“I’m saying that revenge is a dish best served cold, and yours has been chilling for years,” I reply, keeping my voice gentle but firm.
“Oh honey, no.” Savvy shakes her head with what appears to be genuine dismay. “Yes, I wanted Dilly punished for what she did to my mama. But I was going to do it the right way—by showing everyone that my mama had the best baked goods this side of the Mason-Dixon Line.”
Her voice carries real emotion now, the kind you can’t fake without some serious acting chops.
“I came here to prove that everything Dilly said about my mama’s bakery was wrong. That she destroyed an innocent woman’s reputation out of pure spite.” Savvy’s eyes flash with anger, but it’s the clean kind—righteous indignation, not guilty desperation. “I wouldn’t resort to murder, Josie.” She pauses, then adds with perfect Southern timing, “Besides, I look dreadful in orange.”
“But your mother is gone, and so is your bakery.”
She sniffs. “It’s true. My mama’s death was the hardest thing I’ve gone through, and it was all because of that witch Dilly Thatcher. The bakery shuddered without her, no matter how hard I tried to keep it open. Dilly’s scathing reviews were the cause of all of that. But I still maintain an online presence with Sweet Dreams & Sugar Schemes Bake Shop, and I even participate in events like this one. Look, I didn’t kill her. Although I’d love to shake the hand of whoever did.”
I gasp, because somehow that completely ridiculous statement convinces me more than any elaborate alibi could have. There’s something so genuinely Savvy about being more concerned with her complexion than a murder charge that I immediately believe her.
“Well, if you didn’t do it...” I trail off, my mind already racing toward other possibilities.
Savvy’s phone pings with the insistence of a smoke alarm, and she checks it with practiced efficiency after decades of managing business communications.
“Oh my, I need to restock my bourbon cake,” she announces, already gathering her skirts for departure. “It’s been such a big hit with everyone tonight, just like I knew it would be. That recipe’s been in my family for generations.”
She hurries off with Cupcake prancing beside her, leaving me standing next to the skeleton bride, feeling like I just accused a kindergarten teacher of running an underground fight club.
Fish and Chip appear at my feet with the timing of tiny furry ninjas, both slightly out of breath from their television appearances.
Did you let the killer get away?Fish asks immediately, her witch’s hat slightly askew from whatever shenanigans they’ve been up to.
“It wasn’t her,” I tell them, shaking my headwith a newfound weariness because obviously my detective skills apparently need serious recalibration.
Oh good,Chip says with a touch of relief.I sort of like Cupcake. She has excellent taste in treats and very refined conversation skills.
You would,Fish replies with an exasperated tone as if she’s given up hope for her furry partner’s judgment in romantic matters.
I blow out a breath, scanning the crowd of costumed revelers who continue their festivities blissfully unaware that there’s still a murderer in their midst. “Well, if she didn’t do it, who did?”
A horn blows from the direction of the haunted mansion, and Nadine steps up to a makeshift podium that’s been decorated with plastic ravens and artificial spider webs. She’s still wearing her vintage baker costume, and the microphone squeaks with feedback before settling into functionality.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Her voice carries over the crowd with authority. “We have a very special ghost haunting the house behind me tonight—Dilly Thatcher herself! You can either take the haunted house ride or join me for a guided tour of the terrifying abode, but let’s all say a quick hello to our dearly departed friend—or at least her hologram—one more time before we say goodbye forever!”
The crowd erupts in cheers and applause, and Nadine heads toward the mansion’s entrance with a group of eager participants trailing behind her.
Laughter circles the vicinity, but one voice in particular makes my head turn in that direction. It’s the kind of laugh that sounds less like amusement and more like someone who’s just gotten away with the perfect crime.
Delora Drake is howling with genuine mirth at the thought of Dilly haunting the premises, and suddenly my detective instincts are screaming louder than the mechanical witches.
Why would she find this so funny? Before I can answer myown question, I notice what she’s holding in her right hand—something long and marble that catches the purple lights with ominous familiarity.
It’s one of my haunted Halloween rolling pins from the spooky Frost and Fright merchandise line, and she’s gripping it with a casual confidence as if she knows all too well how effective kitchen equipment can be as a weapon.
I bet she finds this hilarious because Delora Drake thinks she’s gotten away with murder.
Everything falls into place with the horrible finality of a coffin lid closing.
The affair, the blackmail, the threats to go public, the convenient knowledge about the weight of marble rolling pins. Okay, so that last one is a nonstarter—but it was never about business partnerships or old grudges.
It was about a woman who’d spent fifteen years being slowly tortured by someone who held her deepest shame over her head, and who finally snapped when faced with public humiliation on national television.
“Come on,” I say to the cats, my voice carrying the grim determination of someone who’s about to confront a killer with a weapon and nothing left to lose. “We’ve got a real killer to catch.”
CHAPTER 22
