Chapter 2
The second the red light dies, everyone scatters to the refreshment table like seagulls spotting an abandoned sandwich. I pull out my phone to find a text from Dexter that makes me smile despite the chaos.
Dexter: You killed it out there. Clyde looked ready to combust.
I type back.
Josie: Murder on live TV would boost ratings. Should I push him harder?
His response is immediate.
Dexter: Please don’t give my mother any ideas. She’s already taking notes.
I glance over at Delora, who’s indeed scribbling on her clipboard with an intensity that suggests she’s planning a hostile takeover. Or possibly my demise. Hard to tell with her.
The morning sun climbs higher, casting weird shadows through all the fake cobwebs, making everything look like a low-budget horror movie.
The fog machines hiss steadily, adding their artificial mist to the cocktail of coffee fumes and pumpkin spice everything.
Behind the barriers, tourists are gathering like vultures with their phones out and held high, most likely posting the drama in real-time.
The crew adjusts equipment while trying to pretend they’re not watching the impending explosion between the hosts.
This is better than that time you caught the raccoon stealing from the cotton candy machine, Fish mewls from her throne, her tail swishing with glee.
That raccoon had style, though, Chip counters. Remember? He wore a popcorn bucket on his head like a crown. It was very dapper. Also, that makes me a trendsetter.
Fish flicks her tail at him. Focus, Chip. The hoomans are about to provide quality entertainment.
Right, Chip mewls. We’re on murder watch. Got it.
I make a face. Speaking of murder watch, I should probably let Dexter know that I smell trouble, and trouble just so happens to smell a lot like homicide.
Duffy, the hot skillet, hot sidewalk, hot whatever director, approaches our group looking like he’d rather be doing literally anything else.
“Josie,” he grouses out my name like an expletive, “let me formally introduce you to the Morning Coffee & Chaos team—”
“This is an ambush!” Cooter explodes, his backward cap nearly flying off as he charges this way. “It’s a calculated assault on my mental well-being! You can’t just spring Willow on me like some kind of emotional jack-in-the-box! Someone is going to pay with their life for this!”
Georgie, Ree, Savvy, and I all recoil in horror. Delora looks oddly pleased by the outburst.
Murder incoming, Chip muses, and I hate it when he’s right.
Duffy leans my way. “Willow Lovejoy is Cooter’s ex-wife.
He cheated on her with a twenty-six-year-old named Sassy Shug—yes, that’s her real name.
Willow wrote a tell-all book about the affair and became a lifestyle guru.
And now she’s got an army of women who hang on her every word about empowerment and fresh starts.
” He straightens. “It sure is great for ratings.”
“So you’re using their divorce for entertainment,” I say.
“I’m using their divorce for good entertainment,” he corrects.
Duffy expands his smile our way as if Cooter hasn’t just exploded like a shaken soda bottle. “As I was saying—”
Clyde staggers over, his face still purple from the last segment, as he points hard at Duffy. “You made me look like a fool on live television!”
Georgie snorts. “You didn’t need any help in that department, hotshot. You’re a natural.”
I nod her way because he sort of is.
“Oh, honey.” Savvy belts out a laugh—and even her laugh sounds Southern. “You were like a self-lighting dumpster fire. So very efficient!”
“I should sue you all!” Clyde gags and sputters. He points hard at Duffy, who remains cool as a cucumber. I’m guessing this kind of red-carpet road rage treatment comes with the territory when you’re in charge.
“Sue us for what?” I growl at my slimy ex. “Telling the truth? I’m pretty sure that’s still legal in Maine.”
Cooter buries his face in his hands. “Why didn’t you tell me that my ex was coming? We agreed to the standard silent treatment until the lawyers figured out who gets the boat!”
Duffy finally acknowledges him with the enthusiasm usually reserved for reading junk mail.
“I wanted your natural reaction. It makes for good television. Besides, we were just at the Storytime Bake Shop having a quick bite, discussing the segment flow. She’s already here and already prepared. Get used to it.”
Something about the casual way he drops this information makes my radar ping. Quick bite? Or a quick plotting session?
“You wanted my natural reaction?” Cooter’s voice rises to a pitch that makes nearby dogs concerned. “I’ll show you natural! How about a natural fist to your natural face sound?”
