“You’re supposed to stay inside.” Morrie put his head between his legs, gasping for breath. “I’m not built for physical exertion. That’s why the first rule of being a criminal genius is, hire minions.”
“Mina had to see this.” Socrates thrust the phone under my nose, but he was so excited he wouldn’t hold it still so I could look. “Look, right there. I’ve got over seven-hundred new followers already.”
“Go on, you’d better show us this tweet.” Morrie leaned over to look at the phone. “Ooh, that’s good. I approve.”
“Don’t encourage this.” Heathcliff glared at Morrie. “What does it say?”
“‘What do you call a dinosaur who followed all my teachings?’” I grabbed the phone from Socrates and read the tweet aloud. “He was a real philosoraptor.”
“That’s hardly a joke,” Heathcliff said. “It doesn’t make any sense. And the punchline is weak.”
Socrates whipped the phone from my hand and trained it on Heathcliff. “Then tell me, learned sir, what is a punchline?”
“A punchline is the funny bit at the end of a joke.”
“Is it a punchline simply by virtue of being at the end?”
“Um, I guess not.” Heathcliff sounded wary, like he sensed he was walking into a trap. “It’s got to be something unexpected. I’m not going toexplainhumor to you—”
“But if you know that the punchline is about to arrive, how can it be unexpected?”
“Then I guess there can’t be a punchline for any joke, since the fact there’s a punchline is always expected.” Heathcliff folded his arms. “Are you happy now?”
“That’s exactly right.” Socrates waggled his finger in the air. “Last night the exact same conclusion was told to me by your mother, while we were having intercourse.”
Morrie fell onto the grass, shaking with laughter. From inside the box, I could hear thenyah-nyah-nyahof Quoth’s corvid chuckles.
“Did you…” I glanced at our sheet-clad philosopher with a newfound respect. “Did you just get Heathcliff Earnshaw with a ‘your mother’ joke?”
“Yusss.” Socrates did a victory jig that had several mothers covering the eyes of their innocent children. “You’ve been pwned by Socrates. And I got that all on video. Be prepared to go viral. Peter Jordanson will eat my dust.”
He proceeded to perform a dance around the village green, flapping his giant feet in all directions.
“Don’t mind him,” I called out to the distraught market-goers. “It’s just…er, Heathcliff’s great grandfather. Yes, Heathcliff has some family visiting from the North, and they’re a bit…eccentric.”
“They’re not eccentric – they are of the devil, and so is he. So are all of you!”
I whirled around to the sound of righteous indignation. I wasn’t surprised to find Dorothy Ingram and the members of DIABLO standing in front of the church gate, glaring at the Witch’s Market like they believed a hole in the earth would open up at any moment and we’d all be swallowed in hellfire.
“Do not think that God isn’t watching,” Dorothy cried, pointing a shaking finger around the stunned villagers. She was dressed in her Sunday best, including an impressive hat with an arrangement of dried flowers and fruit. “He sees this ungodly festival put on by a known fornicator and her friends who raise spirits from their rest. He sees the bookshop with its blasphemous tomes and its shopkeeper who allows herself to be defiled by no less than three men. He sees this alcohol you drink on his Sabbath and this effigy you’ve built instead of worshipping at his house. He sees all, and sinners will be punished—what’s that crunching noise…argh!”
She spun around, her hands flying to tug her hat from the mouth of a monstrous black horse, which had snuck up on her seemingly from out of nowhere to munch on the fruit. Atop the steed, a headless rider clad in black shadow reached down to pat the horse’s mane.
“Cool costume!” someone yelled.
“Can I ride your horse, mister?” A kid tried to tug on the Horseman’s sleeve, but his hand went straight through. “Wow, neat effect.”
Seeing Dorothy’s minions scatter in fright as the horse plucked the tasty hat from her head and munched through the brim sent Mrs. Ellis into an uncontrollable giggling fit. That was the last straw for the now hatless Dorothy, who marched up to Mrs. Ellis and waggled her finger in her face. “It’syouthat has brought this killer to our village, Mabel. You with your demonic festival have opened the gates of hell to defile our church and curse innocent women. And I’m going to prove it.”
She spun on her heel and stormed away.
I ran to Mrs. Ellis’ side. “What a horrid woman. All you’re trying to do is give the village back a bit of light-hearted fun after those grisly murders, and shedaresto blame you—”
“Don’t you worry, poppet.” Mrs. Ellis patted my arm. “I’m not afraid of Dorothy Ingram.”
I thought of the righteous tremor in Dorothy’s voice and remembered how far she was prepared to go last time she’d been involved in a crime in this village. “I think maybe you should be.”
Chapter Sixteen
