"You can't find justice, it'll find you."

~ The Dicks, band, Hate the Police

"There goes my damage deposit," Sunglasses says, the first to react, throwing his hands in the air.

Zandra jumps up in her chair, within the tolerance of her cranky ankle, more on account of Sunglasses's quick movements than Melvin's vomiting. The damage deposit isn't in her name.

The others around the table scoot their chairs back. The row of implants that form the bony ridge of The Crocodile's eyebrows crease even further into frustration. Chad may be laughing his ass off, but The Crocodile is anything but amused.

Clutching his stomach, Melvin tries to say something, but his words come out in a gargle.

"Is he trying to say it was the lamb shanks?" Carter says, the back of his chair against a mauve curtain. "Because if it was the lamb shanks, I've got problems."

Zandra steps away from her chair and lights a cigarette. She pulls the smoke in deep, closes her eyes, and exhales.

"There's no smoking in here. What are you doing, Zandra?" Sunglasses says.

"Seeing as how the damage deposit is already fucked, this cigarette is on the house," Zandra says. She ashes onto the rug beneath the table. "Besides, not all of us enjoy Melvin's special perfume. It needs a smokescreen."

Hank seems the most concerned. "Should we call a doctor?"

Zandra slips the cigarette between her lips and claps her hands together. Out of the corner of her mouth, she says, "You're looking at one right there. Melvin Hicks himself." She exhales and takes the cigarette between her fingers. "Self-proclaimed medical doctor specializing in the field of cure-alls."

Melvin looks up at Zandra from his hunched over position, jaw loose and dripping bile, and says a throaty, "What did you do?"

What did I say about believing your own bullshit, Mel? Never, ever buy what you sell, not in our line of business. From one bullshit artist to the next.

"A peace offering," Zandra says. "Would you like some more? It's in the kitchen."

"You...you..."

"That's correct, Melvin. I spiked your wine with your fermented beet juice cure-all," Zandra says. She paces the length of the table toward Melvin. "You used to tell people that all that vomit and shit was evidence your beet juice was working, that it was all part of the cleanse."

Melvin shakes his head, slapping slop onto the table. He clears his throat. "It's not poison. I never tried to hurt anyone."

They all say that. Hell, I say that. At least I know where the ditches are.

"Oh, but you did, Melvin, and that's all that matters," Zandra says. She stops a few feet away from Melvin, looking down at him. "There was something special about the batch you gave me, wasn't there?"

Melvin doesn't reply.

Chad giggles. "This is like a movie or something."

Zandra continues. "You gave me a bad batch. You knew it was a bad batch. The lid wasn't inverted. That's a sign of contamination. Your stupid ass didn't think I'd notice."

Melvin wipes at his mouth with a napkin.

You can't even hide your tells correctly.

"I swear I didn't know," Melvin says from behind the napkin.

"And then, when I opened that jar of beets and bullshit, you know what I found? Mold underneath the lid. Frankly, Melvin, I'm insulted you think so little of my canning prowess. This is Wisconsin, after all," Zandra says.

Chad hasn't spoken for a few seconds, so he deems it necessary to open his mouth once again. "So what? You've never had bad beet juice before? That's just, like, part of life."

Zandra replies, but she keeps her eyes on Melvin. "No, idiot, he tried to poison me with botulism. It can be fatal, cause paralysis, and take months to recover from, all depending on the exposure. So you're probably wondering, Melvin, did she put a few drops into your wine glass, a tablespoon, a quarter-cup, or more?"

Melvin nods. The realization of what he consumed sets in. He starts shaking as if he's cold.

"Well, to tell you the truth, in all this madness, I forgot. So you've got to ask yourself, Mel, do you feel lucky? Well, do you?" Zandra says.

"OK, that's totally from a movie. Dirty Harry," Chad says.

Not my most original moment, but it works.

"Tell me. Please, I'm sorry," Melvin says. "Am I going to die?"

"We all die, Melvin. The only question is, on whose terms?" Zandra says.

Tonight, Mel, they're on mine. I get to say whether you live or die, but you get to live not knowing, just like all those people you ripped off. People are nothing without their health. Why should you get to keep yours?

Never try to out-bullshit me. You're not worthy, Melvin, and that's always been your problem.

Hank's face matches Melvin's. He paws at the collar of his shirt. He says, "Is it true about the paralysis and death? What if she got the wine glasses confused? Or if there was cross-contamination?"

