Page 11 of Potion Sickness

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“I saved you the corner seat,” Gabe says. “Best sight lines in the house. You can surveil the whole party.”

“You know me so well it’s concerning.”

“It’s a professional skill. In my line of work you learn to read a room.” He considers. “Granted, my rooms are usually quieter.”

“Your rooms are the quietest rooms in Duskboro.”

“Nobody’s ever sent a drink back,” he agrees, and clinks his glass against mine.

Gabe, for the record, is a funeral director.

“So, Rupert leaves Sunday,” he says. “You know he came by the funeral home last week? Wanted to know if we had the burial records for the old churchyard, the pre-1850 section. Stayed four hours.”

“He’s going to make Duskboro famous. Well. Famous to eleven other historians.”

“Hopefully the right eleven.”

Down the table, Rupert is standing — or being made to stand, really, his glass in hand, going pink under the pub lights. Someone dings a fork against a pint.

“I don’t do speeches,” Rupert says, which is met with jeering. “Fine. Fine. I came here a few months ago to study your archives, and I want you to know that this town has the best-kept records of any community I’ve ever worked in, which is one hundred percent because of Bert over here.” Bert waves this off with visible delight. “I also want to say — within the first few weeks I was here, two women I had just met accused me of grand larceny.”

“Not quite,” Pru says.

“Then they bought my coffee, showed me their evidence, and let me help. That’s the whole town, in one anecdote. Suspicious, then generous, in that order.” He lifts the glass. “To Duskboro. I’ll send everyone a copy when the manuscript finally gets published. I promise you it will be exceedingly boring. Thank you.”

He sits down to enthusiastic applause, and Gabe leans toward me under the noise.

“Suspicious, then generous,” he says. “He’s got you dead to rights, Wardwell.”

“I wouldn’t say I’m suspicious. Just… cautious.”

“You put me on a suspect list once.”

“I never put you on a suspect list.”

“No? Huh. I assumed everyone made the list.”

“You weren’t a suspect,” I say. “You were a distraction. Whole different list.”

There’s a full second after the words leave my mouth where I consider the logistics of climbing under the table. Gabe opens his mouth, closes it, and grins.

I’ll never know what he was going to say, because that’s when Tiffany’s phone chimes.

It’s not just her phone. There’s three phones, then four, going off within seconds of each other around the room. The only thing that could mean is that the town Facebook group has found something to devour.

“Oh my God,” Tiffany says, to everyone and no one at the same time.

I pull out my phone to see what could possibly be making such a fuss.

Someone shared a link to a website called ‘The Daytime Dish’ with a flashing banner and a barrage of pop-up ads. The headline of the article in question says:

EXCLUSIVE:

Soap Legend Damien Carter’s Secret Small-Town Romance —With His MARRIED Director!

Below it, there’s a photo. I recognize the window box of Black Eyed Susan’s, and Vivian’s silver bob, and Damien across the table from her, leaning in, mid-gesture, his hand over hers.