S3 Chapter 5: Should Have Read the Tracts

AQUILO Season 3 Chapter 5 Should have read the tracts. Is this what Doris did? Did she go about Akewillow solving supernatural capers with her friends? She the hub of a small cabal or coven of ghost hunters and demon slayers? Did she, too, end up investigating every little mystery this town had to offer? Was Olivia her sidekick or clever friend, always there to give her pearls of wisdom? Of course not. Doris baked cakes and made sandwiches.

I'm not going to pretend otherwise. She was a much more talented witch than I am, perhaps than I'll ever be. I rely on her tricks and her knowledge to work what little magic I do command, reassembled from pieces I find here and parts I find there. I'm an amateur. In baking terms, this is a box of brownie mix.

I do it well so far, but if the ingredients weren't already prepared and the instructions simple enough that a raccoon could understand, I'd still be figuring out how to calm the ghost of Julia Remington's husband. Or worse, I'd be dead. meat for the hunger demon like so many other young women before me. Be that as it may, I don't think that means Doris was the Nancy Drew of her generation either. I imagine she stood behind this counter.

Well, not this counter. Serving coffee, cakes, and the occasional enchantment to the locals. A love potion here, a health draft there, and maybe she'd whip up a soup that kept the residents particularly warm on the coldest of Canadian winter nights. The recipe book, her grimoire, is brimming with recipes, but scarce on actual magic. Maybe there's more, tucked away in the subtext and subtleties between the lines of her notes. Yet...

Even what I've discovered so far isn't adventure magic. It's thoughtful magic. Enchantments of the soul. Things that feel good and would fit nicely with a live-laugh-love poster. It's... Grandma magic. Which is fine. Doris was 102 by the time she died, over five times my age. The woman was entitled to her doilies and hard candy. Wait.

Did Doris have a recipe for magic hard candy? Great. Now this is going to bother me all day. My point is, Doris didn't just leave me with a coffee shop and apartment. But I feel like I also inherited a list of problems she wasn't able to deal with. After all, she never got rid of the hunger demon. And now there are these donsalites abducting people and no one even knows what they are.

So I'm the one who has to roll up her sleeves and, as the French say, mettre la main à la patte. Besides, it's hard enough making new friends my age without them getting kidnapped by fairy lights. Or whatever. But I'm no detective either.

As I mentioned, and keep mentioning, I'm a cook and a baker and occasionally a confectionary. That doesn't mean I'm helpless. I'm no detective, but I know people who are. Here you go. I say, placing a plate in front of Aaron Wilson. On the house. He looks away from his newspaper and at the steaming dish on the table. He's shocked, as I would expect him to be. As I want him to be.

I didn't order anything. That's true. He didn't. He certainly didn't order what I've prepared. Wilson loves to play the hard-boiled detective. He's halfway there. He's got the credentials and the job. And he does try so hard to get the mannerisms and accoutrements of a private eye. He's even got the old beat-up car. But he's in the wrong time and the wrong place. He should be in New York or Boston, maybe L.A.

And he should be in the 40s or 50s. Aequilo in the early 21st century isn't quite the black and white setting where long-legged women who killed their husbands might come calling for his services. So I try to humor him. I serve him a thick, baseball-cut sirloin, blue, with some of my special mashed potatoes. Ask for the recipe if you like, but I'm taking that secret to the grave. And even some green beans for him to ignore.

All of that with a pepper and wine sauce and the pièce de résistance, a glass of single malt scotch. On the rocks, of course, because private eyes in the 40s were monsters. It's a bribe, I say, taking the seat in front of him. He hesitates. He looks around, probably making sure no one who could spin this into a compromising situation is about. He hesitates some more. This song and dance would be hilarious if it weren't dragging on so long.

At this rate, the food is going to get cold. There's no one around that might land him in trouble. The Aquilo is damn near empty. Usually this late on the weekend, all I have are tourists. And with the pandemic not being a closed case quite yet, there aren't that many of those about. All right, fine. He relents, picking up the fork and knife I put before him. What do you need?

