Chapter 9
Crystal fled the scene faster than my ex-husband from responsibility, and Cooter was still missing in action, most likely hiding from his ex-wife’s truth bombs.
Dexter headed back to his office after asking me to dinner, and I suggested meeting at seven in Wild Adventures Hollow, because nothing says romance like animatronic monkeys and fake thunder.
The Magic and Mascots Parade has just wrapped up, leaving a trail of glitter and exhausted children in its wake.
I deposited Fish and Chip at their photo station—a decommissioned safari truck propped on cinderblocks, painted to look like it survived a tiger attack but probably just survived our maintenance budget.
The line for selfies with the cats is wrapped halfway around the hollow as tourists clutch their phones like pilgrims approaching a shrine.
This is degrading, Fish announces from her perch on the truck’s hood. Safari cats? We’re crime-fighting felines, not theme park props!
I feel like a tiger! Chip attempts a roar that sounds more like a squeaky toy. Did that sound fierce? I bet I look magnificent. Like a lion! A fluffy orange lion who enjoys naps and tuna!
Fish swipes a paw his way. You look like a pumpkin someone left out past Halloween.
That’s rude, Chip chuffs. And maybe accurate. But still rude.
The Canopy Cantina, our jungle-themed restaurant, tries very hard to convince you you’re dining in the rather than coastal Maine.
Fake vines drape from the ceiling, twinkle lights pretend to be fireflies, and every ten minutes, a thunderstorm, complete with sound effects and a little strategic mist, makes everyone briefly question their reality.
For Halloween, they’ve added skeleton explorers tangled in the vines and zombie parrots that screech at random intervals, because nothing says let’s eat like undead birds.
The scent of grilled steaks mingles with something vaguely tropical—probably the mango salsa that Savvy insists belongs on everything now. The background soundtrack of wild animals howling and screeching is only partly mechanical. The rest is Fish expressing her opinions about this assignment.
Dexter walks in, and every woman in the vicinity does a double take in his direction.
I can’t blame them, what with all that dark hair, the storm blue eyes that could melt steel, and a jawline that looks like it was carved by someone who understood their assignment.
His body fills out that button-down shirt in ways that should be illegal, all lean muscle and the kind of shoulders built for pulling people close—or pinning suspects against walls.
My heart does that annoying flutter thing it’s been doing lately whenever he’s around, and I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one having that reaction.
He kisses my cheek, and I can’t help myself. “Wow, first we’re exclusive, now a kiss on the cheek? Let’s see what else you can do to set the mood.” I give a little wink. “Maybe hold my hand? It’s scandalous, I know.”
“I can move faster if you’d prefer,” he says, his voice low enough to make me reconsider every decision that didn’t involve climbing him like a tree.
I swallow audibly. “We should maybe stick to slow and steady. Like solving murders. Speaking of which...”
We settle at a table with a perfect view of the cats’ photo station, where Fish is now posing like Victorian royalty while Chip appears to be attempting yoga.
“The menu is Savvy’s masterwork,” I tell him. “Comfort food dressed up for a jungle adventure. No foam or molecular anything, just good food with creative names and presentations that make you want to order everything.”
“This is incredible,” Dexter says, scanning the options. “When did the food here become actual food?”
“About three days ago. Savvy’s a miracle worker with aggressive opinions about flavor profiles.”
He orders the predator’s prime cut—a ribeye with chimichurri that could make vegetarians reconsider their culinary restrictions, served with plantain chips and black bean mash.
I go for the rainforest rendezvous—chicken and shrimp skewers with mango salsa that Savvy promises will change your life or at least your evening, alongside coconut rice and grilled pineapple.
“Speaking of women with opinions,” Dexter says as we wait, “thoughts on Willow?”
“Besides her ability to demolish desserts like Chip at an all-you-can-eat buffet?” I pull out my phone. “I downloaded both of her books. Just Do It apparently revolutionized millions of procrastinators’ lives with its secret formula.”
“What’s the secret?”
“You’ll have to wade through three hundred pages of motivational padding to find out, but spoiler alert—I skipped to the end. The secret is literally just do it. That’s it. Three words stretched into a bestseller.”
Dexter raises a brow. “That’s pretty anticlimactic.”
“The publishers probably thought so, too, hence the padding. The other book reads like someone’s divorce papers got drunk and wrote a memoir. It’s bitter, hilarious, and legally questionable. I enjoyed every bitter word.”
“She seemed pretty convinced Cooter did it,” Dexter notes.
“She painted a compelling picture. The panic, the coffee cup juggling, the history of dramatic overreactions. Plus, he fled the scene today. That’s not exactly the behavior of an innocent man.”
“Or it’s exactly what an innocent person who’s terrified of his ex-wife would do.”
