Chapter 5
If caffeine could solve homicide cases, I’d be out of a hobby and the most successful detective in Maine.
Downstairs, the Country Cottage Inn is in full fall mode—pumpkin-spiced everything, plaid flannel throws piled like someone robbed a lumberjack, and about fourteen ceramic gourds grinning from every flat surface.
Somewhere in the background, a jazzy version of “Monster Mash” is playing.
Because the Country Cottage Inn isn’t just cozy, it’s classy.
Coffee percolates from somewhere behind the reception desk, bacon sizzles from the Country Cottage Café down the hall, and the fireplace crackles with the kind of cozy authority that says everything is fine instead of you found another corpse less than twelve hours ago.
Honestly, at this rate I should update my LinkedIn to read “Theme Park Owner/Corpse Magnet/Recent Graduate of the Clyde-Did-More-Than-Downward-Dog-With-His-Yoga-Instructor School of Life.”
Fish and Chip trot down the grand staircase beside me, both sporting the shell-shocked expressions of war veterans who’ve seen too much.
Another beautiful morning in Homicide Central, Fish mutters. Should we start charging admission to your crime scenes or just skip straight to the merchandise booth?
I shoot her a look. “You’re a hilarious hairball.”
I vote for hazard pay, Chip adds, his orange fur still doing that thing where it sticks up in seventeen different directions after he rolls out of bed, and apparently down the stairs, too. My fragile nerves can only handle so much trauma before I start stress-eating the centerpieces.
“That makes two of us.”
We make it downstairs where the lobby explodes with autumn as if someone detonated a pumpkin spice bomb.
Miniature gourds stage a hostile takeover, maple leaves cascade from copper fixtures, and chrysanthemums the size of dinner plates bloom from pots positioned at every nook and cranny.
Clearly, someone decided that if you’re going to do fall, you might as well grab it by the gourd and wrestle it into submission.
“Well, hello there, Maine’s newest murder magnet,” Bizzy calls from behind the marble counter, looking criminally put together for someone whose husband probably got dragged to a homicide scene before his first cup of coffee.
Bizzy Baker Wilder has that annoying morning-person glow that makes the rest of us question our skincare routines and sleep schedules.
She’s twenty-something to my fifty-something, her dark hair falls in effortless waves—the kind that cost a fortune to look that casual—and her denim blue eyes sparkle with the sort of mischief that either saves your bacon or gets you arrested.
Today’s deep crimson outfit screams I own a successful inn and my biggest problem is choosing between artisanal jam flavors.
There’s my hooman! Fish purrs with genuine excitement as both cats hop onto the counter. She runs this place like the empire it is. Much better than being home with Jasper’s slobbery mutt, Sherlock Bones. That dog thinks everything is a chew toy, including my dignity.
Bizzy is one of my favorite hoomans, Chip announces, immediately launching into his morning Bizzy-sniffing ritual. She radiates bacon and good decisions.
“Jasper told me what happened,” Bizzy continues, sliding me a coffee mug that might actually save my sanity. “He said you managed to bag another body. Keep this up and people will think you’re gunning for my title as Maine’s Corpse Discovery Champion.”
“Hey now.” I wrap my hands around the mug. “One murder does not a serial crime scene stumbler make. You’ve got what, a baker’s dozen under your belt?”
“I don’t keep score,” she lies with the smooth delivery of someone who absolutely keeps score. “Although I will say your timing is impressive. Most people ease into the murder-finding business.”
I chug the java without hesitation. “Wow, Bizzy. This coffee just hit my bloodstream like salvation in liquid form. Not like the motor oil they called coffee back when I lived in suburbia. Back when my biggest worry was whether Clyde remembered to pick up his yoga pants instead of whether he was using them to seduce bendy blondes.” I take a moment to sigh.
Speaking of your ex, Chip observes while eyeing the pastry case, I bet he’s still trying to find his center. Last I heard, it was somewhere between his yoga instructor’s apartment and his podcast studio.
