Chapter 6
The morning segment wraps with all the grace of a drunk giraffe on roller skates, which is still a notch better than yesterday’s murder-interrupted broadcast.
The crew starts packing equipment while tourists gather behind the barriers with their phones out, desperate for selfies with the now-famous feline stars.
Georgie scoops up Chip with the confidence of a woman who’s wrangled bigger problems. “Come on, superstar. Let’s go show you off to your adoring public.”
Finally, Fish says as Bizzy lifts her. A crowd with taste. I’ll allow a limited number of photos—flattering angles only.
Do they have snacks? Chip asks, already scanning the horizon in hopes of a churro. Tourist snacks. The overpriced kind that taste like poor decisions. People see me and immediately start offering things.
They’re trying to distract you, Fish says. It rarely works.
It always works, Chip says. I’m very persuasive.
You’re very hungry, Fish corrects. There’s a difference.
I’m fluffy, Chip insists.
You’re committed, Fish says.
The cast and crew descend on the craft services table like vultures who’ve been on a juice cleanse.
Crystal snaps up anything labeled gluten-free while lecturing anyone within earshot about the benefits of clean eating.
Willow calmly selects items while texting with one hand, apparently capable of multitasking even during post-murder chaos.
In the corner, Delora is double-fisting churros—maple bacon in one hand, apple cider in the other—looking as if she’s having a religious experience. And she so is.
“This way,” Dexter says, his interrogation voice fully engaged as he leads Clyde and me to a weathered picnic table that’s seen better decades.
“Are we shaking down our first suspect?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood that’s heavier than Chip after Thanksgiving.
Dexter looks directly at Clyde. “That we are.”
“I don’t want to be manhandled by your supposed fling,” Clyde grumbles, straightening his tie as if it’s armor against the impending shakedown.
“This isn’t a fling,” Dexter says flatly.
Clyde lets out a laugh that sounds like a seal choking. “I knew a man of his caliber wouldn’t be interested in you, Josie. He’s clearly just being polite—”
“Josie and I are exclusive.” Dexter’s voice could freeze fire.
I gasp so hard I’m positive I’ve just inhaled every mosquito in the state of Maine.
My heart does something acrobatic and potentially lethal in my chest. “We are?”
He nods once, all business, but there’s something in his eyes that makes my knees weak.
“You’re kidding,” Clyde sputters.
“We’re serious. This is going places.” Dexter doubles down.
I gasp once again, secretly hoping places doesn’t mean the county jail.
Because let’s face it—if one more corpse turns up at my park, Dexter might start questioning my motives.
I did once joke about doing anything to increase sales, and heaven knows the murder rate has been great for foot traffic.
Yesterday’s crowd was our biggest Monday in October ever.
Which is a horrible thing to think, but also factually accurate. And hey, someone around here has to pay the bill, and that someone is me.
“Let’s talk about your relationship with Duffy Banks.” Dexter pulls out his phone to take notes.
“We had a professional relationship,” Clyde says, which is obviously a lie because Clyde doesn’t know what professional means.
Dexter lifts a brow. “Professional enough that you threatened to kill him on live television?”
“That was hyperbole!”
“Was sleeping with Crystal Wigglebottom also hyperbole?” Dexter doesn’t let up, and I spontaneously applaud.
Clyde’s face turns interesting colors. “How did you—”
“You just told me,” Dexter says calmly. “So you transitioned from podcasts to morning shows to follow your new girlfriend?”
I roll my eyes at the thought of Clyde being committed to anyone.
“It was a career advancement opportunity that happened to align with my personal life,” Clyde says, using the kind of corporate speak that makes my soul roll its eyes, too.
“You cheated on the woman you cheated on me with,” I observe. “At least you’re consistent.”
“It’s not cheating if you’re exploring authentic connections,” Clyde protests.
I nod. “That’s literally what cheating is.”
“You wouldn’t understand.” He’s quick to discount me. “You’ve never experienced a passion that transcends traditional boundaries—”
“I experienced it when I found you transcending boundaries with your yoga instructor.”
Dexter clears his throat. “Back to Duffy. You seemed upset with him yesterday, Clyde. Mind telling me why?”
Clyde points at me as if I’m evidence in a crime. “She’s why! Duffy turned what should have been a brief introduction into a deep-dive exposé of my personal failures! He made me look like a two-timing scoundrel!”
