Chapter 12
The Country Cottage Inn glows against the October night like a lighthouse for the exhausted and slightly tipsy.
Ree pulls into the parking lot with her sensible sedan, carrying the wreckage of our undercover operation.
Savvy is sprawled in the passenger seat, humming something off-key, while Georgie and I are folded into the back like mismatched luggage, both of us moving with the glacial pace of people who smell like a keg full of beer.
The Victorian mansion stands with two stories of white elegance with blue shutters, and glossy green ivy crawling up along every available surface.
Corn stalks frame the entrance like security guards made of vegetation, and pumpkins line the steps in order of tallest to smallest because Bizzy believes in organization even when it comes to her gourds.
Subtle orange twinkle lights intertwine through the porch railings, while black cat silhouettes peer from windows like they’re casing the joint.
If Bizzy’s inn is anything, it’s homey, cozy, and oh so charming—especially when it’s festooned for fall from top to bottom.
The autumn breeze hits us as we exit the car, cinnamon and spice from the café mixing with the brine from the ocean and the scent from a wood fire. It’s the sort of smell that makes you want to wrap yourself in a blanket and solve murders. Or fall asleep for a year solid.
And if I’m lucky, I’ll solve Duffy Banks’s murder and pin it on my ex before I ever close my eyes tonight.
The thought brings a smile to my face, a wicked smile, but a smile, nonetheless.
Georgie says goodnight as she stumbles toward her cottage, and Ree waves as she takes off to drive home.
“Did that really happen?” Savvy asks, still clutching the mysterious boot she liberated from the bar.
“Which part?” I ask. “The mechanical bull incident or the human dominoes?”
“All of the above.”
We stumble through the front door into the grand foyer, where gray hardwood floors gleam with a polish that makes you check your shoes for mud.
The marble reception counter stands unmanned at this hour, but the wrought iron staircase spiraling to the second floor looks like it’s ready to judge our life choices.
Photos of past guests with their pets line the walls—happy people with happy animals who never found corpses at their workplace.
“My everything hurts in places I forgot existed,” Savvy groans, heading for the stairs. “If anyone needs me, I’ll be soaking in a tub until Thanksgiving.”
She heads on up, pretending as if her knees aren’t screaming, still holding that boot like a war trophy.
I barely have time to appreciate the Pet Friendly Resort sign—complete with painted paw prints that Fish most likely finds insulting—before two furry missiles launch themselves at my shins.
Finally! The entertainment has returned! Fish announces, weaving between my legs in figure-eights designed to trip me and perhaps send me to the morgue.
Did you bring snacks? Chip adds, sniffing my shoes with the intensity of a furry detective at a crime scene. You smell like you were near snacks. Many snacks. Fried snacks. Also, like a beer bottle exploded on you. These are very complex aromas. Notes of regret with undertones of poor decisions.
He really does have a nose.
“Thanks for the review, Chip,” I say, giving him a quick scratch between the ears. “Where’s Bizzy?”
Bizzy is slumming with the canine, Fish is quick to inform me. He’s been telling us about his day at the police station. Apparently, hoomans are terrible at taking investigative hints from clearly superior species.
I find it oddly delightful that Fish both insulted and complimented the pooch in the span of one thought. The pooch in question would be Bizzy’s dog, Sherlock Bones.
Bizzy’s husband, Jasper, takes Sherlock to work with him now and again, and Sherlock really does get the scoop on what’s going down at the precinct.
Ree and Georgie say goodnight as we head our separate ways.
I follow the hallway past the inn’s library, where leather-bound books look far too ritzy for me to actually pick up and read, and head straight for the Country Cottage Café.
The transformation from elegant inn to 1950s fever dream is more than slightly jarring.
Black and white checkered floors assault my retinas while red vinyl booths promise comfort but deliver squeaks.
Chrome fixtures reflect everything, including my newfound whiskey haze, and Halloween décor has attacked this place with the enthusiasm this season deserves.
Fake spiders dangle from every surface, cobwebs connect anything stationary, and life-size skeletons dressed as waitstaff stand frozen in permanently cheerful poses.
