Page 23 of Fish and Chip: Nine Lives One Murder
Dexter takes a moment to glare at me before pulling out his own phone and following my lead, occasionally giving me sideways glances, as if expecting me to start snapping pics again the moment he turns away.
He’s so onto me.
Twenty minutes later, the funhouse is swarming with uniforms and techs. The coroner, a chipper woman in purple glasses, confirms strangulation.
She’s good, I’ll give her that.
As they prepare to move the body, Dexter and I step outside to find an even larger crowd has gathered. The body bag emerges on a gurney, wheeled by two somber-faced attendants, and a hush falls over the onlookers as they take poor Ned away.
Vivian and Patty stand together, clutching each other’s arms with expressions of appropriate horror plastered across their faces. Wallis looks pale and sick, his usual Southern charm nowhere to be seen.
Other conference attendees murmur to each other, some discreetly taking photos despite the security guards’ best efforts to prevent it, because apparently, even murder can’t stop people from updating their social media.
I study their reactions, mentally cataloging who seemsgenuinely upset versus performatively shocked, because if crime shows have taught me anything, it’s that the killer is usually standing right there looking innocent.
Dexter does the same, his gaze methodically sweeping the crowd with the intensity of a detective reading a book written in a language only he understands.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announces, his voice carrying effortlessly over the crowd like he’s got a built-in megaphone. “I’m Detective Drake. I understand this is inconvenient, but I’ll need statements from everyone who attended the reception tonight. No one leaves until they’ve spoken with an officer.”
A collective groan rises from the crowd, the sound of people realizing their evening plans have just been officially ruined by homicide.
“We have rooms available in the castle,” I offer quickly, trying to be helpful while also wondering if offering space for a police investigation counts as good customer service. “The main hall could serve as an interview space.”
“Perfect.” Dexter gives me an appreciative nod, although he still looks pretty irritated by me. “One of my officers will coordinate. Please proceed in an orderly fashion.”
As the crowd begins to file toward the castle like reluctant participants in the world’s most morbid field trip, Ree and Georgie materialize at my side.
“Well,” Georgie sighs, adjusting that Ferris wheel sitting on her head, “this puts a damper on my flirting plans for the evening. Although how about that detective?” She fans herself dramatically and I practically lean in because, let’s face it, I need the air, too.
There’s nothing hotter than a handsome grump packing heat while the siren song of corn dogs vies for my attention.
“There’s only one thing left to do,” Ree declares with grim determination.
“Let the police handle it?” I suggesthopefully.
“No way, Big Red Number Two.” Georgie swats my arm as if I just suggested we launch the cats out of a cannon. “We track down the killer!”
I give a curt nod. “That’s what I was afraid you were going to say.”
Across the courtyard, Detective Drake organizes witness interviews with brisk efficiency, occasionally catching my eye with an unreadable expression. Oh heck, I can read that expression. Everyone here knows exactly what he’s saying.
He’s not looking at me with those smoldering blue eyes in an effort to land me horizontal—but if it moves the case along, who am I to object? He’s looking at me that way because I’m his number one suspect.
My first day as manager may have started with caramel apples and mascots, but it’s ending with a dead critic, a hot detective, and my friends forming a geriatric Scooby gang.
There’s only one way to get myself out from under a murder wrap, and maybe under a hot detective—and that’s by tracking down a killer.
Because Chip might look good in orange, but I certainly don’t.
CHAPTER 9
The Maple Sugar Café on Huckleberry Lane exists in a permanent state of fall—like it signed a lease with autumn and stubbornly refuses to vacate the premises.
Today, Mother Nature decided to match the mood. Crisp air flutters through the door every time it opens, bringing with it the scent of decaying leaves, woodsmoke, and the vague promise of seasonal depression.
Inside, cinnamon-scented warmth wraps around patrons like a weighted blanket in latte form. Edison bulbs dangle from copper fixtures, casting a buttery glow over reclaimed wood tables. Every flat surface brims with fall décor—burlap pumpkins, ceramic squirrels, and maple leaf garlands that look like a craft store exploded with joy.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the vintage mirror hanging beside our table. Crimson hair—shoulder length, wavy, with just enough stubborn gray to screamwisebut whisperstressed. My blue-gray eyes are ringed with exhaustion, my laugh lines have become commitment lines, and my dimples—usually charming—now read more like emotional war wounds. The face staring back at me belongs to someone who found a corpse in a funhouseyesterday and still got out of bed this morning. Possibly a mistake.
