Page 1 of Fish and Chip: Nine Lives One Murder
CHAPTER 1
Sunlight filters through crimson and gold leaves, throwing autumn confetti all over my windshield like nature’s way of saying,Congratulations, you wrecked your life!
In this case, nature wouldn’t be wrong.
I’ve been on the road for six hours with nothing but my regrets, a cat who judges my life choices—AKA my feline therapist who moonlights as a judgy roommate—and a playlist so drenched in heartbreak it might qualify as emotional waterboarding.
The soft strumming of acoustic guitars fades as I turn down the volume, letting in a rush of crisp September air that smells like turning leaves and fresh starts I didn’t ask for.
“Almost there, Chip,” I lie to the orange fluffy feline next to me for the seventeenth time, and he flicks one ear without turning his head. Translation:liar, liar, leggings on fire.He stretches dramatically, like he just survived a treacherous journey instead of napping through rural Maine. Then he shoots me a look that could curdle oat milk. His green eyes gleam with the judgment usually reserved for baristas when you mispronounce macchiato.
You’re fooling no one, lady,he meows loud and clear.
To say Chip is hard to please is like saying gas station sushi is a gamble. Unless food is involved, he thinks most things—and most people—are beneath him. And most of the time, he’s right.
It’s about time you left that cheating hairball of a husband,Chip mewls my way.I never did care for him. His cologne made my whiskers itch, and he always claimed to be allergic to cats when we both knew he was just jealous I got more of your attention than he did.
“Is that so?” I say, giving him a hearty scratch behind the ears. “And here I thought you two had a beautiful bromance going.”
Please. The man wore sandals with socks. I have standards.
“Your standards involve licking your rear end and eating off the floor.”
Both are still more dignified than Clyde’s yoga pants.Those things were a crime against spandex.They left nothing to the imagination, and believe me, my imagination was perfectly content without the visual.
“Touché.”
When I was six, I fell down the stairs at Grandma’s and walked away with a mild concussion and a highly specific side effect—I can hear what animals are thinking.
Some days it’s a blessing. Other times it’s like tuning into a late-night talk show where all the guests are unfiltered and covered in fur. Buttoday it’s exactly the emotional support I need.
I turn onto a long, winding driveway and the Country Cottage Inn materializes before me like something from a storybook with its ivy-draped white walls, bright blue shutters, and a wraparound porch that looks like it belongs in a coffee commercial. And how I hope they have lots and lots of complimentary coffee. And I mean the good stuff. Although right about now, the not-so-good stuff doesn’t sound so bad either.
It’s disgustingly perfect. And I’m a little mad about it.
The cobblestones crunch under my tires as I park, and once I swing open my door, the breeze brings the scent of apple orchards and sea salt. The place radiates autumn charm so hard I’m surprised there aren’t pumpkin spice lattes growing on trees.
It doesn’t hurt that the place sits right up against the cove as well, and I take a moment to soak in the sparkling waters of the Atlantic. In the distance, seagulls call to each other—probably gossiping about the new redhead pulling up with a disgruntled orange cat.
“Homesweettemporary home,” I mutter, resisting the urge to sob into the steering wheel.
Fun fact: the inn is a whopping eighteen minutes from the house I’ve called home for twenty-five years back in Huckleberry Hollow. I just took a scenic six-hour route of aimless driving, hoping the extra mileage would come with an epiphany and help me figure out the rest of my life. Spoiler alert: it didn’t. All I got was a check engine light, questionable gas station sushi, and the realization that even my GPS thinks I’m making poor life decisions.Recalculating, indeed.”
Chip grunts as he surveys the inn.It looks less like home and more like a luxury time-out. With tuna, I hope.
“Yes, there will be tuna,” I promise. “And if not, we’ll circle back to the gas station of regret.”
With what’s left of my dignity and an overpacked suitcase, I scoop Chip into my arms, and, of course, he endures it with the put-upon expression of a monarch forced to fly coach.
The massive wooden doors to the inn swing open with surprising ease, unleashing a wave of warm, cinnamon-laced air that hits me like a hug from a seasonal overachiever. It smells like someone tried to bake their way out of an emotional breakdown, and I respect that since I’m having an emotional breakdown myself.
The tension in my shoulders begins to uncoil as I take in the distressed gray wooden floors, rich mahoganywainscoting, and grand staircase winding up to the second level that looks straight out ofGone with the Wind.
There’s a polished marble counter with a black and white tabby contentedly perched upon it, and behind the gleaming marble reception counter, three familiar faces freeze once they spot me, and suddenly I’m remembering why I loved this place before my life became a country song.
The three women all gasp in unison as if I just walked in wearing a wedding dress and wielding a chainsaw.
“Josie?Josie Janglewood?” Ree Baker’s feathered red hair bounces as her head snaps up. She’s about my age, somewhere in her fifties, and our kids all went to the same schools while they were growing up, albeit hers were a touch older than mine. “Is that really you?”
