CHAPTER FOUR — Lila Mae, the Batting, and One Very Judgmental Raccoon

Miss Mabel tightened her grip on her walker as the shadow behind the fallen shelf shifted again.

Not fast  more like a slow wiggle.

A “help me, but also my back hurts” wiggle.

Elmira Gail gasped.

“Girls… that ain’t demon movement. That’s arthritis.”

I stepped forward carefully, one foot at a time, aware of Elmira muttering half-Baptist, half-Mormon prayers behind me like she was rebooting a religious computer.

“Hello?” I called gently. “Is somebody hurt back there?”

Another wiggle.

Then a muffled sound.

Mabel’s eyebrows shot up.

“That sounded like somebody with a mouth full of batting.”

We exchanged a look.

Then we lifted the fallen curtain the rest of the way and eased around the spilled glitter and crooked Santa.

And there she was.

Lila Mae.

Tied to the metal storage pole with what looked like two mismatched extension cords, and gagged with a wad of colorful quilt batting that somehow still sparkled with last year’s craft fair glitter.

Her eyes were wide, indignant, and very much alive.

Elmira shrieked, “SWEET SEVEN HEAVENS, GIVE OR TAKE ONE!”

Mabel took control instantly, kneeling with the precision of a woman who had once raised three boys who made questionable choices daily.

“Oh, hush now,” she murmured to Lila Mae. “We’re gettin’ you loose.”

I pulled the batting from Lila’s mouth.

She spat three tiny glitter stars.

“THANK THE LORD,” she croaked. “I’ve been hollering for twenty minutes!”

Elmira said, “More like moaning,” but nobody acknowledged her.

Mabel worked the extension cords loose. “Who did this to you?”

Lila Mae rubbed her wrists dramatically.

“I didn’t see. I was settin’ up my booth early, and somebody said the snowman needed inflatin’. Next thing I know, I’m in the storage alcove tied up like a hog, and my generator’s chuggin’ like it's possessed!”

Her voice went high.

“And that ain’t even the worst part!”

We all leaned in.

“WHAT is worse than being tied up with quilt stuffing in your mouth?” I asked.

Lila Mae pointed, trembling, toward the far corner.

And there sitting upright on a dented storage bin was a raccoon.

A large raccoon.

A raccoon with the confidence of a man who has not paid taxes since 1987.

A raccoon who looked at us like we were disrupting his morning routine.

The raccoon blinked.

Calm.

Smug.

Possibly judging our life choices.

“Oh for the love of pie,” Mabel muttered. “It’s one of the Dumpster Boys.”

Elmira made the sign of all the religions she could remember at once.

Lila Mae pointed again, shaking.

“That little thief turned on the snowman blower! And he chewed through my generator cord!”

The raccoon lifted one tiny paw in what looked suspiciously like a wave.

Then with all the dignity of a senator leaving a hearing he hopped off the storage bin, waddled across the spilled glitter, and disappeared through a hole in the back wall insulation.

Tommy Ray, who had crept up behind us unnoticed, whistled softly.

“Well,” he said, “that explains the generator.”

Mabel stood, dusting off her knees.

“Alright. We got the raccoon part sorted. Now the bigger issue.”

She pointed her walker at Lila Mae.

“Who tied you up?”

Lila Mae gulped.

Her cheeks pinkened.

“I… I think it was someone from the fair committee.”

The room went silent.

Even Fake Santa looked shocked.

“Someone we KNOW?” I asked.

Lila Mae nodded slowly.

“I didn’t see their face,” she whispered. “But I recognized their SHOES.”

Mabel gasped.

Elmira clutched her pearls.

Tommy Ray said, “Oh lord… not shoe-based clues again.”

I stepped closer.

“What shoes, Lila Mae?”

She swallowed hard.

“Red leather loafers. With tassels.”

My stomach dropped.

Because only one person in Pine Knot County had the nerve to wear shoes like that indoors on a snowy morning…

And they happened to be the person in charge of the ENTIRE craft fair.