“If the imitation Italian loafer fits,” I tell him.
“Duffy humiliated me on live television,” Clyde continues. “He demanded that I read those cue cards about being a cheater. It was character assassination!”
“Your character offed itself years ago,” I mutter.
Wait a minute. Something clicks in my brain like a puzzle piece finding a nice, comfy home.
“Hey…” I inch back to get a better look at Dexter. “You wouldn’t be grilling suspects if this weren’t officially a murder case,” I say, straightening. “What did the coroner say?”
Dexter tips his head toward me with what might be approval. “You are good.”
“Get on with it, would you?” Clyde groans.
Dexter nods. “Toxicology found excessive levels of potassium cyanide in his system.”
Clyde and I gasp in unison, the most we’ve agreed on anything in years.
“You poisoned him!” I point at Clyde.
“I did not!” He points back.
“I saw you all switching those pumpkin spice lattes,” I insist. “You handed him one!”
“That’s because I thought Cooter was going to poison him!”
We both gasp again. This is really turning into a respiratory workout.
“Why would Cooter want to poison Duffy?” Dexter asks, his voice dangerously calm.
“For the same reason Clyde threatened him,” I answer. “Because Duffy was about to showcase his ex-wife on the show.”
“What she said,” Clyde agrees, the first time those words have ever left his mouth in reference to me.
“I guess I’m talking to Cooter next,” Dexter says.
“No, you’re not.” Clyde shakes his head. “As soon as they yelled cut, he took off faster than me, leaving our marriage. He can’t stand being near Willow. He said something about her voice triggering his fight-or-flight response, and flight won.”
Dexter frowns toward the set. “What about the ex-wife?”
“Willow Lovejoy,” I supply helpfully.
“Thank you.” Dexter takes a moment to smile at me. “I’m familiar with her.”
“She’s here somewhere,” Clyde grouses. “She’s supposed to tape segments for later in the week.
Ask your battle-axe stunt coordinator over there.
” He glares at Delora, who’s now moved on to sampling what looks to be pumpkin bread while still holding churro remnants.
I can’t blame her. Savvy’s treats really are that good.
Dexter growls at Clyde. “That battle-axe would be my mother.”
“That explains a lot. If you’ll excuse me,” Clyde stands, brushing imaginary and very real cat hair from his jacket, “I need to go fumigate myself and possibly burn these clothes. Your demon cat probably gave me fleas. Or rabies. Or both.”
“Chip is vaccinated and perfect in every way,” I call after him.
“Perfect at being a menace!” he shouts back before disappearing toward the parking lot, covered in enough cat hair to construct a decent toupee.
“So, what’s next?” I ask Dexter, trying not to focus on how good he looks when he’s in detective mode, and perhaps slightly frustrated with me and my theme park.
He turns to me with an expression that makes my stomach do things that should be illegal in public. “I’ve got a hot date with my girlfriend.”
The way he says it, serious with no smile, makes me want to climb him like Chip climbed Clyde’s head just a few glorious minutes ago.
“Let’s go hunt down Cooter’s ex,” he continues, offering me his hand.
“Now that’s my kind of hot date,” I say with a devious grin.
Willow Lovejoy, here we come.
As we walk toward the set, I can’t help but notice how natural this feels—investigating a murder with my boyfriend. My exclusive boyfriend, who just admitted that he thinks this is going places.
I just hope those places include dinner dates and not crime scenes. Though given my track record, it’ll probably be both.
“Stop overthinking,” Dexter murmurs, apparently reading my mind.
“I’m not overthinking.”
“You’re overthinking so loud I can hear it.”
“That’s not a thing.” Unless your name is Bizzy.
“With you it is.” He squeezes my hand. “Relax. We’re going to solve this murder, save your park’s reputation, and then have a normal date.”
“Define normal.”
“No corpses.”
“You say that like it’s an achievement.”
“Welcome to dating in Huckleberry Hollow,” he says, and despite everything—the murder, the investigation, my ex-husband’s existence—I laugh.
Because he’s right. This is my life now. Murder investigations, hot, exclusive boyfriends, and a theme park that attracts corpses like Chip attracts chaos.
And the cinnamon rolls are to die for.