He moves the sprig of time from atop the meat with his utensils, far more deftly than I would have assumed him capable, and starts cutting into the juicy, bleeding piece of meat. I haven't made steak in ages, so it's reassuring to see him marvel at the cut. perfectly red in the middle, but with a thin brown layer and a buttery crust. I don't want to presume about Aaron Wilson's life so far, but I doubt he's had meat like this before.

I'll confess, I might have gotten lost in the narcissistic joy of watching someone so completely enjoy my cooking. Not just the cookies and sandwiches I churn out on the daily, but an actual bona fide meal. Miriam, he asks between two bites. Oh yes, sorry. I need you to help me find someone. Thoughtfully, Wilson cuts another piece of steak. He runs it around in the juices and sauce that cover the plate.

Once satisfied, he raises the fork to eye level and gives it a final inspection before putting it in his mouth. Even Gulliver doesn't give my cooking that level of appreciation. I thought, he says mid-chew, You said you wanted some of my time, not to hire my services. Okay, I don't want you to find them for me, but I want you to teach me how you'd go about finding them.

I don't want you to give me a fish so much as I want to learn to fish for myself. He frowns, picks up the scotch, and swirls it around the glass. The ice makes a satisfying clinking sound before he finally takes a sip. I must have chosen well if his relaxed features are any indication. You're going to have to do a lot more to get a private investigator's license than just make a man a steak. This isn't a hobby. There's a whole industry behind what you're talking about.

I'm not starting a business, I just want some pointers. Do I need to get dessert now if I want to add a no questions asked clause to this transaction? He laughs, which is good. I'm serious, of course. I sure as hell don't want to start explaining dancing magic lights to the good detective, but it's nice to see him take things a little in jest. All right, fine, he says, sampling the mashed potatoes.

And boom. That's right, Detective. Heaven just exploded in your mouth and the tears of joy at the corner of your eye tell me you know it. Whatever tips you have for me better make them good.

So, he stammers a little, trying to keep his composure. The first thing you want to look at is the missing person themselves. Most people who disappear are either runaways or have made a point of vanishing themselves. You'll want to talk to relatives, close friends, etc. to get an idea of who these people are, especially who they were the 24 to 48 hours before their disappearance. You're looking for any reason they might have to run away. Well, I already know that's not it.

Petunia vanished right before my eyes. Then, he continues, if you can't find anything down that road, you want to look at your basics, motive, opportunity, and means. Motive's the first one. If you can't find a reason a person would run away, then try to figure out why someone else might want them to. Same dance. Ask friends and family. Are they rich and leaving an inheritance? Did they cheat on a violent wife? You follow me?

It all seems so simple and run-of-the-mill, but I listen. It's basic stuff, as basic as bechamel. But it's also not what I've been doing. So I nod. Even though I can clearly see he's only asking so he'll have a chance to take another bite. Good, he goes on after swallowing. Most likely you'll find plenty of people who'll have motive.

From that point on, it's all about figuring out who among them had the means and the opportunity. Opportunity is where alibis come in. Wait, I interrupt. What if I can't find anyone who had a motive? The moment I interrupted, Wilson went back to his steak, quickly cutting and stuffing a fresh bite into his mouth. He chews thoughtfully, moving the question around his head the same way he moves the meat between his teeth. Well...

He starts, then swallows. That's when you know you have an interesting case. Wilson made it sound like all of that was so simple. Probably because, at its core, it is. And I should have thought about it, but I guess procedurals and movies have ruined the genuine investigative process for me. Nothing about what Wilson suggests involves getting DNA samples from the forest or digging through a computer database.

We're not going to pull the video from Aquilo's security camera and zoom into an image of Petunia to find some clue that will break the case wide open. Instead, I have to wait until the next morning. Wake up and go through my standard routine. which now includes some research about what the hell I'm going to cook using the better part of a bottle of single malt scotch, and waiting for my shift to be over.

