Chapter 21
Nothing says awkward conversation starter quite like approaching someone you suspect of murder while they’re having a moment with a skeleton in a wedding dress.
The fog machines continue pumping mist across the cobblestones with theatrical determination, while the scent of bourbon cake and maple donuts does yummy things with the crisp bite of autumn air that’s arrived three weeks early.
It’s dark out, save for all of the eerie holiday illuminations around us.
Purple and green lights twinkle through the cemetery display with the kind of aggressive cheerfulness that makes everything look either magical or mildly disturbing, depending on your current mental state.
The sound of laughter and the spooky mood music that never ends drifts from the crowd, punctuated by the occasional screams from our guests having the time of their lives, or crying for help.
I approach Savvy Sparrow, who’s standing beside the ornate casket in full Bo Peep regalia—flowing pastel dress, shepherdess crook, the works. She looks like she stepped out of a nursery rhyme book, assuming nursery rhymes included costume parties and potential homicide suspects.
Cupcake sits beside her in a princess costume that’s probably more elaborate than most people’s wedding dresses. Her white fur has been secured into half a dozen perfect pom-poms, she’s wearing a rhinestone tiara that catches the purple lights, and a pink satin cape completes the ensemble.
Well, hello there, sugar, Cupcake observes in her perfectly cultured voice as I approach. Don’t you look festive in your vampire attire?
I give her a quick scratch behind the ears, because even when you’re about to accuse someone of murder, basic manners still apply.
“Oh Josie!” Savvy jumps, her Southern drawl coming on thicker than buttermilk biscuit batter. “You startled me! Believe it or not, I was actually thinking about you.”
I inch back slightly, my detective instincts immediately shifting into high alert. “You were? While staring at the skeleton bride?”
GAH! She’s plotting how to land me horizontal, permanently.
“Why yes,” Savvy continues, apparently oblivious to my sudden wariness.
“I’ve been going over every menu in the park, and honey, I have been busy.
I’ve even studied all the vendors that line the streets here at Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland, and I have a comprehensive overhaul planned for each and every dish.
I’ve already sprinkled some of my magic here and there, but, honey, I’m just getting started. ”
She settles into full presentation mode, her eyes lighting up with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for winning lottery tickets or finding the perfect pair of jeans.
“Nothing too crazy, mind you, but something that will elevate your game substantially. When I’m through with this place, people won’t just be coming here for the rides. They’ll be making pilgrimages for the food.”
I blink at her, my murder accusation temporarily derailed by culinary ambition.
“Now, I think you need to add a Mexican restaurant, an Italian place, and definitely a Chinese establishment to the grounds. I’ve already selected three existing locations that can easily be modified.
” She gestures toward different areas of the park with the confidence of a killer who’s clearly done her homework.
“Picture this,” she continues, warming to her subject.
“Carnitas tacos with house-made tortillas and pickled jalapenos, served with Mexican street corn that’s been elevated with cotija cheese and lime crema.
For Italian, think fresh pasta made daily—maybe a butternut squash ravioli with brown butter sage sauce for fall, or a seafood linguine with lobster caught right here in Maine. ”
My mouth starts watering despite my better judgment.
“And the Chinese place? Oh honey, we’re talking about hand-pulled noodles, five-spice duck pancakes, and dumplings so perfect they’ll make grown adults pay cold, hard cash to move up their reservations.
Plus, I’m thinking we do a dim sum brunch on weekends that’ll have people driving up from Boston. ”
“Oh wow,” I manage, and now I’m really feeling bad that I’m about to accuse her of murder. It’s hard to maintain proper suspicion when someone’s describing food that sounds better than anything I’ve eaten in my entire life.
Maybe Dilly had it coming?
“Savvy,” I begin gently, trying to ease into what’s about to become a very uncomfortable conversation. “I need to ask you about something.”
“Of course, sugar! What’s on your mind?”
I take a deep breath and dive in. “I know about your mother. About what Dilly did to her bakery on national television years ago. How she called it amateur hour with delusions of grandeur and suggested your family stick to church bake sales.”
Savvy’s smile falters just enough to let me know I’ve hit my target.
“We all know that your Rest in Peaches coffin cake ended up being the scene of the murder, but I did see myself that you and Dilly had a very public argument before the reception, and that you made some pretty pointed jokes about revenge cupcakes that look a lot less funny now.” I study her face carefully.
“Everyone thinks you’re just naturally cheeky, but what if you’re actually naturally vengeful? ” I pause, watching her expression.
Her eyes widen to the size of pancakes.
“I also know that Dilly was planning to expose secrets at this symposium, and that you had access to those marble rolling pins.” I study her face carefully. “Is that why you did it? Is that why you took a rolling pin to Dilly’s head and shoved her into your Rest in Peaches coffin cake?”
Savvy inches back, her hoop skirt rustling with the movement. “Josie, what are you saying?”
