Page 4 of Fish and Chip: Nine Lives One Murder
My heart skips several beats, possibly attempting a gymnastic routine—and let’s be honest, it’s not built for that. The elegant foyer of the Country Cottage Inn suddenly feels about as spacious as a phone booth, and the sunlight streaming through the windows has gone from golden and welcoming to bright as an interrogation room. Even the cinnamon-scented air is turning on me, going straight for the throat like an aromatic assassin.
Bizzy gives a curt nod my way. “I mean it, I know exactly what’s going on here.”
I force out a laugh that sounds like a squirrel caught in a paper shredder. “Going on? Nothing’s going on. Just your garden-variety emotionally wrecked woman with spectacularly poor taste in husbands looking for a soft place to land. Possibly involving donuts. Maybe a little reinvention. Definitely not day drinking.” More like definitelymaybeday drinking.
Bizzy’s eyes narrow with the precision of a detective who’s just spotted the smoking gun. Her gaze bounces from Chip to Fish and then back to me like she’s watching a feline ping-pongmatch. “You can read the minds of animals. Can you read the minds of humans, too?”
That hits like a bucket of ice dumped down my back.
I grab her arm and tug her a few steps away, tossing a glance toward Ree and Georgie, who are currently locked in mortal combat over whether the front desk floral arrangement needs water or an exorcism.
“No, I can’t read people’s minds. But how do you?—”
“I’m transmundane—telesensual to be exact. And that’s what you are, too.” She delivers this information with the casual tone of a woman discussing the weather rather than revealing that we’re both members of some supernatural club I didn’t know existed.
My jaw drops so fast I’m amazed it doesn’t create a small crater in the polished floor. Far too many decades of thinking I either had a gift, a curse, or a very niche brain tumor—and suddenly there’s a label for it. Not just any label, but one that sounds like it should come with its own pharmaceutical commercial featuring people running through wheat fields while listing alarming side effects.
“Transmundane? Telesensual?” I repeat, like I’m trying out expensive cheeses. “My great-aunt called it the affliction. She said it ran in the family along with wide feet and a tendency to overwater plants. So… you can readpeople’sminds, too?”
“Not everyone. Not all the time,” Bizzy says with a shrug. “People are messy. Animals are easier—less drama, more honesty, fewer issues with mothers-in-law.”
My mind races faster than Chip when he hears the can opener, which is saying something because that cat can achieve near supersonic speeds when food is involved. “This is incredible. I’ve never met anyone else who?—”
“Not many people know,” Bizzy cuts in, glancing toward Ree and Georgie. “And as far as those two go, my mother doesn’t know butGeorgie does.”
I look over at Georgie just in time to catch her giving me a sly wink. The kind that says,Oh, honey, I’ve been three steps ahead of you since Tuesday.Suddenly, all her snarky one-liners take on a new, mind-reading edge.
Perfect. Another mind reader. Just what this place needed.Fish grumbles with her whiskers twitching forward.
What is this, Oprah’s Psychic Giveaway?Chip muses.You get to be a mind reader. And YOU get to be a mind reader!Everyone gets a mental meltdown!
Calm down,Fish purrs.It’s not like you’re hiding anything juicy. I bet your most scandalous thought is whether or not to nap in the sunbeam or on Josie’s freshly folded laundry.
I really hate it when he does that. I’ve had his fur in places fur doesn’t belong.
Chip grunts at the tiny feline by his side.Listen up, Fish Stick, I’ll have you know I have complex, sophisticated thoughts.His orange fur bristles slightly.Multitudes of them.
More like multitudes of snack crumbs and delusion,Fish shoots back.
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. Bizzy notices and grins.
“Please excuse her,” she says. “Fish thinks she’s the feline version of a TED Talk.”
Fish yowls in offense.
“And Chip thinks he’s the Duke of Huckleberry Hollow,” I add. “His Majesty would prefer Your Floofiness. We’re currently working on humility.”
“Good luck with that.” She laughs. “I’ve had better success teaching quantum physics to squirrels, and trust me, squirrels are terrible at math.”
We share a laugh that feels like the beginning of a secret handshake society I didn’t know I wanted to join.
“Come on,” Bizzy says, reaching for my suitcase with the efficiency of an innkeeper who’s clearly handled her share of emotional refugees. “Let me get you settled. You’ve had quitethe day already, and something tells me this is just the pre-show.”
We head up the grand staircase, the cats trailing behind like royalty inspecting their summer estate. Each stair creaks with old-house charm—or maybe a warning.
This staircase is an insult to creatures with refined physiques,Chip meows, pausing on the stairs to lick one paw with all the drama he can afford.Some of us have short legs and excess fluff. This is architectural discrimination. We demand a ramp. Or a snack. Or both.
“You could stand to lose a pound or ten,” I mutter.