There'll be no high-speed chases between the farms of Aquilo, and, with a little luck, no uncovering any ruined bodies under a pile of leaves for this sleuth. I've had my share of that sort of thing.

Of course, Wilson doesn't know about the supernatural factor in my little investigation. This is where I'll be inserting a bit of the old Dufour seasonings to the recipe. Unfortunately... I only have access to my own spice rack and not the full panoply of options my predecessor might have had at her fingertips. Which is fine.

As it was back in cooking school, when something was missing from a recipe or badly explained by one of the teachers, I'd go off script and figure out my own solution. While they may not have always been the recommended and institutionalized answers, they were never wrong. Countless satisfied taste buds don't lie. It's just math. I wish I'd thought of asking more questions of Petunia's parents. They were in my cafe. I was sitting with them. And that pest Thomas Sinclair.

And as Wilson said, usually in the case of a disappearance, those closest to the victim are either responsible or have the information necessary to understand what happened. But Petunia's parents are also... How did Sinclair say it? Pilvists. Which means they're probably not too difficult to find. Considering I'm the sole supplier of their favorite treat, but also because I can probably just ask Ian next time he drops by.

Which sounds great at face value, but it's part of the difficulty. I don't want to go asking questions that might piss off some of my best customers. Thankfully, I have a better idea.

And that's why I'm now sitting in the passenger seat of Olivia Figg's little blue car as we're heading to the very edge of Aquilo. Our yield's been much larger than previous years. She keeps explaining, one hand on the wheel and the other gesticulating her story. And with the whole pandemic, we lost months of apple picking.

So instead of wasting the fruit or selling it all to farms for feed, we're going to leave as much of it as we can on the branch until first frost and see what we can see. Normally, I'd be drinking up this conversation like so much of the promised ice cider. As much as I don't go crazy for fermented beverages, hence having to buy a fresh bottle of scotch to bribe Detective Wilson with, I have a thing for artisanal fruit-based sweet drinks.

I don't want to say they're my jam, because jam is my jam, but you get what I'm saying. Today, however, I'm much more preoccupied with my destination. I figured out the perfect witness to question regarding Petunia's whereabouts. While her parents were those closest to her at a glance, I don't know or wish to inquire what they might know about Donsalites.

That would make any conversation that much more of a minefield, and frankly, I'm not sure I'm equipped to navigate it. Darling, if I'm boring you with my ice cider banter, tell me now. Because that's the pitch I've been using on potential buyers, and I need to know if all I'm doing is pushing customers away. Olivia isn't one who takes being ignored lightly. When she speaks, it's to be heard. I'm sorry.

I'm quick to apologize. I'm just preoccupied with these stupid lights and what happened to Petunia. Hmm. I know that sound. This is how, without putting a coherent syllable into the world, Olivia manages to say, you don't know what you're talking about, to someone. It's impressive how someone like Olivia... who delights in talking, has become a master of communicating without actual words. What? Well, you seem to think the Donsalites are the new Moriarty to your Sherlock.

I'm just saying, before you paint them as evil supernatural villains, you should probably wait and learn a little more. I'm not painting them as villains, but I saw what I saw, Olivia. One moment Pete was swarmed by them and the next she was gone. Nothing that comes out of those woods has ever been good. Why should they be any different? Olivia sits at the wheel of her little car, both hands staring and both eyes on the road. She's quiet.

More quiet than I like her to be. What? I ask again, with just a drizzle of accusation in my tone, for effect. I suggested you go look at the Donsalites, not because I thought you could figure them out, but because I thought it would be good for you to enjoy a little secretive Aquilo that's not trying to kill you for once. She sounds disappointed.

Like a mother who knitted her daughter some homemade socks, only to be met with whining about getting socks for Christmas. I feel a little guilty about it, but in light of everything... Well, your harmless dancing fairy lights took my friend. It's harsh, but it's true. And if Olivia Figg knows more about the dansalites than she first felt worth telling, it's time she came clean.

