Chapter 11
Josie
There’s nothing that screams successful business venture like restocking merchandise that flies off the shelves faster than gossip at a church potluck while your potential future mother-in-law hovers nearby like a vulture in vintage Chanel.
Have I mentioned the fact she might be a killer? And I thought my last mother-in-law was evil.
The Fish and Chip Souvenir Stand sits in the heart of Huckleberry Lane’s cobblestone plaza, surrounded by the scent of hot cider and kettle corn that mingles with the crisp autumn air and just a hint of impending doom.
Golden leaves swirl across the walkway in tiny tornadoes, and the distant melody of haunted organ music provides a soundtrack that’s equal parts whimsical and ominous—basically the theme song for my entire life.
The booth itself looks like Halloween arrived early and decided to redecorate.
Candy corn bunting drapes from every available surface, spooky garlands twist around the support posts, and shelves overflow with Fish and Chip merchandise that’s apparently more addictive than whatever they put in pumpkin spice lattes.
Ironically enough, Fish and Chip are nowhere to be found, but I have a sneaking suspicion they’ve been organizing the troops in an effort to get this mice infestation under control yet again. It’s really not their fault, those darn little things just keep procreating.
“This one’s face looks smug,” Delora announces, holding up a plush Fish with the expression of an even coordinator who’s just discovered evidence of a federal crime. “And why is it wearing a crown?”
“That’s Fish,” I explain, restocking a shelf of Halloween-themed tote bags. “She came that way.”
“Came that way?” Delora’s eyebrows climb toward her hairline. “You mean someone deliberately designed a cat toy to look condescending?”
“Have you met Fish?” Georgie pipes up, somehow managing to get popcorn butter on her green kaftan, a show of true dedication to carbs. “Condescending is her default setting.”
The sound of approaching footsteps draws my attention, and I look up to see Dexter striding across the plaza with an expression that says he’s just realized his day is about to get significantly more complicated.
He’s traded his professional attire for black jeans, boots, and a flannel shirt that makes him look ruggedly handsome and completely out of place among the candy-corn decorations.
His dark hair catches the light, those stormy blue eyes are focused my way with laser hot intensity—emphasis on the hotness—and the way that flannel stretches across his shoulders suggests a body that could probably stop a speeding bullet—though apparently it can’t stop his potentially homicidal mother, which really puts things in perspective.
“Dexter!” Delora immediately pounces on her son. “Thank heavens you’re here. This entire establishment is unraveling faster than a discount yarn sweater.”
“Hey, I happen to own that sweater,” I mutter.
“Mother,” Dexter says with a level of patience that I suspect he’s doled out one too many times. “What seems to be the problem now?”
The word now tells me everything I need to know.
“The problem,” Delora gestures dramatically, “is that your... friend here is turning a murder investigation into a marketing opportunity. Look at this!” She waves a keychain that purrs murder meow. “This is completely inappropriate!”
Dexter’s gaze flicks to me, and I catch definite amusement in his eyes. “I didn’t think I’d see you again this soon.”
“Oh, I live here now,” I reply. “Right between the haunted mansion and humiliation. Very centrally located.”
His lips twitch into an almost-smile. “Prime real estate.”
“The best. Great views, terrible neighbors.” I shoot a pointed look at Delora before wincing and mouthing a quick I’m sorry his way.
“Dexter,” Delora interrupts sharply. “Are you listening to me? This woman is making a mockery of law enforcement!”
“How exactly am I making a mockery of law enforcement?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“These keychains! These T-shirts, these... murder mascots!”
“They’re not murder mascots,” Dexter says, examining one of the plushies. “They’re actually pretty cute. Professional quality.”
I beam at him. “Thank you. I put a lot of thought into the merchandise strategy.” Even the new murder line.
“It shows,” he says, and there’s something in his tone that makes my stomach do a little flip. “Very thorough.”
“Thorough is my middle name. Well, technically, it’s Marie, but Thorough sounds more professional.”
“Josie Marie,” he repeats, like he’s testing how it sounds. “I like it.”
“DEXTER.” Delora’s voice could shatter hard candy. “Are you flirting? During a murder investigation? With a suspect?”
