Chapter 6
Dominique
The Apothecary was a cocktail lounge located in Ottawa’s ByWard Market District.
A quick online search told me it was in the cellar of some building called York on William.
It was a good thing I looked it up. When I arrived, the sign above the main door told me I was in the right spot, but upon entering, I immediately wandered in the wrong direction.
A different restaurant occupied the main level, a third—closed for the season—boasted rooftop dining.
I wandered in the only direction that made sense but didn’t see access to the cellar.
I ended up in Starling, the main level restaurant.
A friendly host aimed me toward the stairs—I’d passed them at the front entrance—informing me I wasn’t the first person who struggled to find the mysterious underground lounge.
“Ottawa’s best kept secret,” she said with a giggle. “You must be from out of town.”
“New resident.”
“Ah, that explains it. Welcome.”
I returned the way I’d come and stared into the gaping maw of a dark stairwell. No wonder I’d walked past it. “This can’t be right.” But an inconspicuous sign with an arrow pointing down claimed it was indeed where I needed to be.
Descending into the abyss, I contemplated the owner’s decision to make the lounge so hidden away. Wouldn’t that deter customers? Wouldn’t you want people to find your establishment? Also, how many people wanted to venture into the equivalent of a catacomb to have a cocktail?
Twice, I almost turned around. At the bottom of the stairs, in an unlit hallway, I arrived at a door.
The illumination from the antique sconces at the front entrance barely reached where I stood, their light stretched thin this far underground.
A decorative sign informed me I was in the right place.
I peered at the stairs, then at the door. “Nothing weird about this.”
I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, but the warm, elegant ambience and 1920s speakeasy feel was not it.
The backlit shelving behind the main bar radiated with a soft glow.
The rest of the lounge was seductively dark.
Candles flickered on privately spaced tables, separated by exposed brick dividers.
Wooden accents, velvet-lined seating, and the soft resonance of sultry jazz playing over a speaker system gave the room an intimacy that shivered over my skin and whispered in my ear.
It felt forbidden and secretive. Alluring.
For a long while, I simply stood by the door, soaking it in.
I’d been in low-lit bars that emitted similar vibes, but this was otherworldly.
Shadows engulfed the patrons. I couldn’t make out faces at tables, only silhouettes, suggestions of occupation.
This was not a place for conversations about work or business meetings.
This was a place for clandestine love affairs.
Any question that might have remained about Kobe’s intention vanished. This was a date, plain and simple. He might have dressed it up as a conference between colleagues, but it was a rendezvous of a different sort.
“Okaaay. Noted.” I inhaled a stabilizing breath and scanned the room, trying to pick out a table with a lone occupant, someone similar in build to Kobe. No one stood out.
If he had arrived first and was waiting somewhere specific, I wouldn’t find him. Wandering and staring felt inappropriate. He could come to me. The bar was better lit, so I went in that direction, securing a spot on a cushioned, velvet-backed stool.
The man pouring drinks wore a collared shirt and an unsightly mustache. His ears stuck out, and he had used too much product in his hair, but it didn’t take long to see he was quick and efficient at his job.
He caught sight of me and approached. “Good evening. Shall I cure your hunger or mix a potion to soothe whatever ails you?”
“I’m sorry?”
He grinned. “First time here?”
“Yes.”
“Are you eating or having a cocktail?”
“A cocktail for now.”
“Would you like a drink menu?”
“Nah, what do you recommend?”
The man considered me for a long time. “Sweet, smoky, bitter, or dealer’s choice?”
I couldn’t help smiling. “Smoky, I suppose.”
“Excellent. You, sir, are about to meet the Mortician.” With that ominous comment, the bartender spun on his heels and swished away.
I had no idea what he was talking about, but his flamboyant nature and assuredness washed away the last of my nerves. If Kobe didn’t show up, I would enjoy a night off and indulge in a few drinks on my own. No harm, no foul.
Before the Mortician arrived—I still wasn’t sure if it was a drink or a person—someone slinked out of the shadows and slipped onto the stool beside me. The man of the hour and the reason for my restless night and off-kilter day grinned boyishly.
Kobe wore stylishly tattered denims, a fitted black T-shirt under a North Face puffer jacket, and a pair of dimples that would be my undoing if I wasn’t careful.
“Hey, stranger. Is this seat taken?”
“All yours.” I rotated my stool to face him.
