Chapter 7
Right now, Gold Rush Hollow looks like the Wild West collided with Halloween, and nobody survived as Dexter and I make it just in time before the next segment of Morning Coffee & Chaos begins.
The morning sun struggles through leftover clouds, casting mean shadows through the skeleton prospectors dangling from the saloon roofs. The whole hollow holds the pleasant scent of sawdust and caramel corn, with undertones of hay bales and that fake leather smell from the costume shop.
In the distance, banjo music plays from speakers older than good judgment, punctuated by the mechanical groans of the Cursed Claim Mine Ride, which sounds like it’s digesting something that disagrees with it.
The mine ride entrance looms behind Crystal and Willow like a mouthful of broken teeth.
Rocks that have been spray-painted gold sit in mining carts, while fake dynamite bundles sit next to signs reading DANGER: CURSED GOLD in cheerful block letters. The whole thing is delightfully over-the-top.
Zombie miners with glowing eyes peer from the entrance, and every thirty seconds, a recorded scream echoes from deep inside the attraction, which honestly might just be from actual passengers discovering our safety standards.
“Welcome back to Morning Coffee & Chaos!” Crystal chirps, her enthusiasm achieving illegal levels that make me scowl. “I’m here with best-selling author Willow Lovejoy, discussing her explosive new tell-all!”
A crowd has gathered behind the barriers with tourists capturing everything on video, and locals who’ve developed a sixth sense for drama.
Ree is holding Chip while Georgie has Fish, and both cats are providing their usual non-stop commentary.
This woman’s performance deserves an award, Fish observes, watching Willow. Best Supporting Actress in a Real-Life Drama. I respect the dedication, if not the script.
Is that caramel corn? Chip says, craning his neck toward the crowd. Confirmed. Ground-level caramel corn. Multiple pieces. This is now a recovery mission.
He struggles to hop down, but Ree strengthens her grip on him.
Savvy stands near her dessert display—she’s taken over craft services for the week and turned it into a gourmet wonderland.
Pumpkin cheesecake bars that could make you commit to a bigger pant size, apple cider donuts still warm from the fryer, bourbon pecan tarts that might be illegal in all Southern states, and adorable yet demented chocolate cookie coffins, filled with raspberry blood that are maybe too on the nose given recent events.
Cupcake surveys the scene from Savvy’s arms. There’s nothing better than authentic drama with superior desserts.
“Tell us about the sacrifices you made during your marriage,” Crystal prompts, leaning in with the fake concern of someone who lives for other people’s disasters.
Willow straightens, looking every bit like the wronged woman she is.
“He called our marriage loveless. I called it keeping his champagne tastes funded on our beer budget. While he was suffering, I was ghost-writing his business articles at three in the morning so he could network—which is code for day-drinking with other middle-aged men pretending their startups aren’t failing.
Of course, that’s before he came to work as a co-host with you.
” She gives her the once-over. “Who that man slept with to get this gig I will never know.”
She may have just answered her own question.
The crowd murmurs appreciatively. Several women nod.
“And the wardrobe!” Willow continues. “You want to talk about suffering? Try funding a man’s midlife crisis closet.
Suddenly, he needs designer jeans that cost more than my car payment.
Italian shoes for his important meetings at the golf club.
And hair plugs that made him look like a Chia Pet going through puberty! ”
Both women break out into cackles, and half the audience joins them.
Delora snorts while clutching her clipboard like a life preserver. Then looks horrified at herself.
Dexter and I exchange a glance.
“But the real betrayal was the affair,” Crystal says, voice dropping to that serious news tone. “How did you find out? I want all the dirt.”
The crowd holds its collective breath. Even the banjo music seems to pause.
Willow’s smile is sharp enough to etch her initial into a diamond.
“I found out via Sassy Shug herself. The little tramp works down at Hogs & Kisses. That’s the classy establishment where she slung both hot wings and herself at my husband.
One morning, he left his phone on the bed while he showered.
It kept pinging like a slot machine hitting a jackpot, so naturally I thought it must be some sort of family emergency.
And it was an emergency, all right.” She pauses for effect.
The crowd leans in. “Little Miss Leather-and-Lace had the day off and wanted to cuddle in OUR family cabin up in Winter Woods. Twenty years of marriage and he’s sending inappropriate text messages about an afternoon delight with someone named after a rejected Muppet. ”
Gasps ripple through the crowd. Someone drops their funnel cake. Chip notices immediately.
Funnel cake down! Funnel cake down! This is not a drill!
“So what did you do?” Crystal asks, her eyes gleaming with delight at the fresh dirt being flung her way.
“I stormed into that bathroom with the first weapon I could find—a toilet plunger—and beat him like a pinata at a birthday party until he confessed everything. And I mean everything. The affairs he’d had, the affairs he’d thought about having, the affairs he might have if given the opportunity and a strong wind. ”
The crowd erupts with applause and laughter.
Someone shouts, “YES, QUEEN!”
Georgie is taking notes.
“He gave me all his passwords,” Willow continues.
“Banking, email, social media, that secret Instagram where he was DMing women half his age about their entrepreneurial spirit. I spent two days in that rabbit hole of deceit. You know what I found? Debt, lies, and a subscription to a dating site for people who like boats. We don’t even own a boat. ”
“I’m surprised he gave you the passwords,” Crystal says.
Willow’s grin turns wicked. “I told him he could have the house in the divorce if he cooperated.” She pauses. “I lied.”
The applause is thunderous. Women are high-fiving. Someone starts a slow clap—that someone would be me.
“And CUT!” The assistant director looks slightly stunned. “That was... wow.”
More applause. Willow takes a little bow, then heads toward Savvy’s dessert table with determination as if she’s earned some serious chocolate therapy.
Ree and Georgie rush over, with the cats still in their arms. They take a moment to appraise Dexter with approval.
“So,” Georgie begins, her eyes sparkling with far too much mischief for me to ever feel safe, “we heard the two of you shook down Clyde pretty good.”
“Dexter did all the dirty, heavy lifting,” I say. “Scratch that. My boyfriend did all the dirty, heavy lifting.”
Both Georgie and Ree gasp with delight, and so do the cats. Less delight is involved with the felines.
Dexter waggles his brows my way, and I reward him with a smile.
“Ready for interrogation number two?” Ree adds.
“Between Josie and Detective Dreamboat?” Georgie looks hopeful. “Because the sexual tension could be cut with a butter knife. A dull butter knife. From the dollar store.”
“Of another suspect,” Ree corrects her.
“I’m all in, and I’m sensing a theme,” Georgie gravels it out. “Angry ex-wives and dead producers.”
Bizzy appears, looking frazzled with a scrumptious pumpkin spice latte in her hand.
“I need to head back. The inn won’t run itself, and someone needs to make sure the guests don’t steal the towels.
” She gives Fish a quick kiss on the nose.
“Also, Mrs. Henderson in room twelve thinks her room is haunted, but it’s just the pipes. Probably.”
She hurries off, leaving us to watch as Willow examines the dessert spread as if she’s planning a strategic assault.
“Well?” Dexter asks, his voice low and professionally sexy, if that’s a thing. And it is so a thing. “Have you worked up an appetite yet?”
I look at Willow, who’s now holding two chocolate coffins and eyeing the bourbon tarts.
“An appetite for justice,” I say, then immediately want to kick myself because that sounds like something from a bad cop show.
But Dexter looks as if I’ve just revved his engine. He nods, and we head toward our next interrogation.
It’s time to find out if the wronged wife is also a murderer, or if we need to add another suspect to our growing list of people who wanted Duffy Banks dead.
Which, at this rate, might include half of Maine.