Chapter 24
You know you’ve had a successful evening when you’ve caught a murderer, kissed a detective, and your cats are now considered local celebrities—all before the spooktacular party you’re throwing can end.
Purple fountain water shimmers under twinkling lights, while creepy music mingles with the sound of laughter and the occasional mechanical cackle from animatronic witches who’ve clearly been programmed by someone with questionable timing.
Leaves swirl across the cobblestones in lazy spirals, and the entire scene looks delightfully haunted.
“MOM!” Riley’s voice cuts through the ambient horror night chaos as she bounds over with McKenna, Emma, and Jack trailing behind her. All four of them are glowing with the kind of energy that comes from successfully orchestrating the event of the century.
“Oh my gosh, like, that was literally the most amazing The Magic and Mascots parade ever!” Emma gushes, bouncing on her toes with excitement. “The rest of the Halloween season is going to be absolutely perfect!”
“Totally perfect,” McKenna agrees, then immediately steps closer to Jack with the subtle maneuvering of someone marking territory. “We’re, like, basically the best event planning team in the history of event planning.”
“We should totally get matching T-shirts,” Riley adds, edging into McKenna’s space with equal subtlety. “Something that says Festival Goddesses or whatever.”
Jack grins with the oblivious confidence of someone who has no idea he’s the center of a sister rivalry. “You guys killed it tonight. This whole thing was incredible.”
The young hoomans are very pleased with themselves, Fish observes from my arms, still wearing her slightly askew witch hat. Their enthusiasm is pawsitively energetic.
I love them, Chip announces. They smell like success and leftover funnel cake.
“And, like, oh my goodness,” Riley continues, suddenly focusing on Fish and Chip with laser intensity, “you two are literally the cutest, most furry little celebrities ever! You slayed it again!”
“So adorable!” Emma squeals, reaching out to scratch Fish behind the ears. “Like, seriously, you should have your own reality show!”
A reality show, Fish muses with a swish of her tail. That has potential. Keeping Up with the Cats or perhaps The Real Housecats of Maine.
I vote for Chip and Fish: Masters of the Universe, Chip suggests, lifting his chin with pride. Very catchy.
“We’re gonna go hit some rides before the night’s over,” McKenna announces, already tugging Jack toward the carousel. “Come on, let’s go!”
“Actually,” Riley interjects, grabbing Jack’s other arm. “I thought we could check out the haunted mine ride. You know, since it’s, like, finally working again.”
“The carousel has better lighting for selfies,” McKenna counters with the strategic thinking of a social media veteran.
“The mine ride has better adrenaline for actual fun,” Riley shoots back.
Jack looks between them with dawning awareness that he might be caught in the middle of something. “Why don’t we do both?”
“Brilliant compromise.” Emma laughs, clearly the diplomat of the group. “See you later, Ms. Janglewood! Thanks for, like, literally the best night ever!”
They head off in a chattering cluster, and I can already hear the debate about ride priorities continuing as they disappear into the crowd.
“Well,” Dexter observes with amusement. “Your daughters seem to have found their calling in event management. And mine may have, too.”
“And your son seems to have found himself in the middle of a sibling competition,” I reply. “Poor kid has no idea what he’s walked into.”
Before Dexter can respond, Ree and Georgie approach with arms full of enough sweets to supply a small army.
Ree’s carrying what appears to be six different types of spooky-shaped cookies and a bouquet of churros, while Georgie has managed to acquire an impressive collection of caramel apples and chocolate-covered everything.
“Josie!” Ree calls out, slightly breathless from hauling her sugar payload. “Thank you for keeping this place free of killers! I can finally enjoy my desserts without worrying about finding bodies in them!”
“Though I have to say,” Georgie adds with a grin, “the murder mystery element did add a certain spice to the evening. Very dinner theater, but with actual stakes.”
“I prefer my entertainment fictional and my homicides solved by other people,” I tell them. “But thanks for the vote of confidence.”
Georgie turns to Dexter with the kind of smile that suggests she’s about to say something that will make him deeply uncomfortable.
