Page 61 of Fish and Chip: Nine Lives One Murder
“No vegetables. Mild whimsy. And it’s cat-inclusive.”
I jot it down with enthusiasm. “Congratulations. You’re now officially a marketing consultant.”
“My mother will be thrilled.”
I pull out my phone and make a note of the name, already envisioning the banners and marketing materials. “Detective Dexter, I believe you’ve just saved me from the embarrassment of the Autumn Antics Parade. The park’s marketing department thanks you. That would be me.”
“Always happy to assist with crime-adjacent naming crises. I hope it goes well.”
“Oh, no you don’t. The parade is Sunday at noon. The entire town turns out for it, plus tourists. It’s one of the biggest events of the season.” Okay, so I just made that last part up. “You named the parade. You need to be there. Officially for security purposes, or unofficially for the cotton candy. Your choice.”
A brief shadow of professional consideration crosses his face before his expression softens. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
“It’s going to be perfect,” I lie through my teeth. “Though I make no promises about being able to prevent my friend Georgie from adding a parade float to her hat collection.”
He nods. “I understand some forces of nature can’t be contained. Even by law enforcement.”
We’re mid-eye flirt when Sir Lancelot appears, glowing with medieval cheer.
“Pardon me, noble guests! Might I immortalize your merriment with aportrait?”
“You mean take our picture?” I ask.
“Indeed! For the royal gallery!”
Dexter and I exchange glances—half-amused, half-awkward—before I shrug and hand over my phone. We shift closer together, Fish arranging herself regally on the table between us while Chip flops onto his back in an apparent attempt to showcase his fluffy belly to maximum advantage. I can’t blame him. It is adorable.
Dexter’s arm rests casually on the back of my chair—not quite touching me, but close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from him. Professional distance with just a hint of something more.
“Say dragon’s breath!” Sir Lancelot instructs, before clicking like mad.
The resulting photo captures a moment of genuine connection amid the absurdity—Dexter looking surprisingly relaxed, me with color in my cheeks that has nothing to do with the drinks, Fish posed like royalty, and Chip flopped over and showing off his belly as if he were auditioning for a cat calendar.
I glance at the image and, on impulse, upload it to my family group chat. The response is nearly instantaneous.
McKenna: OMG MOM!!! You and Detective Dimples?!? I think he’s getting hotter! You SLAY!!!
Riley: MOM! I need all the details ASAP!!!
Then, with predictable timing, Clyde’s message appears.
Clyde: Moving on rather quickly, aren’t we? What happened to taking time to process our marriage?
Dexter catches my smile. “Good news?”
“Ex-husband jealousy. It’s like dessert but pettier.”
He pays the bill before I can argue. “Park managers can’t expense dates.”
“Neither can homicide detectives,” I point out.
“Consider it a professional deduction.”
We rise. Our fingers brush and I don’t look away.
“I’ll let you know if anything develops,” he says.
“And I’ll be watching,” I reply. “This park’s secrets have secrets.”
