Page 31 of Fish and Chip: Nine Lives One Murder
“To be fair,” Ree offers, “nothing about Georgie has ever been subtle.”
As I rush toward the crustacean calamity unfolding across the path, my mind races through what I’ve learned. Vivian had motive—a jilted fiancée with a long-standing grudge and a career built despite her ex’s sabotage attempts. She had the opportunity—by her own admission, she was at the reception. And her pins—her distinctive, vintagecollectorpins—were found beside Ned’s body like a calling card.
Sometimes the most obvious suspect is the right one—the person with the clearest motive, the means, and the opportunity.
But if that’s the case, why does this feel too easy?
And more importantly, why would Vivian leave her prized pins at the scene, practically leaving her signature at the murder scene?
Unless, of course, someone wanted us to think exactly that—which would make this whole investigation a lot more complicated than a simple case of revenge served cold with a side of safety chain strangulation.
Someone wanted revenge for something.
And they got it.
A scream goes off to my right, then another and another, and sure enough, Georgie Conner is at the nexus of all that terror.
I look over at Fish and Chip and shout, “RUN!”
CHAPTER 11
Ichase after Fish and Chip as they dart through the legs of startled tourists, heading straight for the lobster hut with the kind of single-minded determination usually reserved for caffeine addicts, flash sales, and dogs spotting a squirrel.
The scent of lobster butter hits me in the face like a seductive slap—rich, decadent, and one hundred percent responsible for the crowd forming near the seafood hut. That buttery cloud is layered over crisp leaves, woodsmoke, and the faint whisper of caramel apples wafting from somewhere nearby. It’s peak fall. Picturesque. Wholesome.
Until the screaming starts.
The air is bright with autumn chill and laced with the tinkling of a carousel off in the distance—and it’s cheerful, right up until it’s drowned out by shrieks that could belong to either a roller coaster or people spotting a fresh corpse. Honestly, in this park, it’s a fifty-fifty shot.
I skid to a stop just in time to witness what can only be described as Georgie’s personal crustacean uprising.
She’s perched on a hay bale like Neptune’s deranged little sister, her roller coaster hat tilting dangerously as a live lobsterclings to the brim, its antennae twitching in time with her grand, sweeping gestures.
Tenmorelobsters scuttle across her body like she’s auditioning for a seafood-themed Cirque du Soleil. The crowd around her is shrieking as if she’s set herself on fire—which, given the airborne butter and her penchant for the dramatic, isn’t out of the realm of possibility.
“Georgie!” I yell. “What the in the fresh seafood are you doing?!”
“I’m freeing the poor, huddled underboiled masses!” she bellows, tossing one into the bayou with the form of an Olympic shot putter. “Go, my slippery brethren! Live free, my salty angels, or boil hard!”
“Oh, good grief,” I mutter. But I must say, I admire her devotion to live and let live.
The next lobster flies through the air like a crustacean cannonball, narrowly missing a small child holding a balloon animal shaped like a unicorn. The balloon does not survive.
I’m about to tackle her when a man in a stained apron and a furious expression barrels out of the lobster hut, waving a pair of tongs like castanets.
“Madame!” he bellows. “Those are not yours to liberate! Pierre! Jean-Luc! Come back to Papa!”
Did the chef just admit to giving the lobsters French names?
This is incredible,Chip yowls with wide-eyed excitement.It’s like the sushi buffet came to us!
That lobster had the audacity to pinch at me,Fish huffs.I respect the fight. But I will win.
Meanwhile, Ree sprints toward us, and her face is red with what looks like horror and allergy-induced trauma.
“There’s a rat!” she screams so loud they hear it on Jupiter. “The size of acorgi!”
Well, that is pretty big.
