Chapter 22
There’s something deeply unsettling about watching someone laugh with genuine delight while holding what might be a murder weapon—especially when that someone is your so-called boyfriend’s mama.
The autumn air carries the scent of cinnamon donuts and smoked turkey legs mixed with the sharp bite of October wind that’s arrived fashionably early, while purple and green lights continue their manic twinkling through the cemetery display.
Fog machines pump mist across the cobblestones with theatrical determination, and the distant sound of screams from the haunted house mingles with the mechanical cackle of animatronic witches who have no intention of giving us a reprieve from their laughter.
Delora Drake stands near a particularly elaborate tombstone, still chuckling about Dilly’s ghost haunting the premises.
She’s holding a replica of the murder weapon, Fish observes from my arms, her hot pink pointed hat slightly askew from the evening’s festivities. Very bold strategy for someone trying to appear innocent.
Maybe she’s planning to make cinnamon rolls later, Chip adds with a touch of hope. You know, for the midnight snack crowd. Nothing says I’m innocent like freshly baked goods.
I approach with my furry investigation squad, trying to project casual confidence while internally calculating how fast I can run in a vampire costume if this goes sideways. I’ll admit, my cape will float behind me nicely.
“Well, well,” I call out, channeling my inner prosecutor. “Having a good laugh about our dearly departed symposium star?”
Delora turns toward me, her eyes still bright with amusement and something that might be relief. “Oh, it’s you. Yes, I find the whole thing absolutely hilarious. Dilly Thatcher haunting a theme park? She’d be mortified by the lack of sophistication.”
“Speaking of mortified,” I continue, edging closer while eyeing the rolling pin in her hand, “that’s an interesting accessory you’re sporting. Very festive. Very… incriminating. Reliving a specific memory?”
Her laughter cuts off like someone yanked the power cord. “Excuse me?”
“The rolling pin, Delora. The same type of marble rolling pin that was used to bash Dilly’s skull in before she took her final swim in peach frosting.”
Direct approach, Fish notes approvingly. I like it.
Very bold, Chip agrees. Though I’m questioning the wisdom of confronting an armed suspect without backup.
Fish grunts, We ARE the backup, you oaf!
“Are you accusing me of murder?” Delora’s voice drops to the temperature of a Maine winter, and suddenly I’m facing the full force of her disapproval without the buffer of polite social conventions.
“I’m stating facts,” I reply, trying to channel Dexter’s cop confidence. “You had an affair with Dilly’s husband years ago. She’s been blackmailing you with that information ever since, dropping passive-aggressive bombs about your old indiscretions whenever she wanted to keep you in line.”
Delora’s grip on the rolling pin tightens, and I make a mental note about the location of the nearest escape route.
“Recently, she was threatening to out you at this symposium ‘for laughs’ in front of the television cameras,” I continue, warming to my prosecutorial theme. “Public humiliation on national TV? That would destroy everything you’ve worked to build in this community.”
“You think I killed her to protect my reputation?” Delora’s voice carries the kind of outrage usually reserved for being accused of wearing white after Labor Day.
“I think you wanted her out of the picture permanently. You claimed you only meant professionally, but we both know there’s only one sure way to silence someone forever.”
“I did not murder that woman!” Delora snaps, but something in her eyes says otherwise.
“Yes, I found that rolling pin on the ground near the body. Yes, I picked it up before someone could trip over it. And yes, when you swooped in with your amateur detective routine, I should have left it exactly where it was and left. Not that it would have stopped you from tripping right into the corpse. From what my son tells me, it’s your thing.
You would have been accused of murder, and it would have served you right. ”
The venom in her voice could wilt all the cotton candy in the park, but something about her defensive posture makes me pause.
“In what capacity would that have served me right?” I ask. “For wanting justice?”
“For sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong!” she fires back. “For thinking you can solve crimes better than actual professionals! For inserting yourself into situations that could get you killed!”
She sounds more frustrated than guilty, Fish observes shrewdly. Almost like she’s genuinely concerned about your safety.
Weird way to show concern, Chip counters. Most people just send flowers or casseroles. I vote for casseroles. If she’s taking orders, let her know we love anything with potatoes and sour cream. Lots of sour cream—and don’t forget the cheese!
“Look,” Delora continues, her voice taking on a weary edge, “I despised Dilly Thatcher. She made my life miserable for fifteen years. But I didn’t kill her, and frankly, I’m insulted that you think I’d be stupid enough to stand around holding the murder weapon if I had.”
She’s got a point. If Delora had murdered Dilly, she’d probably have disposed of the evidence with the same efficiency she applies to event planning.
“Why are you holding that thing?”
“I’m carrying it for protection. There’s already been one murder at this establishment, and I refuse to be victim number two.”
Okay, so she’s got another point. Come to think of it, I should probably be walking around with one of those things myself.
“Well, if you didn’t do it, who did?” I ask, pulling out my phone to scroll to the crime scene photo I took. “I mean, you were right there with her and—”
I stop cold as something in the picture catches my attention.
“Oh my word,” I breathe, zooming in on a detail that makes my blood run cold. “How did I not look into this before?”
I glance at the picture I snapped at the crime scene. And then I see it. There, on the ground next to Dilly’s body, sits a tiny copper measuring spoon with an intricate pearl handle. Something I noticed at the crime scene but dismissed in all the chaos of finding a corpse face-first in cake.
Let’s see it, Josie, Chip yowls, and I flash the phone their way.
What’s that shiny thing on the ground? Fish asks, peering at my phone screen with laser-like focus.
That copper measuring spoon looks old, Chip observes, his orange head tilting as he studies the image. Sort of like an antique. Very fancy. Hey, I’m basically copper and fancy myself. And much like a measuring spoon, I can hold food, too.
Now you’re stretching.
I zoom in further on the measuring spoon—the one with the intricate carving and pearl handle that had caught my attention at the crime scene, but somehow slipped my mind in all the chaos.
It’s definitely out of place, Fish continues thoughtfully. All the other baking equipment is modern, but that thing looks like it belongs in a museum.
“That’s right,” I murmur, realization hitting me like a haunted freight train. “Wait a minute…”
I gasp as Delora’s earlier words echo in my memory. That woman is a junk collector when it comes to all things concerning a kitchen. She’d rather surround herself with antiques than people.
“An antique!” I breathe, staring at the ornate measuring spoon that’s been staring me in the face this entire time. “She collects antique kitchen equipment. That measuring spoon isn’t evidence that was left behind accidentally—it’s her signature.”
Either that or it fell out of her pocket while she was dancing with death.
I gasp and turn toward the haunted house just as a crackle of thunder, followed by a shrill scream, goes off over the speakers.
“I think I know who the killer is,” I announce, my voice carrying over the scary music and mechanical laughter.
I turn and stare up at the haunted wonder behind me.
Because apparently, when you’re a killer with a flair for the dramatic, a haunted house is the perfect place to tie up loose ends.