Page 42 of Fish and Chip: Nine Lives One Murder
We’ve circled back to where we started, near the main entrance. Dexter hesitates, then meets my eyes. “Josie, I know you spoke to Vivian Templeton today.”
My stomach drops faster than a broken elevator. “How— Okay, fine. I may have grilled her. Gently. Like a panini. How did you know?”
“I had an appointment with her right afterward,” he explains, his expression growing serious. “She mentioned she thought she was already grilled for the death of Ned Hollister—by you.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he shakes his head.
“Stay out of my case, Josie,” he says, his voice gentle but firm. “You have enough on your hands with this place. You don’t need any more trouble.” His eyes lock with mine,intense enough to short-circuit my usual deflection systems. “Certainly not from a killer.”
The warning sends a chill through me that has nothing to do with the night air and everything to do with the realization that someone out there has murder on their resume and possibly me on their radar.
As we part ways—him to his sensible sedan that probably has working air conditioning and a radio that plays actual music, me to gather my cats and head back to the inn where I’ll probably lie awake wondering if I’m in over my head—I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve just been issued both a warning and a challenge.
And if there’s one thing my failed marriage taught me, it’s that I’ve never been particularly good at backing down from either—especially when the stakes involve a handsome detective with baby blues and dimples that could melt the ice cream stand from a fifty-foot distance.
Fish licks her paw.So... are we solving this murder or what?
Chip curls around my ankle.Let’s finish the funnel cake first. Then justice.
CHAPTER 15
The back porch of the Country Cottage Inn doesn’t just embrace fall—it wraps it in a plaid blanket and feeds it pie.
Leaves in every hue of fire twist and flutter down to the cove, where they do synchronized swimming routines on the water’s surface.
Somewhere, a pine tree exhales, woodsmoke drifts lazily, and the candles Bizzy arranged on the tables smell so strongly of cinnamon, cloves, and smug fall vibes that I’m shocked an entire flock of influencers hasn’t shown up for a lifestyle shoot.
Heavy plaid blankets drape over Adirondack chairs like fall’s version of a warm hug, while twilight softens the cove in a dreamy golden glow that influencers would commit crimes for. It’s cozy, scenic, and suspiciously peaceful for a day that started with a murder investigation and ended with my cat declaring war.
I cradle a mug of hot apple cider between my palms, the warmth seeping into my fingers as steam rises in ghostly tendrils. A plate of pumpkin cookies sits between Bizzy and me, their edges slightly crisp, their centers still warm and soft. Bizzyhas arranged them in a perfect spiral, because even the baked goods she sells have better organizational skills than most people.
The Country Cottage Café is conjoined to the inn and has a patio that expands onto the sandy cove. And that happens to be the exact location where we are. It’s run by Bizzy’s bestie, Emmie, and she bakes and makes the best sweet and savory treats. At least I won’t starve while I’m staying here.
“So,” Bizzy begins, curling into her chair like a cat about to gossip. “Tell me about the dead guy in your funhouse.”
I choke on my cider. “Wow. Okay. No preamble. We’re just going to cannonball right into the deep end. Most people would lead withhow was your day?”
“Please,” she says, waving a perfectly manicured hand. “I already know how your day was. Corpse? Check. Hot detective with broody vibes? Check. Theme park on the brink of legal collapse? Triple check. This is the deep end. Welivehere.”
I can’t argue with that logic. Not when three animals are having their own meet-and-greet session at our feet. Sherlock, Bizzy’s red and white freckled mutt with the most expressive eyebrows I’ve ever seen on a canine, is giving Fish and Chip a sniff-over worthy of a TSA agent.
So,Sherlock muses with faint disdain,these are the Instagram-famous cats. I’ve read the captions. Saw the filters. Your aesthetic is solid. But internet clout doesn’t solve crimes.Though anyone can become internet famous these days.
Fish sits up straight.We’re not simply internet famous, you freckled oaf. We’re park mascots with a devoted following. We’ve been featured on three local news stations and have a hashtag trending in the greater Maine area.Fish stretches like a feline empress.We have verified social influence and a line of merch coming soon. Also, we apprehended a mouse once. On camera.
There is talk of shirts,Chip adds helpfully.I requested mine be extra soft to emphasize my glorious fur.
Sherlock huffs.Charming. I, however, solve actual mysteries. Not just photobomb cotton candy stands.
“They’re getting along,” I say dryly.
“Like gasoline and fireworks,” Bizzy agrees.
I take another sip of cider, letting the heat settle into my chest like emotional armor. “So, this guy—Ned Hollister—turns out, he was a critic with a talent for torching reputations and a face that said he enjoyed it. I found him in the funhouse. Dead. Strangled. By a safety chain, which is ironic because clearly it wasn’t that safe.”
“That’s certainly one way to kick off your new career,” Bizzy notes.
“I’m aiming for a dramatic first impression in all aspects of my life now. The employment version of go big or go home.” I tell her all about the travel writers’ conference, Ned’s numerous enemies, and the distinctive pins I found near his body.
