Chapter 15
It’s the very same night, and I’ve dragged myself—Fish and Chip included—back to the Country Cottage Inn where Bizzy convinced me to stop into the lending library for what she called “emergency girlfriend therapy involving cookies and cocoa”.
The lending library wraps around you like a cashmere blanket soaked in literary ambition and old book smell. Floor-to-ceiling shelves overflow with everything from leather-bound classics to paperback mysteries with covers featuring shirtless men wielding swords.
A fire crackles in the stone hearth, casting dancing shadows across Persian rugs, while amber lamplight pools in cozy circles that make everything look like a Norman Rockwell painting had a baby with a cozy mystery novel.
The scent of woodsmoke mingles with vanilla candles and that particular smell of well-loved books, plus the heavenly aroma of Bizzy’s emergency dessert stash—pumpkin snickerdoodles, maple pecan bars, and apple cider donuts that she’s arranged on vintage china plates as if we’re hosting a sophisticated book club instead of dissecting my romantic disasters.
I’m curled up in a burgundy velvet wingback chair with a mug of hot cocoa topped with cinnamon whipped cream, while Chip sprawls across my lap like a furry heating pad with opinions.
Bizzy has claimed the matching chair with Fish perched regally on the armrest beside her, and Sherlock lies stretched out on the Persian rug, his freckled coat catching the firelight.
“Okay,” Bizzy says, settling deeper into her chair with a maple pecan bar that looks like it could solve world hunger. “Spill everything about dinner with Detective Dreamboat and his potentially murderous mother. I want details. All of them.”
Finally, Fish mewls with satisfaction. I’ve been waiting all evening to discuss the romantic subplot.
There’s a romantic subplot? Sherlock perks up with interest. No one told me there was a romantic subplot.
“There is no romantic subplot,” I protest, taking a bite of pumpkin snickerdoodle that melts on my tongue like autumn in cookie form. “There’s a murder investigation that happens to involve a very professional detective who—”
“Who looks at you like you’re the answer to every prayer he’s ever whispered,” Bizzy interrupts with a grin that could power the entire inn. “I’ve seen how he watches you when he thinks no one’s looking. The man is absolutely smitten.”
It’s true, Chip growls. She gets all fluttery when Detective Dreamboat is mentioned, he observes, pausing mid-grooming to study my face. Her pupils dilate, and she starts doing that thing with her hair.
“I do not do a thing with my hair,” I say, immediately dropping my hand from where it had been twisting a strand around my finger so tight, it was cutting off the blood supply.
“Right,” Bizzy says with the tone of someone who’s not buying it for a second. “And I suppose the way you’ve been smiling at your phone all evening is just a coincidence?”
“How do you even—never mind. Fine. He’s attractive. Very attractive. Criminally attractive. The kind of attractive that should come with a warning label and possibly liability insurance.”
“Criminally attractive,” Bizzy repeats with obvious delight, reaching for an apple cider donut. “I love it. Continue.”
“And he’s smart. Really smart. Not just book smart, but people smart. He sees things, pays attention to details.” I stare into the fire, remembering the way his eyes lit up when I made him laugh. “And he doesn’t treat me like I’m just some ditzy theme park owner who stumbled into a murder scene.”
“Because you’re not just some ditzy theme park owner,” Bizzy points out. “You’re a brilliant woman who happens to own a theme park and also happens to be really good at solving murders. Plus, you make excellent merchandise decisions.”
The ear headbands are particularly flattering, Fish preens. Very photogenic.
“I agree,” Bizzy says, taking a sip of her cocoa.
“But here’s the thing,” I continue, taking a sip of my own cocoa that tastes like liquid comfort.
“His mother spent the entire dinner treating me like I was something she’d scraped off her designer shoe.
And she might be a murderer. How exactly do you navigate dating someone whose mother could potentially be serving time for homicide? ”
“Carefully,” Bizzy suggests with a laugh. “But also, think about it—if she is the killer, then at least you know Detective Dreamboat has good instincts about justice. And if she’s not the killer, then you’re helping solve the case that clears her name. Either way, you’re the hero of this story.”
Plus, he gave me funnel cake, Chip adds helpfully. Any man who shares premium carnival food is clearly husband material.
“See? Even Chip approves.” Bizzy grins. “That’s practically a ringing endorsement.”