Kobe removed his jacket and draped it over the back of the seat. I hadn’t removed mine, uncertain if I was coming or going, more secure with its comforting weight pinning me down.
Kobe leaned a forearm on the bar top, angling his body toward me. “You found the place okay?”
“No, actually. I ended up lost on the main level before a kindly hostess steered me straight to the basement via a gloomy staircase. I was convinced it was a trap until I entered.”
Kobe’s smile grew. His eyes, impossibly dark in the low-lit room, sparkled with a hint of guile. “Isn’t it great? Ottawa’s best kept secret.”
“So I hear.”
He glanced around as though taking it in for the first time.
“This place has been around forever. In the summer, it’s packed with tourists, but in the offseason…
Love it. The building itself dates back to the late 1800s.
People drank here during Prohibition. Deep underground, hidden from authority.
It’s arranged the same today as it was back then, only now, it blends that vintage atmosphere with modern mixology.
You can’t go wrong. They have incredible food, too. Did you order?”
“A drink.”
At that moment, the bartender returned with a round tray balanced on one hand. On the tray was a clear glass dome. Underneath, a thick cloud of smoke obscured a tumbler.
“Ah, the Mortician.” Kobe used a dauntingly undead voice as he rubbed his hands together. “Excellent choice. One of my favorites.” He nodded a greeting at the bartender, who set the tray on the bar top in front of me.
“For my new friend.” The server wiggled his brows.
Confused, I stared at the smoke trapped under the dome. “There’s a drink in there?”
“Indeed, there is.” The server grasped the knob at the top of the dome. “Are you ready?”
“For what?”
He removed the cover, and the cloud emerged, bringing with it an overwhelming scent of campfire. I was ten years old again, roasting hot dogs over the open flames with my father beside me, sipping beer. The glassy lake in the distance reflected moonlight. My mother sang.
The memory slipped through my fingers, dissipating with the smoke. A glass with rich amber liquid appeared. Attached to the glass with a pint-size wooden clothespin was an oddly shaped card with something typed on it.
The waiter’s mustache twitched with anticipation. “Every drink at the Apothecary is an experience.”
When the man turned to Kobe, seeking his order, Kobe requested the same thing.
As the server wandered away, I removed the clothespin and examined the cardstock. When I realized what I was looking at, I laughed—a completely involuntary reaction. “Is this…”
“A toe tag? Yes, it is. Isn’t it great?”
“How morbidly appropriate.” Still chuckling, I set the paper aside and lifted the drink to my nose, swirling the liquid.
The smoky essence remained, and when I sipped, it blended with several other flavors.
Under the distinct punch of rye, I picked out subtle notes of amaretto, cinnamon, and something I couldn’t identify.
Kobe seemed to be waiting anxiously for my report, so I tipped the glass in his direction. “It’s incredible and strong enough to make my eyes water.”
“It reminds me of summertime.”
“Of camping,” I confirmed.
“Yes.” His eyes lit up. “Do you camp?”
I could imagine Kobe as an outdoorsman. I suspected he hiked or played sports. The theory was based strictly on his rugged appearance. “I did as a child. I haven’t been in years. You?”
“I do. I take my little brother every summer. We fish, canoe, and hit the trails. I help coach his Little League team as well.”
I studied Kobe, reminding myself he’d claimed to be thirty-two. “There must be quite an age gap. How young is your brother?”
“Oh. No. I mean, he’s not my little brother in the sense that we’re related.
I volunteer with the Big Brothers organization.
émeric and I were paired up three years ago when he was six.
He’s nine now. I try to spend time with him at least once a week, provided my work schedule doesn’t get in the way. He’s great.”
Big Brothers. I’d heard about the organization. “That’s… impressive.”
Kobe shrugged. “I hate seeing kids struggle.” He looked away with a troubled expression. I suspected it was a topic with far more depth than he was willing to share. That was fine. Personal subjects were off the table for me as well.
“Are you a fan of coconut?” he asked, his smile returning.
I paused, thinking of the perfume and his comment at the crime scene but sensed that wasn’t what he was referring to. “Not particularly, why?”
“The Midnight Cure is another one of my favorite drinks, but I won’t recommend it if your palate doesn’t lean in that direction. It’s tropical.”
Kobe’s Mortician arrived, and we underwent the same smoky unveiling as before. Once the bartender had moved off, Kobe spun and squinted into the shadowed lounge. “We should find a table. This way.”