Chapter 14
Nadine finished up with her dissertation on what men that women should choose and why—oh, and she threw in a really good recipe for Bourbon maple pumpkin trifle with candied pecans and cinnamon whipped cream.
After that, Fish and Chip were escorted to the Pawprint Hollow to finish up with one of their last meet and greets for the day. And lucky for me, I have just enough time to squeeze in a hot date with Detective Dreamboat all by my lonesome.
I’ve really been craving some alone time with my faux beau. Here’s hoping we can move our relationship in the right direction, or at least our lips in the right direction. I’ll settle for small lip-shaped strides.
Who am I kidding? I’m just glad to be rid of Delora for the rest of the day. Especially now that I know all of her deep, dark secrets.
Nothing says romantic dinner quite like mechanical wenches flashing tourists with their perky boobs while you’re trying to solve a murder and avoid your boyfriend’s potentially homicidal mother.
The scent of blackened catfish and autumn spices drifts through the moody interior of Bayou Lagoon, where the sound of creaking boats mingles with the distant splash of not-quite-seaworthy vessels carrying tourists past the patio platform covered with amused diners.
The restaurant’s faux purple sky twinkles with artificial fireflies that dance between very real mosquitoes, while a fake full moon casts eerie shadows across tables set for romance.
Just to my left, the Pirates Plunder boat ride continues its nightly performance of mechanical mayhem, complete with animatronic wenches whose wardrobe malfunctions have become a feature rather than a bug. Figures.
I’m sitting alone at a corner table overlooking the water, nursing a glass of wine and watching a boat full of unsuspecting families sail past just as one of the wenches decides to give them more historical accuracy than anyone ever intended.
The collective gasp from the tourists carries across the water, followed by nervous laughter and the rapid clicking of cameras.
My phone buzzes with a text.
Detective Dreamboat: Running five minutes late. Don’t start solving murders without me. - D
The man has a sense of humor. I’ll give him that.
Josie: Already solved three while waiting, I text back. You’re behind quota.
The restaurant’s atmosphere screams romantic ambiance with just a hint of swamp fever.
Cypress trees draped in Spanish moss frame the windows, while Edison bulbs cast everything in a golden glow that makes even the mosquito bites look atmospheric.
The scent of cinnamon and nutmeg from the bread pudding mingles with the earthy smell of the bayou and just a touch of mechanical oil from the boat ride’s aging infrastructure.
Have I mentioned the slight scent of mold?
Yeah, it’s sort of underappreciated at this point.
“Sorry, I’m late,” comes a familiar voice that makes my stomach do things that probably violate several laws of decency.
Dexter slides into the seat across from me, and even in the dim lighting, he manages to look like trouble wrapped in flannel and good intentions.
His dark hair catches the light, and he’s traded his uniform for jeans and a flannel shirt that makes him look ruggedly handsome instead of professionally intimidating. And oh, so very hot.
“You clean up nice for someone who spends his days investigating felonies,” I say with a cheesy wink, trying not to notice how his eyes look in the fake moonlight. Like twin demigods wrapped in sapphire flames, in the event you were wondering.
“You clean up nice for someone who spends her days finding corpses.” His grin could melt the artificial snow at the winter-themed ride. “Though I have to say, your track record is impressive. Most people go their entire lives without discovering a single body.”
“I’m an overachiever. It’s a blessing and a curse.”
He takes a moment to frown. “Mostly a curse for the people who end up dead.”
“Hey, I don’t kill them. I just find them. There’s a significant difference in the job description.” Unlike his mother, I want to say, but clamp my lips shut before the words can escape.
A boat full of college students floats past our window just as the mechanical wench decides to demonstrate advanced eighteenth century undergarments. The screaming and cheering that follows could probably be heard on Mars.
“Your park certainly provides unique entertainment,” Dexter says, nodding toward the chaos ensuing as the ships float by.
“I prefer to think of it as an authentic historical reenactment with modern enthusiasm.” I take a sip of wine. “Besides, it’s not like I can control what the animatronics decide to do. They’ve got their own agenda.”
“Clearly. Any plans to fix the wardrobe malfunctions?”
“I thought I had it fixed, but the wenches outsmarted me. I’ve tried everything short of hiring a mechanical seamstress. At this point, I’m considering marketing it as a feature. Pirates Plunder: Where History Comes Alive and Occasionally Undressed.”