“But what if I’m just rebounding?” I ask, voicing the fear that’s been nagging at me all evening. “What if I’m so angry at Clyde that I’m projecting all my romantic frustration onto the first attractive man who doesn’t treat me like yesterday’s leftovers?”
Bizzy considers this seriously while nibbling her cookie. “Okay, valid concern. But let me ask you this—when you think about Dexter, what do you feel?”
I close my eyes for a moment, letting myself really think about it. “Butterflies. Genuine butterflies. Not angry butterflies or vengeful butterflies or I’ll-show-Clyde butterflies. Just... happy, nervous, excited butterflies. Like maybe there’s something good waiting for me after all this mess.”
“That doesn’t sound like rebounding to me,” Bizzy says softly. “That sounds like genuine attraction to someone who might actually deserve you.”
Plus, he has excellent law enforcement credentials, Sherlock woofs approvingly. Jasper speaks very highly of his investigative skills and professional integrity.
“And,” Bizzy adds with conviction. “I think you should absolutely go for it. Life’s too short to waste time wondering what if when a good man is clearly interested.”
“You really think I should?” I ask, feeling like a teenager seeking dating advice.
“Honey, I think you’d be crazy not to. When’s the last time a man defended you to his own mother? Clyde probably would have thrown you under the bus for a yoga discount.”
Truth, Chip observes sagely. The ex-mate showed no protective instincts whatsoever.
“But speaking of family drama,” Bizzy continues, leaning forward with interest, “what did you discover about Delora and Dilly’s history? You mentioned something about an affair?”
I nearly choke on my cocoa. “How did you—oh right, Georgie and Ree probably told you. Yes, there was definitely some ancient history there. Turns out, Delora had an affair with Dilly’s husband years ago.”
“Scandalous!” Bizzy’s eyes light up with the kind of glee usually reserved for finding out your nemesis got a bad haircut. “How did you figure that out?”
“Savvy let it slip during our chat today. She has the cutest little poodle. Apparently, it’s old news in the baking community, but Dilly never let Delora forget about it. Would drop little passive-aggressive bombs about it at industry events.”
“Oh, that’s diabolical,” Bizzy says with grudging admiration. “Death by a thousand tiny humiliations. Much more sophisticated than just calling her a husband-stealing hussy to her face.”
Effective psychological warfare, Fish observes approvingly. I respect the strategy, even if the execution was ultimately fatal.
“And get this,” I continue, warming to the subject. “Savvy said Dilly was threatening to ‘out’ the whole affair at the symposium. Apparently, she thought it would be hilarious to embarrass Delora in front of all the television cameras.”
“That woman really was asking to be murdered.” Bizzy shakes her head. “I mean, who threatens to publicly humiliate someone on national television? That’s basically writing your own death warrant.”
“Right? So now I’m wondering—did Delora kill Dilly to stop her from going public with the affair? Or did someone else know about the blackmail and use it as the perfect motive to frame Delora?”
“Both scenarios are equally plausible,” Bizzy muses, reaching for another cookie. “Though I have to say, if someone is going to frame you for murder, having a decades-old affair as your motive is pretty solid. Gives you a clear reason to want the victim dead.”
Plus, the method fits, Chip adds thoughtfully. A crime of passion, using whatever weapon was handy. Very believable for someone who snapped under pressure.
“So, what happened at dinner?” Bizzy presses, leaning forward with the expression of someone who’s about to hear the best gossip of the year. “I need a play-by-play analysis.”
“Well, his mother clearly hates me. Like, actively despises my entire existence. She spent the whole meal making passive-aggressive comments about my commercial enterprise and questioning my professional qualifications.”
“Ouch. What did Detective Dreamboat do?”
“That’s the thing,” I say, feeling that flutter in my stomach again. “He defended me just like he did yesterday at the souvenir stand. Multiple times. He told her I was intelligent, capable, and that my business acumen was impressive. He actually used the word impressive about me.”
“Oh my.” Bizzy fans herself and giggles. “A man who stands up to his mother for you? That’s serious romantic territory right there.”
Very promising mating behavior, Chip observes. Defending your chosen female against family disapproval shows strong commitment potential.
“And then,” I continue, warming to the subject, “when she was being particularly awful about the theme park, he started asking me questions about the business side of things. Like he was genuinely interested in how I turned around the park’s finances and expanded the merchandise line.”
“A man who appreciates your professional accomplishments.” Bizzy nods approvingly. “Even better.”