“I am not a suspect,” I protest. “I wasn’t the one found holding the murder weapon.” Am I the only one who seems concerned with that blood-covered fact?
“She is not a suspect,” Dexter confirms as well. Generous of him.
“Then what is she?” Delora demands.
Dexter looks at me, and I swear the temperature rises ten degrees. “That’s... complicated.”
“Complicated how?” Delora presses.
“Mother, perhaps we could discuss this privately—”
“No! I want answers now! This woman has clearly bewitched you with her... her...” She gestures wildly at the merchandise display. “Her cat-themed chaos!”
“Hey,” I object. “My chaos is very organized. Color-coded, even.”
“See?” Dexter grins at me. “Organized chaos. It’s the very best kind.”
I pretend not to swoon. But I am so swooning.
“You’re encouraging her and her theatrical approach to marketing!” Delora shrieks.
“I’m appreciating her business acumen,” he corrects. “And her ability to turn a crisis into profit opportunity while maintaining customer loyalty takes real skill. It’s impressive.”
My heart does a little happy dance. “You think I’m impressive?”
“I think you’re a lot of things,” he says, his voice dropping just enough to make me forget we’re standing in public. “Impressive is definitely one of them.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Delora raises her hands in exasperation. “Dexter Drake, you are a professional law enforcement officer! You cannot go around complimenting suspects!”
“We already covered this. Josie isn’t on my roster of suspects, Mother.”
“Then what roster is she on?”
Dexter looks at me again, and this time his smile is pure trouble. “The roster of women who make my job infinitely more interesting. Currently, there’s just one name on the list.”
Just one!
“Did you say interesting?” I echo, trying not to melt into a puddle right here in the plaza.
“Among other things.”
“What other things am I?” I ask, because apparently, I have zero shame when it comes to fishing for compliments from attractive detectives.
“Beautiful,” he says simply. “Smart. Brave enough to tackle a killer with nothing but attitude and cute cats.”
He called me beautiful.
Yeah, I know he called me smart, too. And that whole cute cat thing probably deserves mention.
“The cats helped,” I point out, because I’m blushing so hard, I probably match the autumn leaves.
“They do,” he agrees. “This is a very professional operation.”
“ENOUGH!” Delora’s voice reaches frequencies that probably violate noise ordinances. “Dexter, I am appalled by your behavior! This is completely inappropriate!”
“Mother—”
“Don’t mother me! You are making a fool of yourself over this... this theme park hussy!”
“Hey!” I protest. “I prefer entrepreneurial spirit with a side of sass.”
“That’s better.” Dexter nods approvingly. “And sounds far more accurate.”
“Dexter James Drake!” Delora’s using his full name now, which means we’ve officially reached DEFCON 1. “You will stop this nonsense immediately!”
“What nonsense?” he asks innocently. “Having a conversation with a business owner?”
“A business owner?” Delora sputters. “She runs a carnival!”
“Theme park,” I correct. “And a very successful one, thank you very much.”
She narrows her eyes to slits. “Success built on what? Cat ears and murder memorabilia?”
“Built on giving people what they want,” Dexter says, picking up one of the plushies. “Entertainment, escapism, and apparently, really well-made merchandise.”
“You’re defending her again!”
“I’m stating facts.”
“The fact is, you’re smitten with someone completely inappropriate!”
“The fact is,” Dexter says calmly, “I’m old enough and perfectly capable of making my own decisions about who I spend time with.”
She gasps so hard, I think she inhaled a keychain. “Not when those decisions affect your professional reputation!” If my murderous merch kills again, I may have to consider discontinuing it.
“My professional reputation is fine, Mother.”
“Is it? Because from where I stand, you look like a lovesick teenager!”
I try not to react to the word lovesick, but my traitorous heart starts throwing a parade.
“I look like a man who appreciates intelligence, humor, and the ability to solve a murder while running a business,” Dexter counters.
“She got lucky!” Delora riots.
“She got results,” he corrects. “Which is more than most people can say.”
“Are you two going to keep talking about me like I’m not here?” I interrupt. “Because I have opinions about this conversation.”
“Please,” Dexter gestures for me to continue, “share your opinions.”