“Not helpful,” I mutter.
Bizzy bursts out laughing. “Oh my word, Chippy, you have some serious sass.”
I should mention that Bizzy can read minds, too. But not only can she read the minds of animals, she can peek into the horror that goes on in the human skull, too. Which means she probably knows exactly what I’m thinking about Detective Drake’s jawline and my complete lack of a romantic game plan.
It turns out, both Bizzy and I are something called transmundane, further classified as telesensual, which means we can read minds.
There are other supernatural talents that fall under the transmundane umbrella, like seeing into tomorrow, trotting around the time continuum, and even speaking to the dead.
As far as supernatural curses go, Bizzy and I seem to have contracted the easier end of the stick.
Your romantic track record reads like a cautionary tale for dating apps, Chip observes while eyeing a platter full of ghost-shaped cookies iced to spooky perfection. First, a cheating husband, now you’re mooning over a detective whose mother might be a murderer.
And let’s discuss your career trajectory, Fish adds with clinical precision. From suburban housewife to theme park owner to amateur sleuth. Are we collecting dangerous hobbies now?
“Great,” I mutter. “Chip is critiquing my romantic disasters, while Fish is questioning my career path.”
I’m questioning your entire decision-making process, Fish corrects. Starting with marrying a man who confused spiritual enlightenment with horizontal enlightenment.
“Valid point.”
Bizzy settles in with the expression of an innkeeper about to extract every juicy detail from me.
When your life explodes and you need somewhere to land, you don’t go to some soulless hotel chain.
You go to the friend who won’t charge you rent and definitely won’t judge you for eating ice cream for breakfast.
“So,” she says, “walk me through this latest addition to your body count.”
I give her the full horror show—Dilly face-planted in Savvy’s coffin cake, Delora looming over the carnage with a marble rolling pin fresh from a slasher film, and my subsequent vocal contribution that probably woke half the county.
Bizzy’s coffee mug freezes halfway to her lips. “Wait. Delora, as in Delora Drake? As in your newly minted boyfriend’s mother?”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I protest. “We’ve had exactly one kiss and several conversations that may or may not constitute dates—more like very sexy interrogation sessions.” I may have been one of his prime suspects in his last homicide case.
“His mother is your prime suspect?” she continues, ignoring my romantic clarifications. “Talk about meet-the-parents gone wrong.”
The relationship complications are staggering, Fish notes. Nothing says family bonding like prison visits at the holidays.
Plus, the food would be predictable, Chip adds. Prison cafeterias probably have better consistency than most holiday meals.
“The cherry on this disaster sundae?” I continue. “Dexter wants me to butt out of his investigation. Which would be adorable if his mother wasn’t the number one suspect in a murder that happened at my event, in my park, with my merchandise.”
“Oh sweetie.” Bizzy shakes her head. “Given your track record—you know, that little matter of actually solving last week’s murder while everyone else was running around playing amateur hour—he’s going to want every available detective on board.
Even the ones with attitude and talking cats. Even the amateur sleuths.”
Who are you calling an amateur? Fish bristles. We’re professionals. We have a merchandise line.
And a flawless success rate, Chip adds. One case, one solved murder. That’s mathematically perfect.
“I didn’t mean you two,” Bizzy is quick to clarify and even quicker to produce treats for the furry among us before a single ego can bruise.
Speaking of the furry among us, the conversation gets interrupted by approaching paw steps as Sherlock Bones makes his entrance. Bizzy’s red and white freckled mutt manages to look both adorable and superior, which is quite the trick.
Well, well, he woofs, claiming his space at the base of the counter with the authority of a cute pooch who’s earned his spot. If it isn’t the Feline Detective Agency. Ready to bungle another investigation?
Fish’s fur does that thing where it doubles in size. Bungle? We solve crimes with efficiency and style. Which is more than I can say for you and Detective Donuts.
