help the plants in my office.”

  “Is something wrong with Abigail’s c
ase?” Ivy asked. Abigail had been abducted by horrid magical parasites. She tagged along with Everett, helping him solve the case. He, and local law enforcement, still thought it was a kidnap and robbery case. “Do I need to testify in court?”

  “I don’t know if it will go to trial. One suspect is in the wind, the other probably mentally unfit.”

  “Well, you didn’t come over here for help with your office plants,” Ivy said.

  Klein pursed his lips, as if unwilling to let it out. “We’ve been summoned.”

  She squinted in her mind at the words.

  “Gus Beranger wants to see us at the Odditorium as early as possible.”

  Beranger owned the off-beat museum where Abigail had been held captive. The place was halfway between Ripleys’ Believe it or Not! Museum and Potters Wax Museum both in geography and philosophy. Ivy had never met Beranger himself, but the media painted him as a typical Florida eccentric millionaire. “Are we in trouble for breaking in there?”

  Everett pocketed his hands. “Actually, I think he wants to hire us to work a case.”

  More words to squint at mentally. Ivy looked down at her cut-off overalls and muddy boots. “I should change, right?”

  The detective nodded. “Something more my profession than your profession would be good.”

  Ten minutes later, they sat in traffic near the Lion Bridge on San Marcos. The drawbridge was up, the line of cars long. Ivy squirmed around. She’d put on a hand-me-up from Blanche. It was one of her cousin’s banker outfits. Blanche found that the rich brown color, combined with her straight brown hair, made her look like a nun. Currently, it was the only thing with a skirt that Ivy owned. Still—how did Blanche work in these clothes?

  Eventually, they crawled in Klein’s Dodge Viper through the picturesque heart of St. Augustine. Luckily, the Grand Odditorium sat on a few acres, half of it parking, the other half playground. Two hours before the museum opened, the lot was still almost full. Most of the vehicles were tractor-trailers and a couple forklifts.