The lights wouldn't have just taken someone, Miriam. Yeah, well, until you tell me what makes you so sure, I'll stick to my current lights-bad theory. She sighs. Not... Out of frustration, but rather like one who gives up after much badgering. Like this is a secret she'd been holding on, and now relinquishes in spite of her better judgment. I just don't see the lights taking someone.

I don't even think they can. But how can you be so sure? I thought you said you didn't know what the lights were. She casts a sideways glance at me. A glimmer of her smile returns as her eyes focus on something beyond my face.

Something perhaps even beyond time. A memory. Mm-hmm. No one knows what they are because we've no reason to know. The lights have been here since long as anyone can remember. Almost everyone who grew up in or around Aquilo knows about the lights. We all, at some point, went to dance under them. Most remember them as a drunken dream of their youth. Oh, the lights, they say.

it must have been so high that night they'll talk about strobes and mirrored balls and hallucinations but they're real they're warm and fuzzy to the touch like burying your hand in the thick fur of a st bernard If you get close enough, they smell like rose water. I learned about them from Doris, who learned about them from Abel d'Artagnan, who, in turn, had been brought to the lights by Amelia Dufour.

That's how far back, at least, the Donsalites go. I do the math in my head. Amelia Dufour came before Philemon, who was before Doris. Doris, who died at over a hundred years old.

So it's an ancient evil, I state, but even I'm no longer sure of my stance. Olivia shakes her head. No. in all that time through all those generations i've never heard of anyone telling stories of the lights taking people maybe i wouldn't have known but doris would and she'd have told me doris wouldn't have sent me to see the dansalites if there were any chance of danger would she i wonder it always sounds like doris and olivia and henry for that matter

We're getting into all sorts of adventures back in the day. Adventures that may or may not have been the end of Doris, though no one will give me a straight answer on that one either. It sounds to me like there was a time when Doris would jump, both feet, into all sorts of weird and dangerous situations and gladly drag those around with her. There's nothing in Doris' cookbook about the lights.

Nothing in her apartment about them either. You're telling me she found some magical fairy lights and didn't even try to figure them out? To this, she shakes her head in a slightly condescending manner, like I'd be too young to understand the finer points of why it is the Donsalites aren't discussed, recorded, or explored, even by Doris, who was, by all accounts, the supernatural authority in Aequal.

Willow. Though that's a title I'm starting to seriously question. You go to the lights out of curiosity, Olivia explains. You go there to figure it out. But that's not what they're about. You saw it when Gulliver's friend tried to take a picture. The lights aren't there to be witnessed. They're there to be experienced. That's their magic.

Glowing and floating is just what's on the surface. It's the skin and the meat, the sugar and the juice of an apple. What makes them really magical is what happens when you let them be more than that. Like a pie or making applesauce? I ask, following her analogy. Or cider, if you know how to wait. It's why there aren't a lot of older Aquilo residents who go to the lights. We go when we're young. We go when we're looking for something, and when we have it...

When the lights have shown their magic on that thing, we leave it alone. Suddenly, it all makes sense. Well, not all, let's not kid ourselves. but I get what it is that Olivia was hoping I'd find in the Donsalites. It's a vision quest or walkabout, but for rural Northeast America. A coming of age, but with cocktails and fresh beets. So... I start, testing the ground of my question before asking it. What is it you found at the lights when Dora sent you?

Olivia's face breaks in the way a cloud cover breaks, allowing the sun of her smile to shine so bright it's almost blinding. She beams with something stronger and much less fleeting than mere joy. Fondness. Distilled, undiluted, pure fondness. Henry, she answers. By the time I'm out of Olivia's car, it's already late afternoon, almost evening.

The sun is at that point where it still lights up the sky, but is dipped below the tree line and vanished. The puffy cumulus that hangs over Aquila is a peachy orange, and there's a brisk wind that flies over the empty cornfields of the Ashton farm. It's a cute farmhouse that stands at the end of a long driveway, two-story colonial with a wraparound fence and white window shutters. It's cute in that above-average success kind of way we find in the affluent of Aquilo.