Detective Donuts would be Jasper, Bizzy’s husband. He happens to be the lead detective down at the Seaview Sheriff’s Station, and Dexter is his counterpart.
Yeah, what she said! Style, efficiency, and don’t forget snacks, Chip pipes up. Solving murders works up an appetite.
Please. Sherlock snorts so loud it could register on weather instruments. I work real cases with actual professionals. I don’t stumble into bodies and call it detective work.
Stumble? Fish’s shriek could crack windows. We approached that scene with purpose and dignity. Unlike certain slobbering canines who probably contaminate evidence just by drooling on it.
I don’t slobber on evidence, Sherlock protests. I’m a trained canine detective. I have credentials.
You’re a plain old dog, Fish states with courtroom finality. Your credentials consist of sitting, staying, and not eating the murder weapon. Our credentials include superior intellect and natural hunting instincts.
Bizzy laughs and tosses Sherlock a treat before the argument escalates.
“Break it up before I need to call animal control on my own pets.” She looks my way.
“I’m taking His Royal Fluffiness to spend the day with Jasper,” she explains.
“Plus, I’m bringing donuts—chocolate glazed crullers.
Nothing says solve this murder faster like quality carbohydrates. ”
I nod at the thought. “Donut diplomacy can go a long way in life.”
“It’s the most effective kind. Jasper gets edgy when his blood sugar drops, and cranky detectives take longer to catch killers.”
We share a little laugh because we both know that neither Jasper nor Dexter has solved a single homicide themselves outside of our help.
A guest materializes at the front desk—an elderly woman with the expression of someone who’s been awake since the Coolidge administration and has complaints about everything that’s happened since. Bizzy excuses herself to handle what sounds like a complex grievance about thread count standards.
I find myself alone with the cats and an opportunity that’s practically gift-wrapped.
The guest registry sits open, begging for inspection.
I’ve dabbled in light reconnaissance before—room searches that almost caught a killer, midnight investigations involving questionable entry techniques, evidence gathering that wasn’t technically breaking and entering if you squinted hard enough.
I know firsthand that some of the vendors from the symposium are staying at this quaint country inn.
I quickly flip through pages with the casual air of someone checking tomorrow’s weather instead of conducting espionage at the inn I happen to call home.
Bingo—Delora Drake, Room 203. And directly below, Savvy Sparrow, Room 205.
Well, well, well.
Both women bunking at the same inn, we’re practically neighbors, and now one was caught wielding bloody kitchen equipment while the other had a corpse face-first in her frosting.
You’ve got that look, Fish observes. The same expression you had before your last breaking-and-entering adventure.
“I don’t break and enter,” I whisper. “I investigate with enthusiasm—and wandering feet.”
Call it whatever helps you sleep at night, Chip says. Just remember—orange is not your color, and I’m pretty sure prison jumpsuits don’t come with pockets for cat treats.
Bizzy returns as I’m closing the registry, and if she notices my sudden interest in inn administration, she keeps it to herself.
“Ready to escort your partners in crime back to the actual crime scene?” she asks.
I collect Fish and Chip, who arrange themselves in my arms with the dignity of royalty being transported to very important royal business.
“Time to catch ourselves a killer,” I announce.
Because apparently, that’s my niche now—and the competition, much like my unsuspecting clients, is surprisingly stiff.
Delora and Savvy are both staying here. At the inn. Under Bizzy’s roof. During a murder investigation.
Bizzy clears her throat and shoves the platter of iced cookies my way, and I snap one up.
I can’t wait to find out what Delora and Savvy are hiding among their lotions and potions. Not that I’m a snoop. Okay, I totally am. And let’s not forget the last time I poked around in a guest room, I almost uncovered a killer.
But almost only counts in horseshoes, hand grenades, and romantic comedies.
And maybe this time? I’ll get the full jackpot.
Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned about this town…
It’s never just cake and coffee.
Sometimes?
It’s murder with a side of maple glaze.