The jukebox in the corner plays “Monster Mash” on what might just be its thousandth repeat of the day. Through the back windows is an expansive view of the Atlantic as the sandy shore stretches toward waves that glitter in the moonlight. And it almost looks as if the ocean is showing off for us.
“Josie!” Bizzy waves from a corner booth, her dark hair catching the light from the pendant lamp above.
By the looks of it, she’s attacking a piece of apple pie à la mode with enthusiasm, and I’m glad about it, too, because she more than deserves it.
“Please sit!” She waves at a waitress and quickly orders me my own slice of pie.
She takes a moment to inspect me. “You look like you need comfort food and possibly an alibi.”
“You know me well,” I say just as Sherlock Bones, my favorite red and white freckled mutt, comes over and greets me with a happy-to-see-me tail wag, strong enough to create a breeze. “How was your day at the station, buddy?”
Don’t tell Bizzy, but Jasper and I split an entire box of donuts!
“I heard that,” Bizzy shoots him a pointed look before taking another bite of her pie.
He gives a soft woof of surprise. Well, never mind. Jasper said the donuts were a matter of public safety.
Public safety? Fish’s voice cuts in, dry as overbaked biscotti. If by safety, you mean preventing the station from collapsing under the weight of powdered sugar, then yes—it’s very heroic work.
Chip plops down beside Sherlock. So what kind of donuts are we talking about? Glazed? Jelly-filled? The kind with sprinkles?
All of the above, Sherlock answers. Jasper said it was important to sample broadly.
Of course, he did, Fish mutters. Nothing says law enforcement like a comprehensive pastry investigation.
Sherlock straightens, clearly eager to redeem himself. Of course, we did talk about the case.
Fish sighs. Oh good. Between bites, I assume.
There was a suspect, Sherlock insists. Someone acting suspicious near the evidence room.
Chip perks up instantly. Suspicious how? Like “murderous glint in the eye” suspicious or “ate someone else’s lunch” suspicious?
Sherlock pauses. He took the last maple bar.
Chip narrows his eyes. That’s a motive!
Fish nods solemnly. In this town? That’s practically a confession.
The waitress appears with another slice of pie that could solve every problem in Seaview County if we gave it a chance.
The apples are still warm, the crust is golden and flaky, and the vanilla ice cream melts into little pools of happiness as she sets it down before me, along with a cup of coffee that smells like java heaven.
Bizzy slowly sets her fork down, her gaze drifting among the three of them like she’s just tuned into the world’s strangest police briefing.
“Apparently, pastry-related crimes are a pretty big deal down at the precinct,” she says, taking a sip of her coffee. “But I already knew that. Jasper and Sherlock both take their pastries pretty seriously.”
You can add me to that list, Chip doesn’t hesitate making his stance of sugar-based carbs clear.
“Chip, you’re at the top of the list,” I say, reaching for my coffee like I’m going to need it. “And truthfully, I’m right there with you.”
“It’s the case of the missing maple bar,” Bizzy says with a laugh.
I take a bite of pie and sigh. “Great. Add it to the list—murder, mayhem, and now missing baked goods.”
Bizzy raises her fork in a mock toast. “Seaview County. Where even the donuts aren’t safe.”
“And apparently,” I mutter, glancing at Sherlock, Chip, and Fish, “neither are the suspects.”
“So,” Bizzy says, pointing her fork at me like a delicious weapon, “who’s our killer?”
“According to my suspects? Everyone but them.” I take a bite of pie that has me seriously considering a second, a third, and possibly a fourth slice. “Willow thinks Cooter did it. Cooter thinks Crystal did it. Crystal probably thinks the coffee did it spontaneously out of spite.”
“Sounds like they’re playing a game of hot potato.”
“Exactly. Everyone had motive, everyone had opportunity, and everyone was playing musical chairs with those coffee cups like it was a competitive sport.”
“Follow the coffee,” Bizzy says, narrowing her eyes in thought. “Literally. Who had the most access to it?”
“My potential mother-in-law, actually.”