“Gentlemen!” Delora’s voice cuts through the chaos like a blade through warm butter. “Everyone, grab a pumpkin spice latte and compose yourselves. We’re professionals.” She says professionals the way other people say barely functioning adults.
The entire group gravitates toward the refreshment table like moths to a caffeinated flame.
It’s a ballet of reaching hands, bumping elbows, and passive-aggressive maneuvering.
Everyone is grabbing for a mug to call their own because Savvy’s pretty pumpkin spice lattes with their whipped cream towers and cinnamon sprinkles look too good to resist.
Clyde, apparently deciding to play nice, hands Duffy a mug with a smile sharp enough to slit someone’s throat. “Here. Consider it a peace offering.”
Cooter immediately intervenes. “He probably poisoned it. Take mine instead.” He shoves his mug at Duffy.
Duffy snatches the cup of java out of Cooter’s hand with a look of exasperation.
“Now HE probably poisoned it!” Clyde chuckles, grabbing a third mug from the table.
“Oh, for the love of—” Crystal starts.
“This one is safe,” a woman says, appearing from nowhere with another mug. Her caramel blonde hair catches the light, and her dark red lipstick screams nostalgia and confidence. A gold chain around her neck holds a pendant that reads Willow in fancy script. “I just poured it myself.”
So this is the famous Willow Lovejoy. The woman who turned her cheating husband into a bestseller and a lifestyle brand. I can see why she has an army of followers—there’s something magnetic about her, even in the middle of a coffee cup crisis.
She’s got warm brown eyes, a smile that manages to be both genuine and camera-ready, and a face that looks approachable despite being perfectly put together. Her fitted blazer over dark jeans screams successful but relatable.
“Accepting coffee from her is even worse!” Cooter shouts. “This woman still sends me invoices for the supposed emotional damage I’ve done to her! You think she won’t poison me? She’s been planning my demise since I mentioned Sassy’s name!”
“Boys, it’s just coffee!” Crystal protests.
Duffy grabs a mug and chugs it. “There. Happy? And can we please get back to work before I fire you all?”
Someone is definitely getting murdered now, Chip meows with the certainty of a cat who’s seen too many crime scenes. I can smell it in the air.
That’s maple bacon, Fish corrects.
Drama donuts! Chip yowls with glee. Even better. Hey, is that director’s face supposed to be that color?
I’m pretty sure an angry shade of red is just his color.
We all rush back to our positions as the crew signals thirty seconds to air. Clyde straightens his tie, transforming back into his television persona with disturbing ease.
“And now,” he announces with artificial enthusiasm that makes my teeth hurt, “please welcome lifestyle guru and best-selling author, Willow Lovejoy!”
Willow walks onto the set with total self-assurance, clearly comfortable in her own skin—and the fact she’s about to eviscerate her cheating ex.
She has on clothes that look expensive but not intimidating, a body that says I work out, but I also eat pizza, and a smile that makes you feel like you’re already friends. She feels like everyone’s successful sister who actually wants you to succeed, too.
“Oh my gosh, Cooter!” she exclaims, her voice warm but with a faux surprised edge that feels decidedly hostile. “Look at you, still rocking the backwards cap like it’s 1999 and we’re all pretending Y2K might actually happen!”
A few people from the peanut gallery laugh hard at that one. On second thought, it’s just Georgie.
Savvy grabs my arm. “I love this woman so much! She got me through a few breakups with her posts about finding yourself after betrayal. She’s like... if your best friend became famous but stayed normal—and really knew how to slice up an ex.”
I have to admit, there’s something genuine about Willow that’s unexpected. And the fact that she could help you take down your ex like a scorned ninja is a total plus.
Cooter’s face turns red as she settles into the interview chair.
“You know,” Willow continues, addressing the camera like she’s talking to an old friend over coffee, “breaking up is like trying to separate two pieces of paper that got glued together—you’re going to lose some pieces, but at least you’re free, right?”
“Bless her heart, she’s got more wisdom than a church full of grandmas,” Savvy whispers, clutching my arm. “I’d follow that woman into battle armed with nothing but a wooden spoon and a teacup filled to the brim with whiskey.”
I nod. “I’d follow her for the whiskey alone.”
