Page 59 of Fish and Chip: Nine Lives One Murder
“Well, that was interesting,” I murmur as we watch Wallis disappear into the crowd.
“Very.” Dexter’s gaze follows his retreating form. “He was awfully quick to point the finger at Vivian.”
“While being deliberately vague about his own connection to the park,” I add. “Do you think he’s our guy?”
“He’s definitely hiding something,” Dexter concedes. “But whether it’s murder or just a few family secrets remains to be seen.”
We return to our table, where Fish and Chip have made a valiant effort to appear innocent despite clear evidence of food tampering on both our plates.
The Southern hooman redirected attention to the silver-haired female,Fish reports with clinical precision.Classic predator behavior—create a distraction, then slip away.
He smelled nervous when you mentioned the blueprints,Chip meows.Like burnt toast and secrets. And possibly expensive aftershave trying to cover both.
As we settle back into our seats, Dexter gives me an appraising look. “You handled that well. The question about his family connection caught him off guard.”
“I’ve had practice with deflection artists,” I shrug. “Twenty-five years of marriage to Clyde was basically an advanced degree in detecting bull.”
“So,what’s your take?”
I take a thoughtful sip of my Dragon’s Breath. “Wallis is definitely pursuing his family claim to the park, but murder seems extreme even for inheritance disputes. My money is still on Patty and her pink boots.”
“Speaking of Patty,” Dexter says, “we should compare notes about your conversation with her.”
“I say we compare every note we have on the case.”
He nods and we’re about to do just that.
And somewhere in this enchanted mess, a killer is watching, waiting, and perhaps planning their next move. But I’m ready to write my own ending—preferably one without any more bodies in the funhouse.
CHAPTER 22
Wallis Fulton just disappeared through the grand wooden doors of the Fairy Tale Feast, and the jewel-toned light from the stained-glass windows shifts, landing an amber shadow across our table like we’re about to conduct a séance or maybe summon dessert.
Dexter slides his half-eaten Huntsman’s Platter to the side and pulls out a small leather-bound notebook that looks like it’s seen its share of crime scenes, stakeouts, and possibly a few spilled lattes. His posture straightens, his gaze sharpens, and just like that, lunch-with-a-detective becomes debriefing-with-a-cop.
“So,” he says, flipping open his notebook. “Let’s compare notes.”
“Is this where I officially become your deputy, or are we still pretending I’m not your civilian sidekick with crime-solving swagger?” I ask, nudging aside the remnants of my Rapunzel’s Tower. It has officially collapsed like my patience with suspects.
“Let’s call it a strategic information exchange between a public servant and a concerned citizen.” His lips twitch. “With cats.”
“Speaking of which...” I glance toward Fish and Chip, whohave abandoned all pretense of behaving. Chip’s whiskers glisten with gravy like he’s just returned from a culinary crime scene. Fish delicately grooms a spot of sauce off her paw like she’s cleaning blood evidence from her latest hit.
The culinary evidence has been thoroughly analyzed,Fish declares without a shred of shame.That sausage was ninety-five percent tasty and maybe forty-seven percent actual wild boar. False advertising. Possibly a felony.
The gravy alone is worth three confessions and a plea deal,Chip adds, eyes glazed in bliss.I’d confess to stuff I haven’t even done for another bite.
Dexter slides a napkin toward me as if he’s about to present a case to the FBI. “I find visuals help when organizing suspects.”
I grab a pen from my purse (which also contains a mini flashlight, two granola bars, and a keychain pepper spray that looks like a glitter unicorn) and begin sketching a quick triangle.
“Three points of our murder triangle,” I say. “Vivian, Patty, and Wallis. All with motives, all with opportunity, all suspicious in their own special ways.”
“Let’s start with Vivian Templeton,” Dexter suggests, consulting his notes on his phone. “Former fiancée of the victim, bitter professional rivalry, possible ongoing business conflict based on what Wallis just told us. And also, according to Wallis—a woman with enough grudge potential to fill a landfill.”
“Don’t forget her collection of vintage park pins—two of which somehow ended up next to Ned’s body.” I add this detail to my napkin sketch. “That’s either extremely careless for a murderer or extremely convenient for someone framing her.”
“And I learned her alibi has a gap,” Dexter reveals, tapping his pencil against his notebook. “She claims she was on a conference call with her magazine staff from 8:15 to 9:45, but we can only confirm the call until 8:45. After that, it’s just her word until people saw her again around 9:30.”
