Chapter 14 #2
I belt out a laugh. “If you’re in the market, I know where you can get a Dutch doll with werewolf arms to go with them.
Complete with questionable demonic possession at no extra charge.
She comes with her own exorcist—that would be Shrieking Sally from the haunted house.
She’s technically an animatronic, but I’m pretty sure she’s harboring at least three vengeful spirits. ”
As the conversation flows, I find myself relaxing in his company.
There’s something comforting about Dexter’s presence—a steady, calming energy that makes the chaos of the past days feel manageable, like finding the eye of a hurricane and discovering it’s actually quite pleasant if you ignore the destruction swirling around you.
“So, are you married?” I ask, not sure why I went there. Okay, so we both know why I went there and now I’m holding my breath until I hear all about the Mrs.
“Divorced.”
I’ve never felt a bigger wave of relief. “I’m so sorry,” I say, but it sounds more like I’m so glad! And let’s be honest, after the kind of week I’ve had, I may have said those words.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” I venture on, “why in the world would a woman let you go? I mean, aside from your obvious character flaws like following proper crime scene procedures and respecting the chain of evidence.”
The man looks like sin personified and he wields handcuffs, for Pete’s sake.
He tips his head as surprise flickers across his face before settling into resignation. “She said I was holding her back from achieving her dreams.”
“Which were?”
“Living the high life,” he explains, running a hand through his hair.
“She yachts the Mediterranean in summer, and winter, spring, and fall she spends in Brambleberry Bay as a regular at the country club. Her new husband owns several luxury car dealerships here in the states, along with a few abroad.” His smile turns wry.
“You might say my salary at the sheriff’s department put a damper on things.
Apparently, yacht parties are significantly less impressive when you arrive in a ten-year-old sedan with police lights duct-taped to the roof. ”
I huff indignantly. “Well, I could tell her a few things—starting with money can’t buy you love or keep your husband from sleeping with half the town.
” The words tumble out before I can stop them.
“And believe me, I’d trade everything that man put me through for a decent man who loved and respected me, even if we lived in a cardboard box under the Pioneer Express.
Preferably a cardboard box with indoor plumbing—I have some standards. ”
Dexter nods, his dimples inverting as he gives one of those disappearing smiles again. I suddenly become hyperaware of my own cheeks, where matching dimples are likely making their appearance.
Great. We’re having a dimple-off in the middle of a theme park. Next, we’ll discover we both have the same blood type and favorite ice cream flavor, and the Hallmark Channel will start filming us without permission.
“Want to risk life and limb on a few rides?” I ask. “I haven’t tried all of them yet, even if I did come pretty darn close. You can consider it part of your civic duty—ensuring public safety through first-hand investigation.”
“Lead the way,” he agrees. “Though I am on duty, so if you’re planning to kill me via roller coaster, I should warn you it’s a felony.”
“Only if they catch me first,” I quip, then immediately regret it as his eyebrow rises.
“That sounded less murdery in my head. I promise I’m not planning to add to any of your colleagues’ caseloads.
Not deliberately, anyway. Besides, Bizzy would kill me, considering you work with her husband Jasper. ”
“You know Detective Wilder?” He inches back.
“I not only know him, I live with him. At least on the same grounds. I’m staying at the Country Cottage Inn, and I’ve gotten in the habit of kidnapping his cat for long spates of time.”
Dexter looks both amused and terrified.
For the next hour, I guide Dexter through the theme park’s questionable attractions. He takes each mechanical failure and design flaw in stride, laughing at the Galactic Cruiser with its Christmas light stars and even helps push our Pioneer Express train when it stalls mid-track.
By the time we’ve survived three rides, the sun has fully set, and the park’s lights cast a warm glow that somehow makes even the run-down attractions seem charming—like viewing them through the world’s most effective rose-colored glasses.
The scent of fried dough draws us to a food stand where a teenager with braces and the thousand-yard stare of someone who’s seen too many entitled customers hands us an impressive array of carnival treats that could probably feed a small army or one very hungry detective.
We settle on a bench with corn dogs, funnel cake topped with fresh strawberries and a mountain of whipped cream, and two massive cups of hot chocolate that probably contain more sugar than the FDA would approve of in a month.
“This,” Dexter announces, taking a bite of funnel cake, “is why I became a cop. For the high-stakes funnel cake investigations.”
“Is that what this is? Am I under suspicion for powdered sugar trafficking? I swear, Officer, I’m just holding it for a friend who has a serious baking problem and possibly an addiction to carnival food.”
