“Of course, she found out. That woman had radar for other people’s weaknesses.” Delora straightens, rebuilding her walls inreal time. “She never let me forget it. Every event, every planning meeting, every interaction—she’d find ways to remind me of my... indiscretion.”
“That must have been awful,” Ree observes with genuine sympathy.
“It was blackmail disguised as passive aggression,” Delora confirms. “She’d make little comments about ‘old indiscretions’ and ‘things that might interest the country club set’. She kept me in line beautifully.”
“But recently, she was threatening to go public?” I press.
Delora’s jaw tightens. “She said it was time for certain people to face the consequences of their actions. Planned to share some old stories during the symposium. In front of the television cameras.”
“Yikes,” Georgie winces. “That woman really was asking to be murdered.”
“Speaking of asking to be murdered,” I continue, “what can you tell us about Nadine Halbrook? You two seemed friendly enough during the planning meetings.”
“Friendly?” Delora’s laugh could shatter the fountain’s glass decorations. “That woman is a junk collector when it comes to all things concerning a kitchen. She’s single and as bitter as she sounds. You heard her yourself—she’d rather surround herself with antiques than people.”
“Wait, just a minute,” Georgie interjects with mock offense. “Antique men can still have it going on. Vintage charm, classic features, well-aged character. Sometimes the older models have better craftsmanship than the shiny new ones.”
“Plus, they know how to change a tire without calling AAA,” Ree adds sagely.
Despite everything, I snort with laughter. “Are we talking about men or collectible kitchen equipment?”
“Both.” Georgie grins. “Though I’d argue that antique men are generally more useful than antiqueegg beaters.”
“This is hardly the time for comedy,” Delora snaps, but I catch the tiniest twitch at the corner of her mouth that suggests she might actually have a sense of humor buried under all that ice.
“What about Savvy Sparrow?” I ask, switching tactics. “Any thoughts on our Southern belle?”
Something shifts in Delora’s expression—a flicker of knowledge that makes my detective instincts sit up and take notice. “That woman isn’t as sweet as her accent suggests.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning people who smile that much are usually hiding something. And Savvy Sparrow has been hiding quite a few somethings over the years.”
I blink twice, trying to process the implications of that statement. “Such as?”
“Such as things that aren’t my business to share,” Delora replies, but her eyes dart toward where Savvy stands near the parade route, looking every inch the charming Southern lady. “But if I were investigating a murder, I might ask myself why someone would travel all the way from Tennessee for a symposium when they could easily host their own events closer to home.”
Before I can press for more details, Delora’s expression hardens again. “And speaking of things that aren’t anyone’s business to share,” she continues, fixing me with a stare that turns lava to ice, “my personal history has nothing to do with my son. It’s not your place to tell him about any of this.”
“I never said?—”
“You didn’t have to say anything. But if you’re thinking about playing relationship counselor and sharing family secrets, I suggest you reconsider. Some things are better left buried, and this is definitely one of them.”
The threat is clear, even wrapped in polite language. Around us, the parade music swells to a crescendo as the final floatapproaches—a massive jack-o’-lantern that actually glows from within, surrounded by dancers in flowing ghost costumes.
“Are you threatening me again?” I ask, genuinely curious about her strategy here.
“I’m advising you to focus on your investigation instead of my family dynamics,” she replies smoothly. “After all, you wouldn’t want anything to complicate your relationship with my son, would you?”
“Oh honey,” Georgie drawls, stepping closer to Delora with her cape flashing in aggressive patterns. “Are you seriously trying to intimidate the woman who caught the last killer while wearing cat ears? Because that’s adorable.”
“Absolutely precious,” Ree agrees, still scribbling. “Like watching a poodle threaten a pit bull.”
Delora opens her mouth to deliver what I’m sure will be another devastating threat, but the sound of the parade’s finale—a massive jack-o’-lantern float with actual flames shooting from the top and a marching band playing “Monster Mash” at ear-splitting volume—apparently reminds her that she’s standing in the middle of a very public celebration while threatening a theme park owner.
She straightens to her full height, clutches her clipboard against her chest, and delivers her parting shot with the precision of a tactical missile.
“This conversation is over. And, Ms. Janglewood? I’d be very careful about making accusations you can’t prove. Theme parks can be dangerous places, and accidents happen more often than you’d think.”