His laugh is rich and warm, the kind that makes you want to hear it again. “That’s definitely one way to increase attendance.”
“Tourism is all about giving people experiences they can’t get anywhere else. Trust me, they’re not getting this level of mechanical dysfunction at the big name parks.”
“Speaking of dysfunction,” he says, as he begins to glower, “how’s your investigation going? Find any more clues about a certain murder?”
I consider telling him about my conversation with Nadine, but something holds me back.
Maybe it’s the way the moonlight makes his eyes look, or maybe it’s the fact I’m not entirely sure I trust anyone right now—including the devastatingly attractive detective sitting across from me.
And maybe it’s the fact I know all of his mother’s dirty little secrets that gives me pause.
“Making progress,” I say carefully. “Though I have to say, the suspect pool is more dysfunctional than my boat ride.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning everyone had reasons to want Dilly Thatcher dead, and most of them aren’t particularly subtle about it.”
“Such as?”
Before I can answer, our waitress arrives with perfect timing and questionable seafood recommendations. “Evening, folks! Can I start you with some gator bites? They’re caught fresh from our very own lagoon!”
I wrinkle my nose at the thought. Is this a thing? Please tell me it’s not a thing.
“I’ll stick with something that wasn’t recently swimming in the same water as my dinner view,” I tell her. “How’s the jambalaya?”
“Excellent choice! And for you, handsome?”
Dexter orders the catfish, and I try not to be charmed by the way he smiles at the clearly smitten waitress. The woman looks ready to abandon her tables and follow him home, which, honestly, I can’t blame her.
“So,” he says once we’re alone again, “back to this suspect pool of dysfunction.”
“Well, there’s the business partner who’s been carrying on Sugar & Sass single-handedly while Dilly took all the credit. There’s the Southern belle with the grudge about her mother’s ruined bakery. And there’s the society matron who—”
I stop myself before I mention the affair, because that particular bombshell involves his mother, and I’m not sure how much family drama I want to dump on this almost-date.
“Who what?” He narrows his eyes on mine because he so knows the diabolical direction this was going.
“Who has control issues and a clipboard addiction that borders on criminal?” I shrink in my seat.
“You’re talking about my mother.”
“I’m talking about a woman who treats event planning with the intensity of a military operation.”
“Same thing.” He leans back in his chair, studying my face in the flickering candlelight. “You know, you’re being awfully cagey about this investigation. Usually, you’re more forthcoming with details.”
“Usually, I’m not having a dinner date with the lead detective on the case.”
Okay, so the who dinner with the lead detective on the case thing has definitely happened before, but who’s counting?
“Is that what this is? A date?” His lips curve at the edges as if he’s enjoying every delicious minute of it.
The question hangs in the air between us, loaded with possibilities and complications. Before I can answer, our food arrives—steaming plates of jambalaya and catfish that smell like heaven and look like they could feed a small army.
“Enjoy, y’all!” the waitress chirps, clearly hoping Dexter will notice her helpful service and possibly ask for her number.
I’m about to dig into my jambalaya when a familiar figure appears at our table with all the subtlety of a hurricane making landfall.
“Dexter!” Delora’s voice cuts through the restaurant’s romantic ambiance as she drags a chair from a nearby table and plants herself at our intimate table for two. “Thank heavens you’re here!”
She looks frazzled in a way that’s completely at odds with her usual impeccable appearance. Her silver hair has escaped its perfect twist, her lipstick is slightly smudged, and there’s a wild look in her eyes that suggests she’s either having a breakdown or plotting someone’s demise. Possibly mine.
“Mother?” Dexter blinks at her unexpected appearance as if it were more plausible for Dilly’s ghost to have sat with us. And I so would have preferred Dead Dilly. “What are you doing here? How did you even know where I was?”
“I have my ways,” she replies cryptically, smoothing her skirt and trying to regain her composure. “We need to talk. Immediately.”
“We’re having dinner,” I point out, because apparently, someone needs to state the obvious.
“This is more important than food,” Delora snaps, and from the wild look in her eyes, I’m starting to think she might actually be serious.
Before anyone can respond, the restaurant’s entrance explodes with the energy of two women on a mission. Georgie and Ree burst through the door, both looking slightly out of breath and completely frazzled.