"OK, Zandra, you made your point," Sunglasses says. "We're talking about someone's life here. Tell us whether we need to call for an ambulance."

"On the contrary, child, I haven't finished making my point," Zandra says. She lends a hand to help Melvin up from his chair. "Let's find you a nice, comfortable place for you to lie down, maybe for the rest of the evening, maybe forever."

Melvin drags along a look of absolute devastation behind Zandra. She guides him to what would've been called in crass times the "maid's quarters" off the kitchen. It's a basic room, with a cot bed beneath a television mounted to the wall. The freezer isn't far away, but Emile's wailing calmed for the time being. The Spirit Box accompanying her is now silent.

Melvin unravels onto the bed and curls into the fetal position. Through tears, he says, "This is cruel. I have a son. You're an evil, evil person. A witch, not a psychic."

"You rest easy, child. We'll keep it down out here. Wouldn't want to wake the dead," Zandra says.

She shuts the door before Melvin can respond. Slipping out the master key she lifted from Sunglasses while they stood by the door earlier, Zandra locks the maid's quarters from the outside. There's no way Melvin can exit without breaking down the door or the master key.

Humming to herself, Zandra takes the long route back to the banquet hall through the kitchen. She shuffles past Melvin's jar of fermented beet juice, its lid upside down next to the glass on the counter. Mold is visible on the lid, and the damp must of rot hangs in the air.

Next to the open jar and lid is a bottle labeled, "Dr. McGillicuddy's All-Natural Cleaning Solution." It didn't take Zandra long to find it when she prepared the wine while the others toyed with their Spirit Boxes earlier. With an unctuous fruit profile and oak finish, the good doctor's cleaner mixes into wine without suspicion, until the vomiting starts. The bottle doesn't look out of place on the counter, either, despite its most recent purpose.

Tonight, Melvin, I'm letting you live.

Zandra arrives back in the banquet hall only to find it empty. Her guests took their plates to the lounge in an attempt to regain their appetites. Zandra makes a fresh plate for herself and leaves.

"Anyone have tips for getting stains out of rugs?" Zandra hears Sunglasses say as she approaches.

"Maybe Zandra can cast a spell," Chad says in reply.

"Ask your contact in the morning," Zandra says when she arrives, not waiting to break into the apple rose puff desserts. "They're experienced with this sort of thing."

Carter, somehow still able to stuff more lamb shank down his gullet, ends his big bite with a loud swallow before starting to mix a fresh cocktail. He belches and says, "This calls for a celebration."

"What're we celebrating?" Chad says.

"That we'll all be home before midnight," Carter says. He raises his cocktail. "Zandra cracked the case. It was Melvin."

It's a little early for that. Besides, why would I want to dismiss the company of Stevens Point's classiest trust fund baby?

Sunglasses, standing next to an enormous Afghan rug hanging on the wall, looks to Zandra for confirmation.

"Not that you ever needed a reason to make a drink, child, but you'll have to hold off on celebrating," Zandra says. "Our evening isn't over. The situation with Melvin was separate from the issue at hand. The second his aura walked through that door, I knew I had to be cautious. I've seen that halo a thousand times over the heads of some of the worst intentions you can imagine."

Hank groans and sinks lower in his love seat.

Carter paces and swirls his cocktail as if in deep thought. "So if it's not Emile, and it's not Melvin, it must be someone in this very room."

Absolutely brilliant detective work, Carter. Bravo.

"How much more of this bullshit are we all going to have to sit through?" The Crocodile says and stomps to the rug by Sunglasses. He's the only one who didn't transfer his meal to the lounge.

Chad and Bexley appear on either side of Zandra. The Crocodile nods ever so slightly to Chad.

Oh, shit.

Before Zandra can react, The Crocodile slams Sunglasses's face into the rug. Chad gives Zandra's bad ankle a swift kick. The searing pain and sudden loss of balance send Zandra backward onto the floor. A hard stomp from Bexley's foot holds Zandra's arm with the sheathed lawnmower knife in place. Chad rips the sleeve upward and snatches the knife for himself.

The Crocodile rubs Sunglasses's bleeding nose into the rug and reaches for the revolver. Finding what he needed, The Crocodile shoves Sunglasses down onto Zandra.

It's all over in a matter of seconds. Carter and Hank remain frozen in place.

"Party's over," The Crocodile says and fires.