Josie, are you serious right now? Cupcake barks with a note of genuine surprise. You think my hooman is a murderer?
“I’m saying that revenge is a dish best served cold, and yours has been chilling for years,” I reply, keeping my voice gentle but firm.
“Oh honey, no.” Savvy shakes her head with what appears to be genuine dismay. “Yes, I wanted Dilly punished for what she did to my mama. But I was going to do it the right way—by showing everyone that my mama had the best baked goods this side of the Mason-Dixon Line.”
Her voice carries real emotion now, the kind you can’t fake without some serious acting chops.
“I came here to prove that everything Dilly said about my mama’s bakery was wrong.
That she destroyed an innocent woman’s reputation out of pure spite.
” Savvy’s eyes flash with anger, but it’s the clean kind—righteous indignation, not guilty desperation.
“I wouldn’t resort to murder, Josie.” She pauses, then adds with perfect Southern timing, “Besides, I look dreadful in orange.”
“But your mother is gone, and so is your bakery.”
She sniffs. “It’s true. My mama’s death was the hardest thing I’ve gone through, and it was all because of that witch Dilly Thatcher.
The bakery shuddered without her, no matter how hard I tried to keep it open.
Dilly’s scathing reviews were the cause of all of that.
But I still maintain an online presence with Sweet Dreams & Sugar Schemes Bake Shop, and I even participate in events like this one.
Look, I didn’t kill her. Although I’d love to shake the hand of whoever did. ”
I gasp, because somehow that completely ridiculous statement convinces me more than any elaborate alibi could have. There’s something so genuinely Savvy about being more concerned with her complexion than a murder charge that I immediately believe her.
“Well, if you didn’t do it...” I trail off, my mind already racing toward other possibilities.
Savvy’s phone pings with the insistence of a smoke alarm, and she checks it with practiced efficiency after decades of managing business communications.
“Oh my, I need to restock my bourbon cake,” she announces, already gathering her skirts for departure. “It’s been such a big hit with everyone tonight, just like I knew it would be. That recipe’s been in my family for generations.”
She hurries off with Cupcake prancing beside her, leaving me standing next to the skeleton bride, feeling like I just accused a kindergarten teacher of running an underground fight club.
Fish and Chip appear at my feet with the timing of tiny furry ninjas, both slightly out of breath from their television appearances.
Did you let the killer get away? Fish asks immediately, her witch’s hat slightly askew from whatever shenanigans they’ve been up to.
“It wasn’t her,” I tell them, shaking my head with a newfound weariness because obviously my detective skills apparently need serious recalibration.
Oh good, Chip says with a touch of relief. I sort of like Cupcake. She has excellent taste in treats and very refined conversation skills.
You would, Fish replies with an exasperated tone as if she’s given up hope for her furry partner’s judgment in romantic matters.
I blow out a breath, scanning the crowd of costumed revelers who continue their festivities blissfully unaware that there’s still a murderer in their midst. “Well, if she didn’t do it, who did?”
A horn blows from the direction of the haunted mansion, and Nadine steps up to a makeshift podium that’s been decorated with plastic ravens and artificial spider webs. She’s still wearing her vintage baker costume, and the microphone squeaks with feedback before settling into functionality.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Her voice carries over the crowd with authority.
“We have a very special ghost haunting the house behind me tonight—Dilly Thatcher herself! You can either take the haunted house ride or join me for a guided tour of the terrifying abode, but let’s all say a quick hello to our dearly departed friend—or at least her hologram—one more time before we say goodbye forever! ”
The crowd erupts in cheers and applause, and Nadine heads toward the mansion’s entrance with a group of eager participants trailing behind her.
Laughter circles the vicinity, but one voice in particular makes my head turn in that direction. It’s the kind of laugh that sounds less like amusement and more like someone who’s just gotten away with the perfect crime.
Delora Drake is howling with genuine mirth at the thought of Dilly haunting the premises, and suddenly my detective instincts are screaming louder than the mechanical witches.
Why would she find this so funny? Before I can answer my own question, I notice what she’s holding in her right hand—something long and marble that catches the purple lights with ominous familiarity.
It’s one of my haunted Halloween rolling pins from the spooky Frost and Fright merchandise line, and she’s gripping it with a casual confidence as if she knows all too well how effective kitchen equipment can be as a weapon.
I bet she finds this hilarious because Delora Drake thinks she’s gotten away with murder.
Everything falls into place with the horrible finality of a coffin lid closing.
The affair, the blackmail, the threats to go public, the convenient knowledge about the weight of marble rolling pins. Okay, so that last one is a nonstarter—but it was never about business partnerships or old grudges.
It was about a woman who’d spent fifteen years being slowly tortured by someone who held her deepest shame over her head, and who finally snapped when faced with public humiliation on national television.
“Come on,” I say to the cats, my voice carrying the grim determination of someone who’s about to confront a killer with a weapon and nothing left to lose. “We’ve got a real killer to catch.”