"One minute everyone tells you you're a psychic, and they love you for it. The next, they act like I'm a dead rat they found under the sink. Honestly, you think I wanted this? I can't just walk into a regular job interview now that everyone knows me. How am I supposed to make a living now? There's only one way. I guess I have the psychic powers they say I do, right?"

~ Zandra, 24 years ago, interview with The New York Times

---------------------------------------------------

"If he hasn't OD'd by now, he's probably home. I'll bet he hasn't left in years," Zandra says inside the white SUV. She and Sunglasses roll into one of Stevens Point's old, core neighborhoods.

Even from a block away, they can smell it. It's coming from a Victorian-style home with peeling white paint.

"Good lord, what is that? Smells like a compost heap, but worse," Sunglasses says. From the driver's seat, he shuts off the vents circulating outside air into the cab.

Zandra rubs her hands together. "That smell is good news."

"How could that possibly be good news?"

"It means he's home."

"Who is home?"

Someone who learned the hard way to not buy into their own grift.

"Our first invitee. Pull into the driveway over there," Zandra says. She slips a cigarette between her lips but doesn't light it. "You want one? Helps cover up the smell."

"I don't smoke," Sunglasses says.

"It doesn't count if you don't inhale. Just let it burn," Zandra says.

"Against regulations."

"Enjoy the rot then. Stay in the car."

"It'd be better if I went with you."

"I'd rather not listen to you piss and moan about the smell. Breaks my concentration."

Zandra stumbles out the SUV after the vehicle comes to a stop, her left ankle protesting the drop to the pavement. She sparks the end of the cigarette. Sampling the air in the driveway, she decides to light a second one, too.

Surprised the city doesn't shut him down. Then again, knowing this city, maybe I shouldn't be surprised.

The single-stall, detached garage at the end of the short driveway lacks the peeling paint of the Victorian home. A window on a side entry offers a look inside.

I'm sure he won't mind me peaking.

The smell gets worse the closer her nose gets to the window. With the cherry tips of her cigarettes nearly touching the glass, she spots rows of white, five-gallon buckets. Blood-red liquid rests a few inches from the top of each bucket.

"This is private property," a man's voice from behind Zandra says.

Good. He's here.

Zandra turns to see a man in denim overalls with no shirt underneath. He sports a tight bolt of gray, curly hair off to one side of face. More striking than that is the hammer in his left hand.

"Congratulations. That must mean the city hasn't condemned the property yet," Zandra says.

The hammer drops to the ground once the man recognizes Zandra. "Oh, shit."

"At least your memory is still working, Melvin. You still go by Melvin, right? Melvin Hicks? Or did you change your name again?" Zandra says. She ashes both cigarettes with one hand simultaneously. "Say, Melvin, what you got cooking in the garage?"

Melvin fidgets with the strap on his overalls. "Pickling vegetables."

"Oh, is that all? Mind if I take a look?" Zandra says.

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"And when has your judgment ever been an asset?" Zandra says. She's yet to slip the lawnmower knife out of the sheath up her sleeve, but she's not ruled it out, either.

Melvin reaches down to pick the hammer up off the ground.

There's no chance he's going to use it. Droopy shoulders. Weak hands. Head leaning back away from me.

"See, I figured I'd stop by because I'm feeling all sorts of sick. Bad lungs. Aching ankle. Dubious spleen. Anal excitement. The problem is, I don't have the time to address everything on their own. What I need is one cure for all of them, and I want it to be all natural," Zandra says and fakes a weak cough into her sleeve. "A cure all. Isn't that what you sell?"

Melvin twists the handle of the hammer in his hand. "Sold. I don't do that anymore."

"I suppose a few years in prison will do that to a person," Zandra says. She takes a deep breath in. "Mmm, the air around here smells like the money you used to make pushing all sorts of medical claims."

"I told you. I don't do that anymore."

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

Recidivism is a real issue in the United States. Melvin dealt in fermented beets marketed as cure-all drinks, but that doesn't make him any different from the average street dealer.