There are a lot of cars in that driveway, and there's no reason to think there isn't another tucked away in the garage off to one side. The huge black Ford F-150 is part of the farmer uniform on this, the U.S. side of the border. The little VW Golf is a little more offbeat for the area, but it's the red El Camino that really stands out most. Who the hell still even owns an El Camino?

The only reason I even know what that is is because it's such a ridiculous car. I can remember the first time I saw one in the wild. It was parked next to the main building of the Institut de Tourisme et Hotellerie de Québec where I was studying cooking. I'd gone to hand in my application with some friends and we saw this baby blue car that looked like the illegitimate offspring of a drunk pickup truck.

In hindsight, it was painted and pimped out with a tongue-in-cheek style that was self-aware in the way only hipsters can appreciate. Not this beast. Whoever owns this particular piece of misplaced nostalgia has an earnest affection for their car. Or truck. Car truck. Whatever. I notice a few rugged boxes in the back of the El Camino. held in place with a bunch of bungee cords, and think, Wouldn't need all that if you had a proper trunk, buddy. Oh, hey, Miss Dufour.

The woman who answers is Lucy Ashton, or as I know her, three cream, no sugar, and a brioche. She only shows up on weekends, usually after her painting class downtown, and always with her friend Josée. Funny, inoffensive, middle-class career moms. But I'm not here for her. Hi. Is Fred here? Yeah, sure.

She answers after giving me a curious look. Popular little devil today, isn't he? She lets me in and I kick off my boots and unzip my coat. I'm wondering what she means by popular today when Lucy walks me into her living room. And I see him. Thomas freaking Sinclair. What the hell is he doing here? Miss Dufour!

Fred calls out, waving me to join them. I look back at Lucy, expecting some kind of explanation, but before I can say anything, she abandons me to whatever this is. Hey, Fred, I say, walking over to take a seat. Mr. Sinclair. Oh, call me Thomas. No need for formalities. He almost sounds like he was expecting me.

That, or he's just so oblivious to the nature of this coincidence that he doesn't realize this should be awkward or weird. Sure, yeah. I stammer, still trying to get my footing. What are you doing here, Thomas? Same thing you are, I assume. He leans from his seat on the couch, squinting his eyes and winking as if he and I share some kind of secret. Looking for answers. Of course he is.

Here I am trying to make sense of the mysterious vanishing of my new friend and client and fellow Aquilo resident, and he is looking for the next scoop for his stupid podcast. I wish I could project my loathing of his crass, exploitative ways as some sort of lethal attack, a beam of pure hatred that would punch through him like a bullet.

Stay cool, Miriam. Right, but I'm more worried about Petunia than just getting a story. Getting the story is how we find the missing Petunia. He sounds so goddamn confident. Yeah, Fred cuts in. I've told Thomas pretty much everything I know, Ms. Dufour. And in the hell of a lot, either. Pete said she was going home. She looked a little buzzed, but nothing super out of the ordinary.

Annabelle gave her one last glass of water, because you don't want to wake up with a hangover, you know? Thomas, uninvited, cuts right back in, turning to Fred like a caffeinated meerkat. Yes, but... You didn't know that she never made it home, or that she vanished in a flood of light, like, whoosh, just a bunch of strobes and she's gone. That's what you say you saw, man, Fred explains, waving a dismissive hand at Sinclair.

But we've been doing the lights for two years. They do that sometimes. They swarm and flash, but they're harmless, right? The question is directed at me. I want to ask him, how should I know if the lights are harmless? I saw what Sinclair saw and I'm here for the exact same reason he is. I'm still reeling that he figured out to come here first while I needed Wilson to basically point the way.

Then I'll have to process being called Ms. Dufour while a dude over twice my age gets the first name treatment. I'm sorry, Fred. I start, trying to be reassuring but also not sugarcoat things. I was there, and I saw it. One moment she was there, then the lights covered her, and when they were gone, so was she. This seems to hit Fred Ashton in the gut. I'm not the only one who doesn't take Sinclair seriously, it seems.