“And thank you, Detective Hot Stuff, for providing such excellent eye candy throughout this whole investigation,” she says with a wink that can be seen from orbit. “It really elevated the whole experience.”
Dexter’s cheeks actually deepen in color, which is adorable and makes me want to kiss him again just for the sake of it.
“Just doing my job,” he manages, apparently deciding that professional dignity is his best defense against Georgie’s shameless flirting.
“Well, keep up the good work.” She laughs, already turning to follow Ree toward the churro stand. “Both the crime-solving and the looking-devastatingly-handsome parts!”
They disappear into the crowd, leaving Dexter and me alone by the purple fountain with only Fish and Chip as witnesses to whatever’s about to happen next.
The sugar-addicted hoomans have excellent taste in law enforcement, Fish observes approvingly. Though their subtlety could use work.
I liked Ree, the one with the churros, Chip adds. She has her priorities straight. But then, Georgie always seems to have bacon in her pockets. She’s pretty easy to like, too.
“Your friends are enthusiastic,” Dexter says with the careful tone of someone who’s just been objectified by middle-aged women wielding caramel apples.
“They’re harmless,” I assure him. “Mostly. Georgie’s bark is worse than her bite, and Ree’s too polite to actually assault anyone with baked goods.”
“Good to know I’m safe from pastry-related violence.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far. This is Maine. We take our desserts seriously here.”
Before he can respond to that particular piece of wisdom, the sound of approaching footsteps makes us both turn toward the fountain’s edge. And there, emerging from the crowd with the confidence of someone who believes the universe revolves around his personal brand, is my ex-husband.
Clyde Janglewood looks exactly like what you’d get if you ordered a motivational speaker from a discount catalog.
His dirty blond hair is styled with the kind of precision that requires professional products and questionable life choices, and he’s wearing a navy blazer over jeans that probably cost more than most people’s car payments.
Everything about him screams financial advisor turned lifestyle guru, from his unnecessarily expensive watch to his loafers that have never seen actual manual labor.
“Josie!” he calls out with the enthusiasm of someone who’s just discovered the solution to world peace. “There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
I inch back instinctively because experience has taught me that when Clyde looks that pleased with himself, someone’s about to get bulldozed by his latest life revelation.
“I just wanted you to know that I just dumped Greedy Greta.”
“The yoga instructor you left me for?” I ask, because apparently my mouth operates independently of my brain when faced with supreme audacity.
“Yep,” he says with the casual air of someone discussing the weather. “Turns out, Greta was more interested in my portfolio than my chakras. Who knew?”
The audacity is breathtaking, Fish mutters. It’s like watching someone try to return a used car to the dealer after crashing it.
Very entertaining, Chip agrees. Though I’m concerned about the secondary hooman’s mental stability.
“Great news. I’m available again,” Clyde continues with the kind of smile that probably works on morning show hosts and yoga instructors but has lost all effectiveness on women who’ve actually lived with him. “I’m all yours, Josie.”
The silence that follows could be measured in geological epochs. Somewhere in the distance, a mechanical witch cackles, and I can’t help but think she’s got the right idea.
“Oh, that’s so funny,” I say with the kind of sugarcoated sarcasm that could rot teeth. “But I’m going to have to pass. You see, I’ve recently developed standards, and you don’t meet any of them.”
Clyde blinks at me with the expression of someone who’s just been told that gravity works in reverse.
“Plus,” I continue, just warming up to my theme. “I’m pretty sure there’s a return policy on husbands, and yours definitely expired when you decided that spiritual enlightenment came with a side of athletic flexibility.”
Dexter presses his lips together as he holds back a laugh, and I can see him trying to maintain professional composure while clearly enjoying the show.
“Well.” Clyde shrugs with the resilience of an ex whose ego has been professionally reinforced. “I’ve got good news regardless.”
“Oh really?” I ask with genuine curiosity. “Did a vital man part fall off your body? Because that would explain so much about our marriage.”
