Chapter 19
Great news. For once.
The parade went off without a hitch—or a hit, or a body. I think that’s some kind of record for Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland. And speaking of records, we sold out of almost all our haunted Halloween merch before the last float came to a stop.
Those college kids are geniuses. I’ve already put in another order of everything times a thousand and retrieved Fish and Chip from their respective floats. Now we’re on our way to dinner with Detective Dreamboat.
Yeah, I know the cats aren’t exactly the most romantic accessories I could bring to the table, but in truth, I’d rather they see firsthand where things might be going—and let’s be honest, the case will definitely be discussed. They’re my partners in crime solving, they need to be kept up to speed.
Dexter and I finally decided to meet up at Pendulum’s End, a snazzy quasi-romantic locale in Gears plus, she had her own grudge about a bad review years ago. Nadine painted herself as the concerned friend, but threw both Savvy and your mother under the bus with some very convenient stories. And your mother...” I trail off, my mouth clamping shut as I realize I’m about to share family secrets that aren’t mine to tell.
“And my mother what?” he presses, his detective instincts clearly engaged.
“Had her own complicated history with the victim,” I finish diplomatically. “Everyone had motives, everyone had opportunity, and everyone is pointing fingers at everyone else.”
“That’s quite impressive detective work.” His demeanor darkens slightly. “Josie, I don’t like that you’re investigating this. These people could be dangerous.”
She can handle dangerous, Fish pipes up indignantly. We’ve got her back.
Plus, we have excellent early warning systems, Chip adds. My hearing is exceptional when food is involved. She’s safe as long as the killer comes after her with a roll of sourdough bread.
“I want you to be safe,” Dexter continues, oblivious to the feline commentary. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”
“I promise,” I tell him, and I mean it. “But I’m not backing down. This happened at my park, during my event. I need to see it through.”
He stares at me intently a beat too long. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”
My shoulders wiggle on command. “Are you up for an encore already?”
“Are you?”
“I’m in.” I think about it for a moment. “Actually, tomorrow night is the Sweet Season Spooky Symposium grand finale event. Your mother reserved the grounds in front of the haunted house.”
His brows hike both at once. “Returning to the scene of the crime?”
“Me or her?”
He gives a slow blink. “You’re funny.” But he’s not laughing.
“You should come.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
We finish dinner with easier conversation—his stories about small-town detective work, my adventures in theme park management, the kind of getting-to-know-you talk that feels both new and comfortably familiar.
As we leave the restaurant, Fish and Chip trailing behind us through the Halloween-transformed pathways where everything glows with orange and purple light, the autumn air carries the scent of woodsmoke and possibility.
Dexter picks up my hand, pulling me closer as we walk through the magical landscape my daughters and Emma created. The glow from jack-o’-lanterns catches in his dark hair, and the distant sound of carousel music makes everything feel dreamlike.
They’re holding hands, Fish observes with the tone of a nature documentary narrator. This appears to be a positive development.
Should we give them privacy? Chip asks hopefully. Because there’s definitely leftover funnel cake calling my name.
Just as Dexter stops walking and turns toward me—his intentions clear in the moonlight, his lips edging their way toward mine—a familiar voice cuts through our romantic moment like a chainsaw through wedding cake.
“Dexter! There you are!” Delora’s voice carries across the hollow with the authority of someone who’s never been told no. “I’d like for you to walk me to my car. I don’t feel safe around these parts at night.”
Because apparently, even potential murderers have impeccable timing when it comes to ruining perfectly good almost-kisses.