“True,” I say. “But Willow had access to those mugs, too. And she admitted to beating Cooter with a toilet plunger once. That’s a pretty specific level of rage.”
“Toilet plunger rage versus cyanide poisoning.” Dexter tips his head. “That might be a different kind of anger.”
“Exactly. One is impulsive; the other requires planning,” I say. “And she had plenty of time to plan if she knew he’d be here all week.”
He nods. “So was she stress eating or celebrating?”
“That is the question,” I counter.
Our food arrives looking almost too good to eat. Almost. The smell alone makes me forget we’re discussing murder suspects.
“The thing about Willow,” I continue between bites of perfectly seasoned shrimp, “is she’s got this whole empire built on being the wronged woman. Murder would destroy her brand.”
“Unless she could spin it as self-defense. Emotional self-defense.”
I hold my fork up. “That’s actually brilliant. And terrifying.”
“She’s smart enough to have thought of that angle.”
We’re actually having a moment—good food, low lighting, murder theories flowing like wine—when a shadow falls across our table with the ominous weight of impending doom.
Talk about killing the mood.
“I was hoping I’d find you here.” Delora Drake stands beside our table, looking as if she were pressed and starched for a board meeting, not a jungle-themed restaurant with periodic fake rain.
Her silver hair remains perfectly coiffed despite the humidity, and her pearls gleam with disapproval—mostly pointed at me.
“Mother,” Dexter says with the enthusiasm of someone discovering a parking ticket.
“Don’t mother me. This is a business dinner, I assume? Discussing the latest corpse at this death trap masquerading as family entertainment?”
Our waitress appears with perfect timing, asks if we need anything else, and Delora doesn’t even look at the menu.
“I’ll have what he’s having,” she announces. “Though if the predator’s prime cut turns out to be prophetic, I’m holding you personally responsible, Josie.”
Dexter starts to protest, but I wave him off. “Why fight it? Your mother is like a force of nature. A very well-dressed, judgmental force of nature.”
He gives me a look that’s part apology, part promise. “I’ll make this up to you.”
“Interest compounds daily. I accept payment in actual dates without parental supervision.” I mumble out that last part, because let’s face it, the woman scares me.
Delora settles into her chair like a queen claiming her throne. “This is about murder, not romance. Though given your track record, Josie, they seem to be one and the same.”
“My ex is still breathing.” And I frown at the thought.
Is that the ice queen? Chip calls from his photo station. She looks grumpier than Fish when I gobble up all of her food!
Nobody is grumpier than that, Fish corrects. But she’s pretty close.
“The murder rate at your park is statistically impossible,” Delora continues, cutting into her steak once it arrives as if she has a vendetta against it. “Most people go their entire lives without finding one body. You’ve found—what—four? Five? Fifteen?”
“Three,” I correct. “And technically, I only found two. The third one found me.”
“That’s not better.”
I shrug. “It’s a little better.”
“It’s really not,” Dexter agrees, though he’s fighting a smile.
“You attract chaos,” Delora continues, pointing her fork at me like it’s an accusation. “Corpses, television crews, cats with delusions of grandeur—”
“Fish and Chip are stars!” I protest—as I should.
She nods. “And now my son is involved in your disaster magnetism.”
“I prefer to think of it as never having a dull moment,” I offer.
“I prefer to think of it as a liability insurance nightmare,” she counters.
The fake thunderstorm starts, misting us lightly with water that smells suspiciously like chlorine. Delora doesn’t even flinch, continuing to eat with a determination that refuses to let artificial weather or real murder interfere with her meal.
“Have you considered,” she says between bites, “that someone might be targeting the park itself? Making it look dangerous to drive down property values? Perhaps scoop up the park itself in a deal?”
“That actually hadn’t occurred to me.”
“Who would want to buy a murder park?” Dexter asks.
“Developers.” She nods his way. “This is prime real estate. A coastal location with an established infrastructure, not to mention highway access. Someone could level it all, build condos, and make millions.”
“Wow,” I say. She is diabolical.
We sit in silence for a hot second, processing this. Even the zombie parrots seem to quiet down.
From the photo station, I hear Chip announce his new favorite catchphrase to his admirers, I’m not just a cat, I’m an experience!
An experience that just might have a target on his furry little back.
Despite the maternal invasion, the conspiracy theories, and the periodic artificial rain, something about this feels oddly right. Even Delora’s presence can’t completely ruin the evening, although she’s certainly trying.
This might be what dating Dexter means—a package deal with a mother who could freeze hell and my confidence with her disapproval.
But as I watch him handle both his mother and murder talk with equal grace, I think maybe it’s worth it even if we never get through a date without someone dying, disappearing, or delivering unsolicited opinions about my problematic qualities.
So much for putting me in the mood. At least the food is good.