There’s something deeply unsettling about watching someone laugh with genuine delight while holding what might be a murder weapon—especially when that someone is your so-called boyfriend’s mama.
The autumn air carries the scent of cinnamon donuts and smoked turkey legs mixed with the sharp bite of October wind that’s arrived fashionably early, while purple and green lights continue their manic twinkling through the cemetery display. Fog machines pump mist across the cobblestones with theatrical determination, and the distant sound of screams from the haunted house mingles with the mechanical cackle of animatronic witches who have no intention of giving us a reprieve from their laughter.
Delora Drake stands near a particularly elaborate tombstone, still chuckling about Dilly’s ghost haunting the premises.
She’s holding a replica of the murder weapon,Fish observes from my arms, her hot pink pointed hat slightly askew from the evening’s festivities.Very bold strategy for someone trying to appear innocent.
Maybe she’s planning to make cinnamon rolls later,Chip addswith a touch of hope.You know, for the midnight snack crowd. Nothing says I’m innocent like freshly baked goods.
I approach with my furry investigation squad, trying to project casual confidence while internally calculating how fast I can run in a vampire costume if this goes sideways. I’ll admit, my cape will float behind me nicely.
“Well, well,” I call out, channeling my inner prosecutor. “Having a good laugh about our dearly departed symposium star?”
Delora turns toward me, her eyes still bright with amusement and something that might be relief. “Oh, it’s you. Yes, I find the whole thing absolutely hilarious. Dilly Thatcher haunting a theme park? She’d be mortified by the lack of sophistication.”
“Speaking of mortified,” I continue, edging closer while eyeing the rolling pin in her hand, “that’s an interesting accessory you’re sporting. Very festive. Very… incriminating. Reliving a specific memory?”
Her laughter cuts off like someone yanked the power cord. “Excuse me?”
“The rolling pin, Delora. The same type of marble rolling pin that was used to bash Dilly’s skull in before she took her final swim in peach frosting.”
Direct approach,Fish notes approvingly.I like it.
Very bold,Chip agrees.Though I’m questioning the wisdom of confronting an armed suspect without backup.
Fish grunts,We ARE the backup, you oaf!
“Are you accusing me of murder?” Delora’s voice drops to the temperature of a Maine winter, and suddenly I’m facing the full force of her disapproval without the buffer of polite social conventions.
“I’m stating facts,” I reply, trying to channel Dexter’s cop confidence. “You had an affair with Dilly’s husband years ago. She’s been blackmailing you with that informationever since, dropping passive-aggressive bombs about your old indiscretions whenever she wanted to keep you in line.”
Delora’s grip on the rolling pin tightens, and I make a mental note about the location of the nearest escape route.
“Recently, she was threatening to out you at this symposium ‘for laughs’ in front of the television cameras,” I continue, warming to my prosecutorial theme. “Public humiliation on national TV? That would destroy everything you’ve worked to build in this community.”
“You think I killed her to protect my reputation?” Delora’s voice carries the kind of outrage usually reserved for being accused of wearing white after Labor Day.
“I think you wanted her out of the picture permanently. You claimed you only meant professionally, but we both know there’s only one sure way to silence someone forever.”
“I did not murder that woman!” Delora snaps, but something in her eyes says otherwise. “Yes, I found that rolling pin on the ground near the body. Yes, I picked it up before someone could trip over it. And yes, when you swooped in with your amateur detective routine, I should have left it exactly where it was and left. Not that it would have stopped you from tripping right into the corpse. From what my son tells me, it’s your thing. You would have been accused of murder, and it would have served you right.”
The venom in her voice could wilt all the cotton candy in the park, but something about her defensive posture makes me pause.
“In what capacity would that have served me right?” I ask. “For wanting justice?”
“For sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong!” she fires back. “For thinking you can solve crimes better than actual professionals! For inserting yourself into situations that could get you killed!”
She sounds more frustrated than guilty,Fish observes shrewdly.Almost like she’s genuinely concerned about your safety.
Weird way to show concern,Chip counters.Most people just send flowers or casseroles. I vote for casseroles. If she’s taking orders, let her know we love anything with potatoes and sour cream. Lots of sour cream—and don’t forget the cheese!
“Look,” Delora continues, her voice taking on a weary edge, “I despised Dilly Thatcher. She made my life miserable for fifteen years. But I didn’t kill her, and frankly, I’m insulted that you think I’d be stupid enough to stand around holding the murder weapon if I had.”
She’s got a point. If Delora had murdered Dilly, she’d probably have disposed of the evidence with the same efficiency she applies to event planning.
“Why are you holding that thing?”
“I’m carrying it for protection. There’s already been one murder at this establishment, and I refuse to be victim number two.”