Hearing facts from a random podcaster didn't drive home the reality of things for him until someone else, someone he knows, I suppose, echoed the same thing. No, wait, he says, shaking his head. She said she was going home. I saw her parents yesterday, I explained, sitting on the arm of his chair and putting a hand on his shoulder. They say she never got home. Have you talked to her since?

Tried calling or texting her? He nods, but it's the nod of someone who only now realizes that what he thought might have been normal was anything but. I... I did. Not call her obvs, but I texted her and she never replied. Just assumed she had other stuff. Like, I'm not her mom or some clingy guy. He looks up at me.

This thin face and uneven stubble, unable to hide that, like me, he's not exactly old and world-weary. This is probably how I looked to Helen and Olivia just last year as I was trying to get my footing here in Aquilo. You really think she's gone? he asks. I glance back at Sinclair. He's watching us like one watches a soap opera, a form of entertainment that requires little intellectual energy to consume.

I swear, if he had popcorn in his lap, he'd be bringing up handfuls to his mouth right now. She's probably just doing some weird cult stuff. The interruption comes from the living room door. It's Lucy leaning on the frame and watching us talk. Her arms are crossed in the universal posture of judgment and condescension. I'm guessing that the Ashton household doesn't have much love for the Pilvists.

It's a little off-putting to see this kind of attitude here in Akewillow. Perhaps I've lived in a bubble, working at the cafe, but I'd never seen much prejudice leveled against Ian and his cloud worshippers. They're such a harmless bunch. White robes and croissants aren't exactly the most threatening accessories for a cult. Then again...

The Order of the Solar Temple committed mass suicide, and they were into sneakers and track seats, which aren't a red flag either. Pilvists aren't really a cult, Lucy, Sinclair interrupts. They're closer to a spiritual belief. Like people who collect crystals or are really into incense and yoga. It's like a philosophy, but with a focus on a singular legend and a set of strict belief systems and rituals... Okay, it's a cult. I just talked myself into it.

Well, if he was planning to help, that sure as hell is not going to work. Lucy's look of smug satisfaction speaks for itself. I don't know much about the, uh, cult? I say, trying to salvage the situation like I'm trying to unspill bolognese sauce. But they all seem pretty harmless, right? The second I see Sinclair's sudden agitation at my words, I know it's going to be bad. And it is. Actually, he starts with excessive gesticulation.

That's the thing. At any time in North America, there are easily hundreds of cults and offshoot religions and most of them are exactly that. Harmless. But the ones that pop up as dangerous don't have anything specific to make them stand out. At least, never at the onset.

It's always later, after they sift through the rubble of the burnt-out compound or go through the correspondence of the victims that you find out that this cult leader was big into the end time, or were abusing children in the cult, or were stockpiling weapons to prepare for the apocalypse. Even Charles Man-

and look like any other sex commune with a penchant for dune buggies until, bam, pregnant woman murder. Sinclair took the worst-case scenario of what I feared he'd be saying and somehow exceeded expectations by magnitudes. I can see it in Lucy's eyes and the way Fred is gripping the arms of his chair, white-knuckled and terrified by what his friend might be going through if the Pilvists turn out to be the next Jonestown. Come on, I say, trying to sound calming.

We walk next to these people every day. They come to the cafe and order croissants and braid their hair. They wouldn't hurt a fly. It's not like they have some end-time prophecy or anything. I think I'm making a good case. After all, it's true that the cloud worshippers are a constant presence in Aequilo, woven into the fabric of town like so much white thread. After a year, they've become little more than pastry-eating background noise. Yet...

The silence that follows my words has me worried that perhaps I'm missing a very important piece of information. A fact that Sinclair is quick to confirm. You still haven't read the tracts. He asks, have you? AQUILO is written by J.F. Dubot and narrated and produced by me, Amy Frost. If you enjoyed this podcast and would like to hear more, please rate and review us on Apple Podcasts or your preferred podcast platform. Want to support the show? Buy us a coffee.

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