Chapter 18
Cornering your potential future mother-in-law while she’s radiating enough disapproval to make the mechanical ghosts actually shiver in fear—just another highlight in my increasingly bizarre career as an amateur detective.
The purple glow from the three-tiered fountain casts Delora Drake in an otherworldly light that makes her look even more intimidating than usual—which is saying something, considering she could probably make a scarecrow apologize for existing.
The scent of butterscotch kettle corn and French fries mingles with my own fear, while the distant sound of parade music and cheering crowds creates the perfect backdrop for what’s about to become the most awkward conversation since someone invented small talk.
Autumn leaves swirl around the fountain in lazy spirals, and somewhere nearby a mechanical ghost keeps cackling every thirty seconds. Or maybe it’s the ghost of Dilly Thatcher. At this point, nothing would surprise me.
Delora stands with her arms crossed, clipboard clutched against her chest, watching the parade festivities with an expression that suggests she’s just discovered that happiness is contagious and she’s definitely not vaccinated.
“Well, well.” I approach with my senior investigation squad flanking me. “If it isn’t the only person in a ten-mile radius who looks personally offended by joy.”
Her ice-blue eyes snap to mine with enough frost to winterize the entire theme park. “Ms. Janglewood. I should have known you’d turn up wherever there’s chaos and poor planning.”
“Actually, this chaos is expertly planned,” Georgie chimes in, her light-up cape pulsing in rhythm with the parade music. “Your future daughter-in-law’s daughters, and your own grandchildren, are basically organizational wizards. Very impressive gene pool.”
“Future daughter-in-law?” Delora’s voice could strip paint off the carousel horses. “I think you’re getting ahead of yourself.”
“Oh honey,” Georgie continues with the kind of sweet smile that hides sharp teeth. “Denial isn’t just a river in Egypt. It’s also what happens when mothers can’t accept that their sons have excellent taste in women.”
Round one to Georgie, I think, while Ree scribbles frantically in that sinister notebook of hers.
“Mrs. Drake,” I begin, trying to sound professional despite the circumstances, “we’re investigating Dilly Thatcher’s murder, and we’d appreciate a few minutes of your time.”
“I’ve already spoken to the sheriff’s department, as in my son,” she replies stiffly. “Multiple times. I have nothing to add.”
“Well, we’re not the sheriff’s department,” Ree points out helpfully. “We’re more like concerned citizens with notebooks and an unhealthy interest in justice.”
“And excellent investigative instincts,” Georgie adds. “Plus, we have better snacks than the sheriff’s department. I’ve got a corn dog in my purse. You want to see it?”
Delora looks among the three of us with growing alarm, clearly recognizing she’s been cornered by amateur hour at its finest. “What exactly do you want to know?”
“Let’s start with your relationship with Dilly,” I suggest, settling into my best therapist voice. “We understand you two had some... history.”
Her ice-blue eyes narrow to slits that could cut glass. “Oh, so we’re diving straight into the deep end, are we? How refreshing. Most people at least pretend to make small talk first.”
“We’re not most people,” Georgie chirps. “We’re amateur detectives with a murder to solve and limited patience for social niceties.”
“Plus, we already know about the affair,” Ree adds matter-of-factly, consulting her notes. “So, we can skip the whole shocking revelation part and get straight to the juicy details.”
Delora’s composure doesn’t crack so much as it gets strategically rearranged. Around us, the parade continues its magical procession, but our little corner by the fountain has become its own bubble of tension and barely contained emotions.
“Fine,” she says, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “Yes, I had an affair with Dilly’s husband. Ancient history that certain people refuse to let stay buried.”
“How ancient are we talking?” I ask, genuinely curious about the timeline.
“Fifteen years ago. I didn’t know he was married at first. He wasn’t exactly advertising that particular detail.
When I found out, it was too late. I’d already fallen for him.
” She laughs, but there’s no humor in it.
“He promised to leave his wife. I fell for the oldest line in the book. I was vulnerable after my husband’s death and foolish. ”
The admission hangs in the air between us, and for a moment, I actually feel sorry for her. There’s something genuinely heartbreaking about watching someone’s armor crack to reveal the vulnerable person underneath.
“And Dilly found out?” I ask carefully.
“Of course, she found out. That woman had radar for other people’s weaknesses.” Delora straightens, rebuilding her walls in real time. “She never let me forget it. Every event, every planning meeting, every interaction—she’d find ways to remind me of my... indiscretion.”
“That must have been awful,” Ree observes with genuine sympathy.
“It was blackmail disguised as passive aggression,” Delora confirms. “She’d make little comments about ‘old indiscretions’ and ‘things that might interest the country club set’. She kept me in line beautifully.”
“But recently, she was threatening to go public?” I press.
Delora’s jaw tightens. “She said it was time for certain people to face the consequences of their actions. Planned to share some old stories during the symposium. In front of the television cameras.”
“Yikes,” Georgie winces. “That woman really was asking to be murdered.”
“Speaking of asking to be murdered,” I continue, “what can you tell us about Nadine Halbrook? You two seemed friendly enough during the planning meetings.”
