Page 27 of Potion Sickness

“But that would mean whoever dosed the cup would’ve had to know that it would be in the wrong place. That Damien would drink out of it instead of his own.”

“They could’ve done it after the stage was already set,” Annabel says.

“Marigold,” Englebert says. “My word. We can return to this later. I think it is perhaps more pressing at the moment that we check on Prudence.

I pick up my phone and call Pru. She picks up and starts talking before I can.

“If this is about Englebert’s rehearsal schedule, the answer is⁠—”

“Pru,” I say. “Are you okay?”

“Why,” she says, “would I not be okay?”

CHAPTER 9

Pru takes the news about her potential poisoning about as well as one would expect.

She asks what exactly Annabel found, confirms she doesn’t think she drank from the cup, but can’t be sure, and when I say I can’t confirm either, she says “So, somebody put something in a cup I may or may not have drunk from, but I’m fine, and the guy we’re worried about seemingly didn’t drink anything harmful at all? I have paperwork to file. We can discuss this later,” and then she hangs up.

Annabel wants her to stop by the shop after work so she can smell her breath. Pru’s response to this invitation is a text message containing a thumbs-up emoji and the single word “Lovely.”

Later that afternoon, I park in front of the funeral home with a script in my bag and no plan whatsoever for how to raise the subject to Gabe.

The front door is unlocked. Gabe is at the far end of the parlor, setting up chairs in rows.

“We’re closed,” he says, without turning around. “Unless you know something I don’t.”

“Can’t a person just visit?”

He turns around, sees me, and smiles. My cheeks, against my will, start to flush.

“Service coming up,” he says. “Arthur Dean. Ninety-seven. Kept bees out past the quarry. His granddaughter wants an open mic portion, which I’ve advised against. I always advise against an open mic.” He straightens the last chair. “How’s Damien?”

“Asleep. Annabel says he’s stable, though. She checked him this morning.”

“That’s what Dorcas said at the bakery. And what Jackie said at the hardware store. And Ms. Fitzgerald, at the gas station, although her version had a helicopter in it for some reason.”

“So,” he says. “What calls for a visit? People don’t tend to make social calls at the mortuary.”

“Vivian needs a Macbeth,” I say, opening my bag and pulling out the script. “Englebert wants you to be the Macbeth.”

Gabe looks blankly at the script. It’s a rehearsal copy, spiral-bound, with a scrawl across it requesting it not be removed from the Community Center.

“Absolutely not,” he says, immediately.

“That was a terrible float. Let me try again.”

“You can try as many times as you like. It’s a slow afternoon and I enjoy the company.” He sets the script on an empty chair between us. “Why me? I’m not an actor. I’ve never been an actor. In the fourth grade Thanksgiving play I was cast as a tree. I was directed to be more expressive.”

“Englebert made a case for you. I wrote it down. Do you want it verbatim or summarized?”

“Oh, verbatim. Obviously.”

I take out my note pad and read him the whole thing. Gabe listens all the way through, quietly.

“Giving a eulogy isn’t acting,” he says. “A eulogy is true. You stand up and you say true things. Macbeth kills the king and lies about it. In verse.”

“You’d have the best coach in New England standing in the wings.”