"It's hard to find honest work with a felony on your record, isn't it, Melvin?" Zandra says. "Why don't you put the hammer down?"

Melvin droops his shoulders even further and lets the hammer fall once again. "Why are you here? Why can't you let it go? You've done enough to me."

Oh, boo hoo, you con artist.

Zandra hears the creak of a bicycle out by the street. A girl in pigtails peddles by with her shirt tucked over her nose, flanked by an adult out for a jog.

"You came into Sneak Peek some years back looking for discreet advice. You wanted to know how to poison your business partner after the feds started investigating. Keep your partner from squealing. Why don't you say out loud what happened next so your neighbors on the street can hear?" Zandra says, relishing the opportunity to fuck with Melvin once again.

"Please, Zandra, stop," Melvin says in a whisper.

Zandra ignores the request. She waves an arm to grab the attention of the jogger. "Hey, did you know your neighbor tried to poison his business partner with rotten beet juice that he also marketed as a cure-all? Isn't that the dumbest thing you've ever heard?"

The bike creaks a little faster, and the jogger picks up the pace.

"On your advice. You told me it'd be OK if I did it," Melvin says, this time a little louder.

Because I knew it would end with you in prison. I did the world a favor.

"True, but you took that advice. I just gave you the push you needed," Zandra says. "You basically admitted your cure-all doubled as poison."

"If you say so."

"I don't need to say so. A jury already did," Zandra says. She nods back to the garage. "Let's try this again, Melvin. Now that you're out of prison, with zero job prospects otherwise, why are you pickling beets in buckets in your garage? Just for old time's sake, is that it?"

Sometimes, late at night, when the terror seizes me and I can't sleep, I'll think of idiots like Melvin, and I'll manage to smile.

"They're to eat. Personal use," Melvin says.

Zandra cuts a laugh through the goopy rattle in her chest. She wipes away the sheen that forms on her chin and says, "Then let's have a bite, shall we? I just love the taste of pickled vegetables. I even brought a knife."

A soft breeze brings relief from the smell in the garage, if only for a moment. Melvin looks down at the ground. It's answer enough for Zandra.

His hands are too clean for how red the insides of the buckets are in the garage. So are his clothes. The overalls are lived in but not stained. And beets can stain. No one who wears overalls wears them just for a day before sticking them in the wash, too.

Which means he has help. Who would help a known convict and con man like Melvin Hicks, someone caught trying to poison a business partner? Certainly not an investor or entrepreneur. A family member? Possibly.

Melvin has a son, and that son would be about the same age as Mr. Yawn back at the hotel lobby.

"Stop staring at the ground, Melvin Hicks. Look up at me, child," Zandra says between a drag on the cigarette duo. "Look at my eyes."

Melvin shakes his head. "No. Don't make me do that. Not again."

"I'm not going to make you do anything, child. You're going to do it all on your own," Zandra says.

He's not primed, but he'll comply. We already went through this song and dance years ago.

Melvin raises his eyes to Zandra's. "Why did you have to come here?" he says in a whisper.

"Did you send your son to kill me?" Zandra says. She watches for movement around the eyes and mouth. Anything other than positive eye contact is suspect. Licking the lips, a signal the mouth is dry, is suspicious. So is pinching the lips together. None of this needs to be obvious to reveal the truth, or lack thereof. It only needs to be there.

"I don't know what you're talking about. My son hasn't talked to me in years," Melvin says.

I don't blame him.

"Are you trying to have me murdered?" Zandra says. "Don't lie to me, Melvin William Hicks."

"No," Melvin says.

Zandra extinguishes both cigarettes by grinding them in the glass of the window. She reaches up the sleeve of her purple gown and tugs out the lawnmower knife.

"It's your lucky day, Mel. You believe you're telling the truth. Good job," Zandra says. She motions with the knife toward the garage.

Melvin exhales and walks to the side of the garage. He pulls a key from his overalls and unlocks the door. Swinging the door open with a rusty creak, Melvin stands aside to let Zandra pass.

