“Don’t worry, you two.” McKenna grins, scooping up bothtotes. “Your float is very regal. Very social media-worthy, per usual.”
She disappears back into the crowd, leaving us free to approach our target without feline commentary on proper interrogation techniques.
“Well,” Georgie adjusts her light-up cape with determination, “no time like the present for a friendly chat. Come on, ladies. Justice waits for no one.”
CHAPTER 18
Cornering your potential future mother-in-law while she’s radiating enough disapproval to make the mechanical ghosts actually shiver in fear—just another highlight in my increasingly bizarre career as an amateur detective.
The purple glow from the three-tiered fountain casts Delora Drake in an otherworldly light that makes her look even more intimidating than usual—which is saying something, considering she could probably make a scarecrow apologize for existing.
The scent of butterscotch kettle corn and French fries mingles with my own fear, while the distant sound of parade music and cheering crowds creates the perfect backdrop for what’s about to become the most awkward conversation since someone invented small talk.
Autumn leaves swirl around the fountain in lazy spirals, and somewhere nearby a mechanical ghost keeps cackling every thirty seconds. Or maybe it’s the ghost of Dilly Thatcher. At this point, nothing would surprise me.
Delora stands with her arms crossed, clipboard clutched against her chest, watching the parade festivities with an expressionthat suggests she’s just discovered that happiness is contagious and she’s definitely not vaccinated.
“Well, well.” I approach with my senior investigation squad flanking me. “If it isn’t the only person in a ten-mile radius who looks personally offended by joy.”
Her ice-blue eyes snap to mine with enough frost to winterize the entire theme park. “Ms. Janglewood. I should have known you’d turn up wherever there’s chaos and poor planning.”
“Actually, this chaos is expertly planned,” Georgie chimes in, her light-up cape pulsing in rhythm with the parade music. “Your future daughter-in-law’s daughters, and your own grandchildren, are basically organizational wizards. Very impressive gene pool.”
“Future daughter-in-law?” Delora’s voice could strip paint off the carousel horses. “I think you’re getting ahead of yourself.”
“Oh honey,” Georgie continues with the kind of sweet smile that hides sharp teeth. “Denial isn’t just a river in Egypt. It’s also what happens when mothers can’t accept that their sons have excellent taste in women.”
Round one to Georgie,I think, while Ree scribbles frantically in that sinister notebook of hers.
“Mrs. Drake,” I begin, trying to sound professional despite the circumstances, “we’re investigating Dilly Thatcher’s murder, and we’d appreciate a few minutes of your time.”
“I’ve already spoken to the sheriff’s department, as in my son,” she replies stiffly. “Multiple times. I have nothing to add.”
“Well, we’re not the sheriff’s department,” Ree points out helpfully. “We’re more like concerned citizens with notebooks and an unhealthy interest in justice.”
“And excellent investigative instincts,” Georgie adds. “Plus, we have better snacks than the sheriff’s department. I’ve got a corn dog in my purse. You want to see it?”
Delora looks among the three of us with growing alarm, clearly recognizing she’s been cornered by amateur hour at its finest. “What exactly doyou want to know?”
“Let’s start with your relationship with Dilly,” I suggest, settling into my best therapist voice. “We understand you two had some... history.”
Her ice-blue eyes narrow to slits that could cut glass. “Oh, so we’re diving straight into the deep end, are we? How refreshing. Most people at least pretend to make small talk first.”
“We’re not most people,” Georgie chirps. “We’re amateur detectives with a murder to solve and limited patience for social niceties.”
“Plus, we already know about the affair,” Ree adds matter-of-factly, consulting her notes. “So, we can skip the whole shocking revelation part and get straight to the juicy details.”
Delora’s composure doesn’t crack so much as it gets strategically rearranged. Around us, the parade continues its magical procession, but our little corner by the fountain has become its own bubble of tension and barely contained emotions.
“Fine,” she says, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “Yes, I had an affair with Dilly’s husband. Ancient history that certain people refuse to let stay buried.”
“How ancient are we talking?” I ask, genuinely curious about the timeline.
“Fifteen years ago. I didn’t know he was married at first. He wasn’t exactly advertising that particular detail. When I found out, it was too late. I’d already fallen for him.” She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “He promised to leave his wife. I fell for the oldest line in the book. I was vulnerable after my husband’s death and foolish.”
The admission hangs in the air between us, and for a moment, I actually feel sorry for her. There’s something genuinely heartbreaking about watching someone’s armor crack to reveal the vulnerable person underneath.
“And Dilly found out?” I ask carefully.