“First, I’m not a hussy. Second, my theme park is amazing. Third, your mother has excellent taste in clipboards but terrible taste in daughter-in-law material.”
“Daughter-in-law?” Delora shrieks and gasps twice as hard. I swear a stuffed replica of Chip just slid up one nostril.
“Hypothetically speaking,” I clarify, though Dexter’s grin suggests he’s not entirely opposed to the idea.
“There will be no daughter-in-law situation!” Delora declares. “I strictly forbid it!”
“You forbid it?” Dexter’s voice takes on a dangerous edge.
“Mother, I’m not sixteen anymore.” And something tells me that he has the propensity to run in the opposite direction Mommy Dearest tells him.
How’s that for using reverse psychology to land myself a man who wields handcuffs and knows how to use them.
Delora bares her fangs his way. “Well, you’re acting like a teenager!”
“I’m acting like an adult who’s interested in an intelligent, capable woman.”
“She’s a disaster magnet!”
“She’s dignified.”
“She finds dead bodies!”
“Once,” I point out. “Twice if you count last week, but that was technically Bizzy’s thing and I was just at the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“I see a clear pattern developing.” Delora looks faint.
“It’s not a pattern,” Dexter assures her. “More like... unfortunate timing.”
“Unfortunate timing?” Delora’s voice is approaching dog whistle frequencies. “Dexter, this woman is clearly dangerous!”
“The only thing dangerous about her is how distracting she can be,” he says, giving me a look that makes my knees forget how to function.
“Distracting?” I manage.
“Very distracting. Makes it hard to focus on work.”
“Good distracting or bad distracting?”
“Definitely good.”
“Oh, my word,” Georgie breathes from behind us. “This is better than the latest episode of All My Alibis.”
Before anyone can respond, disaster strikes in the form of a rogue squirrel with apparently nothing to lose.
The furry kamikaze pilot launches itself from an overhanging maple tree and lands directly on the keychain spinner, which immediately begins rotating at maximum speed while every single keychain starts meowing, purring, and making various cat-related sound effects.
The cacophony is immediate and overwhelming.
Keychains fly in all directions like fuzzy projectiles.
A small child breaks free from his parents and starts chasing the scattered merch.
Someone tips over the kettle corn barrel in an effort to get to them, sending popped kernels cascading across the cobblestones.
Delora gasps with horror. Georgie screams with delight. The squirrel chatters once and disappears.
I take a sip of my salted maple latte and survey the chaos. “You know what? I’m starting to think murder is the least chaotic thing happening around here.”
“You have no idea,” Dexter mutters, and his eyes linger on me a moment too long.
“Speaking of chaos...” He glances at his mother, who’s currently attempting to organize the scattered keychains into neat piles while muttering about the decline of civilization.
“Would you maybe want to have dinner sometime? Somewhere with fewer flying objects and disapproving relatives?”
My heart does a little tap dance. “Are you asking me out while your mother plots my demise?”
“I’m asking you out despite my mother plotting your demise,” he corrects with a grin that could melt Halloween candy. “Though maybe we should pick a restaurant that doesn’t serve anything that requires a rolling pin.”
Delora nearly gags on her tongue.
“Too soon?” I ask, but I can’t help but smile.
“Definitely too soon. But I’ll risk it if you will.”
“DEXTER!” Delora’s voice cuts through our moment like a chainsaw through wedding cake. “Are you seriously making dinner plans right now?”
“Yes, Mother,” he calls back without taking his eyes off me. “I am.”
“With HER?”
“With the woman who makes kettle corn disasters look charming,” he confirms, and I’m pretty sure my face is now permanently red.
“Tomorrow night?” I ask, because apparently, I’m brave enough to tackle a killer, but asking a cute detective to clarify dinner plans still makes me nervous.
“Tomorrow night,” he agrees. “I can meet up with you anywhere at seven. I’ll get in touch. Try not to find any more bodies between now and then.”
“I make no promises,” I tell him. “But I’ll do my best.”
And somehow, in the middle of flying cat keychains and his mother’s meltdown, I realize that any man who can call me distracting while standing in a kettle corn disaster zone might actually be worth fighting for—even if it means going to war with a woman who weaponizes clipboards and proper etiquette.