My nervous stare pans all the way down Old Homestead Road, to the gothic revival house on the mountain that you can see from anywhere in town, high enough on its perch to look down upon the rest of society. It’s painted like a woody nightshade flower: poisonous red berry for the siding, amethyst petal for the trim. A sharp, jutting turret is the yellow stamen, from which spins a gruesome weathervane of a honey badger eating a scorpion. On every steeply pitched gable roosts a gargoyle, serpent-faced lions whose purpose, I assume, is to horrify grandchildren sleeping in the rooms below.

In a town dominated by cozy lodges and Bavarian style, that house stands out like a night terror. As intended.

I swallow.

Beside me, Hall is chattering away obliviously, using my first and last name several times per sentence, really hammering it home that I am, in fact, living in the town where my namesake resides. Like the village witch, I think, glancing at Bettie Watson’s fortress of doom, and then at my new house, which is its polar opposite. Children will be shoving their wish lists for Santa through my mail slot by the end of the day.

So much for keeping a low profile.

*

“The how is every bit as baffling as the why—experts are at a loss as to how a fully grown water buffalo has ended up on the fourth floor of a Chelsea apartment building. I’m Francesca Grace with NBC News, here with you live on West Twenty-First Street in New York City, at eleven minutes to midnight. We’re standing just outside a building where, believe it or not, a water buffalo has been found in the apartment belonging to New York Times reporter and pop culture critic Kelly Frederick.” The reporter can barely suppress her glee. “Kelly Frederick is perhaps best known for her work as an editor at The Hot Goss and her snarky, claws-out critical style. Frederick has built a considerable fan base that delights in watching her no-holds-barred takedowns of celebrities.”

The news station slaps two pictures next to Francesca on the screen: one, a stock image of a water buffalo; and the other, Kelly Frederick’s headshot, smirking insufferably.

Hall turns from where he’s sitting on the sofa and pins me with a disapproving look, as though I have done something unsavory, when actually what I have done is serve up vigilante justice. Nobody would frown disapprovingly like this at Batman. “I hope you’re happy with yourself right now.”

“Thanks, I definitely am.” I wish I could pop a bottle of champagne, but hot chocolate will have to suffice. “Haven’t had this much fun in a while.”

He touches his temples. “My head hurts. I think you’re breaking me. I thought we’d be spending more time engaged in marshmallow-oriented activities.”

“Good idea. Let’s cover Salt Lake City in exploded marshmallow goo.”

“They’re going to tranquilize the animal,” Francesca says, and Hall gives me a pointed look. “Authorities are . . .”