The smell inside is overwhelming. As any pickling enthusiast would say, a foul smell indicates something is wrong. Pickled vegetables are supposed to smell like pickled vegetables, not spoilage. The brine is supposed to look like brine, not bacterial sludge. Yet, as Zandra knows that Melvin knows, the world of natural "cures" is graded on a curve of awful tastes and aromas. The fouler the cure, the better it works.

What's a little botulism between friends?

Holding a sleeve over her mouth and nose, Zandra hunches over one of the buckets and dips the knife inside. The steel tip pierces a film of moldy jelly before planting itself into the side of something soft. Zandra pulls the knife out of the bucket. Were she not prepared for the sight at the end of the blade, she'd have guessed the red plum of a heart winked back at her.

But it's not a heart. It's a beet.

I'll probably get a second-hand juice cleanse just from looking at this thing.

"My personal use only," Melvin says from behind Zandra. He stands in the doorway.

Zandra shakes the beet free from the knife. The rank vegetable plops back into the bucket.

"You should know by now not to buy into your own bullshit," Zandra says. "Thought you learned that the hard way."

"It's not nonsense, though."

"At best, you're working with the Placebo Effect. At worst, you're making people sick," Zandra says. "Come on, Melvin. Get a real job like the rest of us."

"Even if it is the Placebo Effect, the Placebo Effect isn't bullshit. That's why they test medicines against it," Melvin says with a sigh. "If you take away the thing that gives the Placebo Effect to people, you're taking away something that legitimately can help people."

So sell kombucha instead and call it a day.

"What are you, a lawyer now?" Zandra says. She realizes Melvin's got her cornered in the garage. "You know I've got a friend in that white SUV outside, right?"

"Who?"

"In the SUV."

"Oh, OK. Yeah," Melvin says. He watches with a slate face as Zandra sticks the lawnmower knife into the plastic of one of the buckets. Blood-red brine drains onto the floor. She's careful not to let any of the spill touch her feet.

Melvin yields the doorway without complaint, and Zandra hobbles out of the garage. His wistful eyes remain fixed on the bucket weeping into the cracks of the concrete floor.

Before she leaves, Zandra slips one of the business cards out from her pocket. She hands it to Melvin and says, "Maybe a party will cheer you up. I suggest you make an appearance."

"Party?" Melvin says and picks the card from between Zandra's fingers.

"Yes. Be sure to put on your best pair of overalls," Zandra says. She lights a fresh cigarette. "See you there. Feel free to bring a plus-one if your son is available. It'd be great to meet him."

Melvin picks the hammer up, this time wielding it with a sturdier grip and a slight protrusion of the chest. He tilts on his heels a few degrees in Zandra's direction.

Ah, there's the Melvin I remember. Quick to temper. The beets didn't kill all of his brain cells.

Zandra keeps her eyes on the hammer as she sheaths the lawnmower knife up the sleeve of her purple gown. "Something wrong with me mentioning your son, Mel?"

The creases in Melvin's face squeeze closer together. He says, "I'll be there."

"Good. Looking forward to it," Zandra says.

Back in the SUV, Sunglasses recoils at the aroma that follows Zandra into the cab.

"Invitation delivered," Zandra says.

"You think he's the one?" Sunglasses says as he twists the key in the ignition.

"He's on the list," Zandra says. She rolls the window down a crack to freshen up the cab, a mistake.

"But you're certain he's a candidate, right? You were alluding to whomever this murderer is is a man."

"Alluding." "Whomever." I'll remember those words. Might be useful, might not be. Word choice is a tell for some people. They'll choose one word over another even if something simpler would've worked just as well. Could be a mild case of narcissism or nothing.

The point is to always build a profile, a standard. People like stability and predictability, so they bake patterns into everything they do.

"Alluding." "Whomever." Yeah. Good ones.

"It's a 50-50 guess, isn't it?" Zandra says.

"Not really. Gender isn't so binary," Sunglasses says.

Touché.

"I knew that," Zandra says.

Sunglasses guides the SUV away from Melvin's garage. "So what man are we paying a visit to next?"

"Not a man. A woman this time, if she's still alive," Zandra says.

Someone I should've killed myself, as a matter of fact.