Page 32 of Dead Men Tell No Shells

“It was a misunderstanding.”

“It was a KOA, Dad. There were signs.”

“Yes, yes, we've been over that. This is about your mother.”

I sat back in my chair. “What about Mom?”

“Well, she may have made a small mistake with our reservation.”

In the background, I heard Mom say, “It wasn't a mistake. I simply thought the bluegrass weekend was this week rather than next weekend. But the bluegrass is a festival all week, with the line dancing this weekend at the start. Two events being held at the same place, dear.”

Dad lowered his voice, although not enough to prevent me from hearing every word. “She's booked us into a weekend devoted to line dancing. Three days of it, Max. And she doesn't even like line dancing.”

“I can hear you,” Mom called.

“I know, darling. I'm explaining the situation to our son.”

“You're making it sound as though I've committed a crime. We’ll be fine.”

“Of course we will. I'm only saying that if we'd arrived and you'd started playing bluegrass music at a line-dancing convention, things might have become awkward.”

“Your father thinks he's very funny,” Mom told me.

“I am very funny,” Dad replied.

I rubbed my forehead, trying not to laugh. Their retirement had apparently done nothing to diminish their ability to manufacture drama from the smallest inconvenience. At least Mom hadn't tried to pan for gold or set the laundry on fire.

“Can you get the reservation changed?”

“Yes,” Mom answered firmly. “I'm handling it. Your father was merely enjoying the opportunity to make a fuss.”

“I was not making a fuss.”

“Dad, you called me to tell me about a booking mix-up that wasn’t a real mix-up anyway.”

“I thought you'd find it amusing.”

“I do,” I admitted. “But I also think you enjoy being able to blame Mom for something for a change, even if it's over nothing.”

There was a brief silence, then Dad laughed. “Fair enough. Your mother does have a point. I might have mentioned the line-dancing thing more than was strictly necessary.”

“Thank you,” Mom said.

I smiled despite myself. “So, how are you both otherwise?”

Dad's tone changed. “We're fine, son. We heard something about your festival on the news this morning. There was a murder?”

The smile faded from my face, and I lowered my mug to the table. “Harvey Sinclair. They found him behind the bandstand last night.”

“Oh, Max.” Dad sounded genuinely distressed. “Were you there?”

“Yes. I was with Ricky and Tammy when it happened. We didn't see the attack, but I was there when the sheriff closed the festival.”

“Are you alright?” Mom called from somewhere nearby.

“I'm alright, Mom. Shaken, obviously, but I'm fine. The sheriff is investigating, and I gave him what information I had.”

“Did you know the poor man well?”