“Friendly?” Delora’s laugh could shatter the fountain’s glass decorations. “That woman is a junk collector when it comes to all things concerning a kitchen. She’s single and as bitter as she sounds. You heard her yourself—she’d rather surround herself with antiques than people.”
“Wait, just a minute,” Georgie interjects with mock offense. “Antique men can still have it going on. Vintage charm, classic features, well-aged character. Sometimes the older models have better craftsmanship than the shiny new ones.”
“Plus, they know how to change a tire without calling AAA,” Ree adds sagely.
Despite everything, I snort with laughter. “Are we talking about men or collectible kitchen equipment?”
“Both.” Georgie grins. “Though I’d argue that antique men are generally more useful than antique egg beaters.”
“This is hardly the time for comedy,” Delora snaps, but I catch the tiniest twitch at the corner of her mouth that suggests she might actually have a sense of humor buried under all that ice.
“What about Savvy Sparrow?” I ask, switching tactics. “Any thoughts on our Southern belle?”
Something shifts in Delora’s expression—a flicker of knowledge that makes my detective instincts sit up and take notice. “That woman isn’t as sweet as her accent suggests.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning people who smile that much are usually hiding something. And Savvy Sparrow has been hiding quite a few somethings over the years.”
I blink twice, trying to process the implications of that statement. “Such as?”
“Such as things that aren’t my business to share,” Delora replies, but her eyes dart toward where Savvy stands near the parade route, looking every inch the charming Southern lady.
“But if I were investigating a murder, I might ask myself why someone would travel all the way from Tennessee for a symposium when they could easily host their own events closer to home.”
Before I can press for more details, Delora’s expression hardens again.
“And speaking of things that aren’t anyone’s business to share,” she continues, fixing me with a stare that turns lava to ice, “my personal history has nothing to do with my son. It’s not your place to tell him about any of this. ”
“I never said—”
“You didn’t have to say anything. But if you’re thinking about playing relationship counselor and sharing family secrets, I suggest you reconsider. Some things are better left buried, and this is definitely one of them.”
The threat is clear, even wrapped in polite language. Around us, the parade music swells to a crescendo as the final float approaches—a massive jack-o’-lantern that actually glows from within, surrounded by dancers in flowing ghost costumes.
“Are you threatening me again?” I ask, genuinely curious about her strategy here.
“I’m advising you to focus on your investigation instead of my family dynamics,” she replies smoothly. “After all, you wouldn’t want anything to complicate your relationship with my son, would you?”
“Oh honey,” Georgie drawls, stepping closer to Delora with her cape flashing in aggressive patterns. “Are you seriously trying to intimidate the woman who caught the last killer while wearing cat ears? Because that’s adorable.”
“Absolutely precious,” Ree agrees, still scribbling. “Like watching a poodle threaten a pit bull.”
Delora opens her mouth to deliver what I’m sure will be another devastating threat, but the sound of the parade’s finale—a massive jack-o’-lantern float with actual flames shooting from the top and a marching band playing “Monster Mash” at ear-splitting volume—apparently reminds her that she’s standing in the middle of a very public celebration while threatening a theme park owner.
She straightens to her full height, clutches her clipboard against her chest, and delivers her parting shot with the precision of a tactical missile.
“This conversation is over. And, Ms. Janglewood? I’d be very careful about making accusations you can’t prove. Theme parks can be dangerous places, and accidents happen more often than you’d think.”
She stalks off through the crowd with icy composure, leaving behind the scent of expensive perfume and barely contained fury.
“Well,” Georgie sings, “that went better than expected. She only threatened you once, and she actually showed some vulnerability. Very humanizing.”
“Plus, we learned that Savvy’s got secrets,” Ree adds, consulting her notes. “And that Delora’s been carrying around fifteen years of guilt and shame about that affair.”
“Both of which could be motives for murder,” I muse, watching Delora disappear into the crowd. “Though I’m starting to think we might be looking at this all wrong.”
My phone buzzes against my hip with the insistence of a small earthquake, and I pull it out to find a text that makes my stomach do interesting things.
Dexter: Hey. Hope the parade went well. I’m almost there for our do-over dinner. Where should I meet you? - D
I stare at the message, torn between the thrill of seeing Detective Dreamboat again and the reality that I’m currently standing next to a purple fountain, having just interrogated his mother for murder.
“That’s the face of a woman who just got a text from a man,” Georgie observes with the accuracy of someone who’s witnessed too many romantic disasters. “A very attractive man, judging by that expression.”
“Detective Dreamboat?” Ree asks hopefully. “Please tell me it’s Detective Dreamboat.”
“It’s Detective Dreamboat,” I confirm, still staring at my phone. “He’s almost here for our date.”
“The same Detective Dreamboat whose mother just threatened your theme park?” Georgie points out helpfully. “This should be interesting.”
“Interesting is one word for it,” I mutter, typing back.
Josie: I’ll find a place and text you the locale in five minutes. Fair warning—I just finished interrogating your mother.
His response is immediate.
Detective Dreamboat: Of course you did. Should I bring bail money or just a really good bottle of wine?
Despite everything—the murder investigation, the family drama, the fact his mother might be planning my professional demise—I find myself grinning at my phone.
Because any man who can joke about bailing me out after I’ve interrogated his potentially homicidal mother is definitely worth keeping around.