Both Clyde and Dexter wince simultaneously, and I have to admit, there’s something deeply satisfying about making two grown men uncomfortable with one well-placed anatomical reference.
“No,” Clyde says quickly, apparently deciding to move past that particular mental image. “I just got offered a position on Morning Coffee & Chaos.”
He leans in with the conspiratorial air of someone sharing insider information. “I’m sort of seeing the blonde cohost now. I’ve got connections.”
Knew it. That whole take-me-I’m-yours was nothing but a honeytrap so that he could have his wedding cake and eat it, too. At least now I’m able to see him for who he is. A rootin’-tootin’ two-timer who has no intention of slowing down the lying, cheating—might I add, runaway train.
“Ah.” I nod sagely. “Trading up from yoga instructor to television personality. Very strategic. Does she know about your commitment issues, or are you planning that as a surprise?”
Clyde’s smile is replaced with a frown, apparently realizing that he’s not getting the reception he expected.
“At least I’m moving up in the world, Josie. You’re just playing carnival barker at this death trap you call a theme park.”
“Oh, Clyde, the only thing more inflated than your ego is your credit card debt,” I snap back. “How’s that bankruptcy filing coming along?”
“Why, I should—” Clyde dares take a step forward, and Dexter growls while reaching for his weapon.
“Whoa.” Clyde holds up his hands, already backing toward the crowd. “I’d better go mingle with my new coworkers. Network, you know. Build those professional relationships.”
He disappears into the throng of costumed revelers, leaving behind only the faint scent of expensive cologne and questionable life choices.
And that’s how you handle unwanted attention, Fish observes with approval. Swift, decisive, and utterly devastating.
I’m impressed, Chip adds. Though I’m still concerned about his mental stability. Normal hoomans don’t bounce back from rejection that quickly.
“Well,” Dexter says, turning back to me with an expression that’s equal parts admiration and amusement. “That was educational. Do you always handle your exes with that much venom, or was that special just for him?”
“That was me being polite,” I tell him honestly. “You should see what happens when I’m actually trying to be mean.”
“Remind me never to get on your bad side.”
“Please, you’re already there,” I tease. “You keep interrupting our dates with murder investigations. I’m pretty sure that violates several relationship rules.”
“To be fair, she was holding a bloody rolling pin over a corpse. Even I have limits when it comes to family loyalty.”
“Good to know you draw the line somewhere.”
The carnival music swells around us, and the purple fountain water continues its gentle shimmer under the party lights.
Somewhere in the distance, Fish and Chip’s fan club is probably still taking selfies, my daughters are arguing over ride selections, and a murderer is finally getting the justice she deserves.
This seems like an appropriate moment for another display of hooman mating behavior, Fish groans at the thought. The setting is sufficiently romantic, and the obstacles have been cleared.
I vote for more smooching, Chip adds enthusiastically. It was very entertaining last time.
“Your cats look as if they have opinions about something specific,” Dexter says, apparently interpreting their body language if not their actual thoughts.
“They usually do. It’s one of their many charming qualities.”
He steps closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne and count the laugh lines around his eyes. “Any chance they approve of what I’m about to do?”
“Depends on what you’re about to do.”
Instead of answering, he pulls me in hard and kisses me senseless once again right here beside the purple fountain, with autumn leaves swirling around us and the sound of haunted house music providing the perfect soundtrack to what might be the best ending to the worst week of my life.
His lips are warm and confident, and he tastes like possibility and the kind of trouble that’s worth getting into. When we finally break apart, I’m melting like chocolate left in the sun and my brain has apparently decided to take an unscheduled vacation.
“How was that?” he asks, his voice rough around the edges.
“Getting there,” I manage, my pulse hammering like it’s trying to escape through my eardrums. “Though I think I might need more practice to be sure.”
His grin is criminally attractive. “I think that can be arranged.”
Because if solving murders means getting kissed by Detective Dreamboat under pumpkin lanterns while my cats provide commentary and killers get dragged away in handcuffs, I’m pretty sure I’ve just discovered the perfect recipe for a life worth living.