Page 65 of Potion Sickness

“That’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said, and I was there for eleventh grade.”

“Thank you.”

“Nobody chooses a life on purpose. I didn’t choose to be a single mother with a truck full of lumber. Annabel didn’t choose whatever she left in Providence. You think Gabe chose to be the funeral guy? Life shows up and then you decide to keep it.”

From the dressing room hallway comes Englebert’s voice informing Vivian that the porter “cannot be permitted to improvise a knock.”

“Your dependent is ready,” Hannah says.

We walk out through Hannah’s arch instead of around the wall, simply because it’s there. Hannah taps the green stone with her boot on the way through, twice, the way you’d knock on wood.

CHAPTER 19

Ihave a crime I can’t solve and a suspect pool that now includes anyone in Duskboro with a credit card, so in the morning, I circle back to something I am qualified to deal with.

I go back to the tabloid.

“The article,” Englebert says, from the passenger seat. He’s coming along, because he heard the word ‘interview’ and all but materialized in the car. “We settled the article ages ago. Malice. Local malice.”

“Sure. But we never solved it. Somebody handed a celebrity gossip site a story about a town that isn’t on most maps, and then we let it slide because there was a bigger issue to attend to.” I back out of the driveway. “Potions aren’t my beat. But leaks are.”

* * *

Mayor Blackwood receives me in his office at Town Hall and before I’ve finished saying the words ‘Daytime Dish’ he’s already misunderstood the entire purpose of my visit.

“The follow-up,” he says. “I wondered when someone would do a follow-up. Sit down. Coffee? No contaminations, I promise.”

“Mayor, I’m not writing⁠—”

“Because I’ll tell you what I told Carol at the Reformer, who hasn’t returned my calls. That article was the best thing to happen to this town since the covered bridge was on that calendar.” He’s up now, walking to the window, gazing out onto Main Street.

“Was it accurate? No. Was it kind to Vivian? It was not. But Mari — thousands of people read that article. Thousands of people now know Duskboro exists. Are we on the record? You can quote me, if you’d like. Make sure you use my full name. Terrence Blackwood.”

And there it is. I came in with a list of questions, hoping to walk him gently toward a confession, but he disqualified himself before I could ask the first one. The man is fully incapable of anonymity. If Mayor Blackwood had tipped off a gossip site, the tip would have included his headshot, his office hours, and a paragraph about the Harvest Festival. Whoever fed the Dish went to real trouble to stay invisible.

“The week the article ran. Did anyone ask you about Duskboro? Anyone from away. A reporter, a photographer, anybody sniffing around?”

He thinks about it, genuinely. “No. And I’d remember, because I’d have offered them the tour.” He sits back down. “You’re trying to find who did it? The leak?”

“I am.”

“Then when you do,” he says, “before anyone strings them up — ask them if they want to do a follow-up. Thousands of readers, Mari. Think of the tourism dollars.”

* * *

Tiffany is between clients, sweeping hair.

“No,” she says, before I’m through the door. “I didn’t do it.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You’re about to.”

“I’m here about the article.”

“Exactly,” she says. “It wasn’t me, and you know it wasn’t me. I confessed to the last crime. Voluntarily. Aside from Dorcas, I’m currently the only person in Duskboro with a verified track record of admitting to the things I actually did. My credit has never been better and I intend to spend it.”

She’s right, of course. There’s a lesson to be learned here about the local economy of shame, and I suspect Dorcas is already benefiting at the same exchange rate.