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“Exactly. And half that costume is missing. I call that a preview.” She spots another guy, this one in ripped pants and no shirt, covered in fake blood and carrying a sword. “Is there a shirt shortage down here? Because I’m not complaining, but I am curious.”
“Zombie pirates don’t wear shirts,” I explain. “It’s part of the aesthetic.”
“It’s part of my new favorite aesthetic,” Georgie says, fanning herself with a laminated parade schedule.
We weave between floats, dodging cast members and golf carts and at least one person juggling flaming torches for reasons I’m afraid to ask about. Somewhere in this park there’s a form that authorized indoor fire juggling, and my signature is probably on it. I sign a lot of things, and it’s proving to be a character flaw.
“So,” Ree says, lowering her voice even though the backstage din means no one can hear us anyway. Ree whispers the way other people use megaphones, purely for the drama of it. “Who’s our next suspect? We need to narrow this down before Dexter arrests all of us for interfering.”
I sigh because she’s right. “Felicity Graves.”
Ree’s face falls. “Oh no. Really? I like her. She seems so sweet and genuine. She probably brings people homemade cookies when they’re sad.”
“And probably laces them with arsenic,” Georgie adds helpfully. “It’s always the sweet ones. They bake, they knit, they know exactly how long it takes a body to decompose in Maine soil.”
Ree hugs her notebook to her chest like she’s shielding it from slander.
“She’s not a killer,” Ree insists. “She writes about cemetery groundskeepers! That’s the gentlest profession in the mystery genre!”
“Her characters spend an awful lot of time digging holes,” I point out. “I’m just saying, the research writes itself.”
“We could pin it on Delora,” Georgie suggests. “She’s already suspicious. Plus, it would save us time.”
“And it would save me a few Delora-shaped headaches.”
Ree gasps. “I really like Delora, too! We’ve been texting all morning about cozy mystery plot twists.”
She flashes her phone at us as proof.
Delora: A twist the reader cannot anticipate is the mark of competence. A twist the reader anticipates but prays against is the mark of true art. Do keep up, dear.
The woman texts in complete sentences with perfect punctuation. Somehow that’s the most menacing thing I’ve encountered all day, and I’ve been nearly beheaded by a pumpkin cart.
She also signs her texts to Ree with a heart emoji. She’s never once sent me a heart emoji. I’m choosing not to investigate what that means.
“You’ve gone soft in your old age,” Georgie tells her.
Ree whips around. “Who are you calling old, Grandma Moses?”
“You,” Georgie says as she narrows her eyes at her bestie. “I’m calling you old. You’re befriending suspects and reading books without steamy scenes and probably eating dinner at four thirty in the afternoon.”
Ree’s mouth falls open. “I eat dinner at six like a normal person!”
“That’s basically four thirty in New York,” Georgie counters.
“Neither of you has lived in New York,” I mention, and I’m ignored, which is the natural order of things around here.
I pull out my planner instead and flip to today’s Boo Crew schedule. My finger stops on an entry for this afternoon.
Georgie produces her own laminated parade schedule and runs a finger down it like she’s checking stock prices. “Zombie pirate flotilla, seven fifteen. I’ve highlighted it.”
“That’s not the schedule we need.”
“Speak for yourself.”
“Here we go,” I say. “Felicity Graves is hosting ‘From Plot to Page: Crafting Cozy Conclusions’ at two o’clock in Gears & Dreams Hollow. It’s a workshop on how to wrap up a mystery.” I shake my head. “Because nothing rounds out an afternoon like watching a possible murderer explain the importance of tying up loose ends.”
“How convenient,” Georgie says. “Maybe she’ll confess while teaching people how to write confessions.”