His comeback is cut short by the sudden appearance of Fish and Chip, who trot toward us with the regal bearing of conquerors returning from battle. Their fur is slightly mussed, suggesting either intense negotiations or an equally intense nap. My guess is both.
Mission complete, Fish declares. The feline troops have been briefed. Battle of Rodent Hill begins at closing.
We promised them the premium scraps from the food court, Chip adds, eyeing our funnel cake with the naked desire of an addict spotting their next fix. And possibly your firstborn. The negotiations got a little heated, but I talked them down from two firstborns to just one. You’re welcome.
At least I can keep Riley.
Dexter arches a brow. “I swear, it almost seems as if they’re talking to you. Do they always meow this much?”
“Only when they think I’m not listening.”
Tell the armed hooman to step away from the funnel cake, Fish demands, eyeing Dexter suspiciously.
He looks like the type to arrest innocent cats for merely existing in proximity to crime scenes.
The strawberry sauce slathered all over that thing looks guilty, not us. We’re simply disposing of rodents.
Chip eyes the funnel cake. He looks like a snack thief.
I shoot him a look that says it takes one to know one.
Dexter tears a piece off his funnel cake and offers it to both of them. Fish takes it delicately. And Chip inhales his like a furry Dyson.
I guess he can stick around, Fish mewls. But only if he offers whipped cream next time.
“So why did you really want to see the cats?” I scoop both cats into my lap, where they immediately arrange themselves for optimal funnel cake access with the precision of NASA engineers calculating a moon landing.
“Don’t mind them. They’re just performing their mascot duties with excessive enthusiasm.
The park’s marketing department might call it interactive character immersion.
I call it being held hostage by fur balls with attitude. ”
He hesitates. “My kids wanted selfies with them. We spent half their childhood here.”
Something in my chest softens at this confession, like butter forgotten in the sun. He’s not just hot. He’s... wholesome.
“That’s sweet. How about we take a couple of group shots?” I pull out my phone. “For the official mascot social media accounts, of course. Purely professional documentation.”
We take a few photos—with Fish looking regal and Chip mid-chew. Dexter’s shoulder brushes mine and the carousel music shifts to a love song.
Okay, so it’s still screeching out the same broken tune, but in my mind hearts and confetti are exploding all over the place. I may never wash my shoulder again.
As the evening winds down, we walk along the now-empty midway, our footsteps echoing against the cobblestones.
The autumn air has grown chilly, and I pull my cardigan tighter, wishing I’d worn something more substantial than my first day of work outfit, which was designed for making impressions, not for warmth.
“This place is going to be a big undertaking,” I admit, glancing around at the darkened rides and shuttered kiosks.
“It needs a lot of work, and I really don’t know what I’m up against financially.
My business plan currently consists of fix everything and hope for money, which is slightly less detailed than I’d prefer. ”
“I’d be glad to help you brainstorm,” he offers. “I’ve watched this place change over the years. It would be a shame to see it close. Plus, my kids would never forgive me if their favorite mechanical malfunction destination disappeared.”
“I’d like that,” I say, meaning it. “I could use all the help I can get. Currently, my crisis management team consists of two cats and a haunted Dutch doll.”
We’ve circled back to where we started, near the main entrance. Dexter hesitates, then meets my eyes. “Josie, I know you spoke to Vivian Templeton today.”
My stomach drops faster than a broken elevator. “How— Okay, fine. I may have grilled her. Gently. Like a panini. How did you know?”
“I had an appointment with her right afterward,” he explains, his expression growing serious. “She mentioned she thought she was already grilled for the death of Ned Hollister—by you.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he shakes his head.
“Stay out of my case, Josie,” he says, his voice gentle but firm. “You have enough on your hands with this place. You don’t need any more trouble.” His eyes lock with mine, intense enough to short-circuit my usual deflection systems. “Certainly not from a killer.”
The warning sends a chill through me that has nothing to do with the night air and everything to do with the realization that someone out there has murder on their resume and possibly me on their radar.
As we part ways—him to his sensible sedan that probably has working air conditioning and a radio that plays actual music, me to gather my cats and head back to the inn where I’ll probably lie awake wondering if I’m in over my head—I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve just been issued both a warning and a challenge.
And if there’s one thing my failed marriage taught me, it’s that I’ve never been particularly good at backing down from either—especially when the stakes involve a handsome detective with baby blues and dimples that could melt the ice cream stand from a fifty-foot distance.
Fish licks her paw. So... are we solving this murder or what?
Chip curls around my ankle. Let’s finish the funnel cake first. Then justice.