Bizzy nearly chokes on her pie. “Speaking of which, Dexter told Jasper you’re exclusive now. Men gossip worse than we do. They just call it briefing and pretend it’s professional.”
I bite down on a smile. “We’re exclusive, and I’ve already been invaded by his mother. She crashed our dinner date. With complaints. And possibly a scorecard for my inadequacies.”
“Ah, Delora.” Bizzy smiles knowingly. “She’s still staying here. And I see everything.”
“I’m well aware. What are your thoughts on the woman? Is she actually evil or just professionally difficult?”
“She waters my plants when I forget. And I don’t think evil people maintain proper plant hydration schedules.”
“You’ve got a point.”
The pie smells delicious, Fish notes as she curls up next to Bizzy. Emmie really outdid herself.
Emmie would be Bizzy’s BFF, who also happens to run the Country Cottage Café. And by the looks of it, she’s already turned in for the night.
Delicious? Chip hops up and sniffs around at my plate, his nose working like he’s trying to solve a crime. That’s not just delicious. That’s a situation.
You say that about unattended napkins. Fish swishes her tail at him.
Napkins have potential, he fires back.
They do not, Fish says. Tell him, Sherlock.
Sherlock sniffs. I plead the fifth.
“As he should,” Bizzy says. “I’ve seen him eat his fair share of napkins.”
I nod. I’m embarrassed to say it, but I’ve taken a bite out of a napkin or two myself.
Bizzy lifts a brow my way.
“On accident,” I say, defending my paper-eating ways. “And if that’s the kind of thoughts you’re reading, I feel sorry for you.”
She belts out a laugh.
Chip squints at my plate as if it might crawl away on its own. I’m just saying, if no one claims it in the next thirty seconds, I feel morally obligated to intervene.
You’re always morally obligated to intervene. Fish rolls her eyes at the thought.
That’s because no one else is stepping up. Sherlock gives a soft woof from the floor.
“I’ll step up,” I say, taking another luscious bite from my pie and not letting up until I’ve wolfed half of it down.
“Anyway, Delora is not evil,” Bizzy continues. “She’s particular. Sort of like a cat with OCD who’s also taken management courses. I think she’s testing you. It’s her love language—aggressive quality control.”
I make a face. “That’s a terrible love language.”
“Better than your ex’s love language that involved yoga instructors.”
“You got me there.”
“Here’s what bothers me,” Bizzy says, pushing her empty plate aside. “The coffee switching was chaos, but someone had to plan ahead. Cyanide isn’t an impulse murder weapon. You don’t just carry it around like breath mints.”
“Unless you’re a very prepared psychopath.”
She nods. “Who knew there would be coffee and brought the poison? This was premeditated. And it just so happened to be dressed up as spontaneous chaos.”
A thought hits me. “Delora organized the coffee station.”
We both look toward the ceiling.
“She wouldn’t...” Bizzy starts.
“Nope. Her specialty is being difficult, not homicide.”
We share a quick laugh on Delora’s behalf.
We sit in comfortable silence as “Monster Mash” starts its thousand-and-first replay and Chip’s heavy breathing fills the interim as he undoubtedly dreams of pie.
“Tomorrow’s filming will have all the suspects in one place,” I finally say.
“Maybe someone will crack under pressure.”
“Or someone else will die.”
I stare at her. “Don’t even joke about that.”
“Who’s joking? Your park’s mortality rate is concerning. I’m thinking of raising my insurance premiums for you specifically.”
“You have got to be kidding,” I say as I slap the table with a laugh. “Bizzy, you have found more bodies than the Cider Cove Cemetery can hold. In fact, you’ve single-handedly helped it reach its occupancy limit.”
She winces. “Must you come at me with these hostile truth bombs?”
“You threw the first grenade,” I tease.
“Touché,” she says, toasting me with her coffee. “Truce?”
“Until tomorrow,” I say as we clink our mugs together.
Soon enough, we wrap it up and say goodnight. Tomorrow brings another day of filming, another round of suspects, and another chance for something to go catastrophically wrong.
At this rate, I should start charging admission to my disasters.
Oh, wait—I do.