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“Come on,” he says, still holding my hand. “Let’s go see if Gertie Gloomwood is a killer or just a woman with excellent research skills.”
We weave through the crowd toward where Gertie stands near the snack table, chatting with a small group of admirers. The Poirot mustache hovers at the edge of the group, jotting in a little leather notebook. Either she’s committed to the costume or this convention has more amateur detectives per square foot than the entire Maine State Police, and neither option comforts me.
Gertie spots us approaching, and her smile falters. In fact, I’d bet my park there’s a sudden look of wariness on her face. And underneath it all, a garnish of oh no, not these two.
She knows exactly who Dexter is. And she definitely knows why we’re here.
When you’re questioning suspects at a Halloween mystery convention, the hardest part isn’t catching the killer. It’s doing it in front of fifty witnesses taking notes for their next homicide. Fictional ones, I hope.
CHAPTER 15
Gertie spots us coming, and her corporate smile doesn’t falter, but her grip on her coffee cup tightens just enough that I notice.
In my experience, innocent people don’t throttle their beverages.
“Detective Drake,” she says, like she’s greeting an expected client rather than a homicide investigator. “And Josie Janglewood. What a pleasure.”
“Is it, though?” I ask, because subtlety has never been my strong suit and I’m not about to start now. Okay, fine, I can be subtle. But the truth is I’m exhausted and about one skipped meal away from feral.
Gertie’s smile sharpens. “Direct. I appreciate that. It saves time.”
“Speaking of saving time,” Dexter says, “do you have a few minutes to chat? Somewhere more private?”
Gertie glances at the crowd still milling around the snack table, then back at us. “I suppose my break just got repurposed into an interrogation?”
“Conversation,” I correct. “Interrogation sounds so formal. And involves lawyers. This is just us having a friendly chat about a working knowledge of embezzlement and murder.”
“Well, when you put it that way.” Gertie sets down her coffee cup with a thud. “There’s a quieter spot near the rope bridge. Fewer witnesses for whatever this is about to become.”
As we pass the snack table, Chip’s voice floats through my head, muffled and suspiciously content. I have infiltrated the brownie perimeter. Tell no one. Especially not Fish.
I can hear you, Fish replies from the pumpkin carriage. Everyone with functioning ears can hear you.
At least somebody’s investigation is going well.
We follow Gertie along a winding path that takes us away from the main event area. The jungle sounds fade slightly, though I can still hear the distant screech of what’s either a mechanical macaw or someone’s ringtone having a nervous breakdown. Near the trailhead, the Poirot mustache lingers by a plastic fern with her little leather notebook, scribbling away. Great. Now we have an audience with a waxed upper lip. Why does this not amuse me?
The rope bridge stretches across a shallow man-made ravine, swaying gently in the breeze. Gertie leads us to a shaded area underneath it where a few benches sit among the fake ferns and remarkably realistic plastic rocks. I know they’re remarkably realistic because I paid the invoice, and I’m still not over it. I could have gotten real rocks for free.
It’s private enough that no one can overhear us, but public enough that Gertie can’t claim we cornered her somewhere threatening. Smart woman. Terrifying, but smart.
She settles onto a bench and crosses her legs with boardroom composure, ankles aligned, spine doing things mine forgot how to do years ago. “So. Am I a suspect, or are you just fans of my panel presentation?”
“Can’t we be both?” I ask, taking the bench across from her. Dexter remains standing, leaning against a fake boulder with his arms crossed. He’s going for intimidating detective, and honestly, it’s working on me too.
Focus, Josie. Murder now, biceps later.
“Well, at least you’re honest.” Gertie looks between us, and her gaze lands on Henrietta swinging from my neck. “Is the doll part of the questioning?”
“She’s more of a silent partner,” I offer.
“Charming,” Gertie says, in a tone suggesting the opposite. “What do you want to know?”
“Let’s start with Belladonna Hershey,” I say. “You two knew each other.”
“Everyone in the cozy mystery world knows everyone. It’s a small industry. Smaller when you factor in the number of people who actively hate each other.”
“And which category did you fall into?”