Willow takes a moment to shoot Cooter a dark smile before nodding into the camera.
“Ladies, in my book, I talk about finding out your husband is cheating. It’s like discovering your favorite restaurant has been serving you frozen dinners the whole time.
The betrayal is unimaginable! Chapter three is about when I found out about the waitress at that biker bar—what was it called?
” She narrows her eyes on the louse among us—one of them, at least. “Hogs and Kisses?” Willow lifts a brow.
Wow, if looks could kill. Willow nods. “The woman’s name was Sassy Shug. ”
She pauses, shaking her head with genuine amusement. “Sassy. Shug. It’s like the universe was testing me. How do you tell your mother-in-law that her son left you for someone who sounds like a rejected country music stage name?”
The audience behind the barriers is eating this up. Even some of the crew are nodding along and laughing.
Cooter growls, his face turning a scary shade of purple. “I think this has gone too—”
“But here’s the thing,” Willow interrupts, her voice garnering the rhythm of a motivational speaker, “getting cheated on is like getting food poisoning from your favorite restaurant. Sure, it’s awful, and you’ll probably cry on the bathroom floor later, but eventually you realize there are other restaurants.
Better restaurants.” She levels Cooter with a lethal look.
“Restaurants that won’t give you emotional salmonella. ”
A round of oohs goes off, mine being the loudest.
She’s right. Clyde is definitely emotional salmonella.
“The best part?” She’s clearly on a roll now.
“Finding those secret text messages was like opening a surprise bill—horrifying but also weirdly validating because at least I knew I wasn’t losing my mind!
Working late meant teaching Sassy how to make a proper Manhattan at two in the morning.
” She growls at the guilty party. “Apparently, that’s a very hands-on process. ”
Cooter makes a strangled noise that might be an attempt at words.
“But you know what?” she continues. “I turned it into something positive. Like composting. You take all that garbage and turn it into something that helps things grow. My book, my platform, my whole new life—it’s all fertilized by his bull!
” She points hard at her ex, and the crowd lights up with applause.
Savvy whispers, “See? She makes betrayal sound like a business opportunity. The woman is pure genius.”
I have to agree. There’s something weirdly empowering about her approach. Like maybe getting cheated on is just life’s way of clearing out space for better things. I’m completely on board when it comes to cleaning Clyde out of my life, no matter what it takes.
“And Cooter,” Willow adds with a genuine smile, “I really do wish you well. Just like I wish mosquitoes well—far away from me, living their best life somewhere else. Preferably with Sassy Shug, who I hear is just as bloodsucking and twice as disease-ridden. The two of you deserve each other!”
Duffy coughs into his hand. Clearly, he’s not amused at the hostile turn things have taken. But, really? Anyone with eyeballs and a heart could have seen where that was headed.
He coughs again. This time, far louder, and far more violent. At first, it seems like he’s trying to signal for a commercial break, but the coughing only intensifies. He stumbles onto the set, clutching his throat and his eyes wide with panic.
“Can’t—” he gasps, staggering forward.
He points an accusatory finger at Willow, who leans back in shock. Then his arm swings wildly toward Clyde, who looks as if he’s been slapped. Finally, desperately, he staggers toward me and points at Cooter before his legs give out entirely.
Duffy Banks collapses face-down at my feet, creating a perfect, tragic watercooler moment for the still-rolling cameras.
For a moment, nobody moves. Then Clyde drops to his knees—showing off his first aid knowledge for the cameras or actually trying to help, I can’t tell—and checks for a pulse.
He looks up, shaking his head grimly. “He’s gone.”
Crystal screams.
Willow jumps out of her chair, her relatable persona cracking. “Is this—is this really happening?”
Cooter stands frozen, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.
As if on cue, my phone buzzes. It’s a text from you-know-who.
Dexter: Already on my way.
I look at the body, the suspects, and the cameras still capturing every second of this disaster.
Here we go again, Fish sighs with the resignation of a cat who’s seen too much. At least this time we have decent refreshments.
Dibs on his portion of the breakfast buffet, Chip adds, because priorities are priorities, even during a homicide.
Welcome to Morning Coffee & Chaos, where the chaos just got real.
Duffy won’t have to worry about inciting the fury of his hosts anymore.
Duffy Banks is dead.