Chapter 15
The back porch of the Country Cottage Inn doesn’t just embrace fall—it wraps it in a plaid blanket and feeds it pie.
Leaves in every hue of fire twist and flutter down to the cove, where they do synchronized swimming routines on the water’s surface.
Somewhere, a pine tree exhales, woodsmoke drifts lazily, and the candles Bizzy arranged on the tables smell so strongly of cinnamon, cloves, and smug fall vibes that I’m shocked an entire flock of influencers hasn’t shown up for a lifestyle shoot.
Heavy plaid blankets drape over Adirondack chairs like fall’s version of a warm hug, while twilight softens the cove in a dreamy golden glow that influencers would commit crimes for.
It’s cozy, scenic, and suspiciously peaceful for a day that started with a murder investigation and ended with my cat declaring war.
I cradle a mug of hot apple cider between my palms, the warmth seeping into my fingers as steam rises in ghostly tendrils.
A plate of pumpkin cookies sits between Bizzy and me, their edges slightly crisp, their centers still warm and soft.
Bizzy has arranged them in a perfect spiral, because even the baked goods she sells have better organizational skills than most people.
The Country Cottage Café is conjoined to the inn and has a patio that expands onto the sandy cove. And that happens to be the exact location where we are. It’s run by Bizzy’s bestie, Emmie, and she bakes and makes the best sweet and savory treats. At least I won’t starve while I’m staying here.
“So,” Bizzy begins, curling into her chair like a cat about to gossip. “Tell me about the dead guy in your funhouse.”
I choke on my cider. “Wow. Okay. No preamble. We’re just going to cannonball right into the deep end. Most people would lead with how was your day?”
“Please,” she says, waving a perfectly manicured hand. “I already know how your day was. Corpse? Check. Hot detective with broody vibes? Check. Theme park on the brink of legal collapse? Triple check. This is the deep end. We live here.”
I can’t argue with that logic. Not when three animals are having their own meet-and-greet session at our feet. Sherlock, Bizzy’s red and white freckled mutt with the most expressive eyebrows I’ve ever seen on a canine, is giving Fish and Chip a sniff-over worthy of a TSA agent.
So, Sherlock muses with faint disdain, these are the Instagram-famous cats. I’ve read the captions. Saw the filters. Your aesthetic is solid. But internet clout doesn’t solve crimes. Though anyone can become internet famous these days.
Fish sits up straight. We’re not simply internet famous, you freckled oaf.
We’re park mascots with a devoted following.
We’ve been featured on three local news stations and have a hashtag trending in the greater Maine area.
Fish stretches like a feline empress. We have verified social influence and a line of merch coming soon.
Also, we apprehended a mouse once. On camera.
There is talk of shirts, Chip adds helpfully. I requested mine be extra soft to emphasize my glorious fur.
Sherlock huffs. Charming. I, however, solve actual mysteries. Not just photobomb cotton candy stands.
“They’re getting along,” I say dryly.
“Like gasoline and fireworks,” Bizzy agrees.
I take another sip of cider, letting the heat settle into my chest like emotional armor.
“So, this guy—Ned Hollister—turns out, he was a critic with a talent for torching reputations and a face that said he enjoyed it. I found him in the funhouse. Dead. Strangled. By a safety chain, which is ironic because clearly it wasn’t that safe. ”
“That’s certainly one way to kick off your new career,” Bizzy notes.
“I’m aiming for a dramatic first impression in all aspects of my life now. The employment version of go big or go home.” I tell her all about the travel writers’ conference, Ned’s numerous enemies, and the distinctive pins I found near his body.
“And,” I continue, “I saw Vivian Templeton—one of our prime suspects and Ned’s ex-fiancée—wearing those exact pins earlier in the evening.”
“That seems suspiciously convenient,” Bizzy muses.
“Exactly. Like someone trying to frame the most obvious suspect—unless, of course, she did it.” I nibble on a cookie, savoring the perfect blend of spices. “And don’t even get me started on Mayor Wannabe Patty Sherwood. The woman is a walking, talking campaign button and half as humble.”
That’s all you’ve got? Sherlock woofs, but it sounds like he’s mocking us. You’re amateurs. You should leave the case to Jasper and me.
Bizzy bites down on a laugh while Fish’s fur nearly stands on end.
You take that back, Fish yowls his way. We both know it’s Bizzy and me who solve the cases around here. And for your information, Josie is plenty capable, too. You’ve never solved a case in your life.
I’ll have you know I’ve achieved a case closure rate of eighty-seven percent. Sherlock bristles, his ears perking up indignantly. How many mice have you successfully apprehended?
Funny you should ask, Chip says. We’ve established a comprehensive rodent elimination strategy just today. His tail swishes with pride. With projected mortality rates exceeding—
We’re organizing a hostile takeover of the local feral population, Fish interrupts. A bit more sophisticated than chasing tennis balls for treats, I should think.
I’ve begun drafting a tactical map of the rodent population, Chip interjects. Also, of the snack locations.
“They’re planning a coup,” I murmur.
Bizzy pops a cookie into her mouth. “As long as they leave the biscotti alone, I’m fine with it.”
They go on bickering and we share a laugh.
“They’re worse than my book club during wine night.” Bizzy fixes me with a knowing look. “But let’s get to what really matters. Tell me about this Detective Drake. Jasper mentioned him when he called about the case.”
“He’s professional,” I say, trying to keep a straight face as I tell her all about our misadventures this evening.
Bizzy grins like a cat with a mouse in its mouth.
“You just got dreamy-eyed describing his tie. That man is one hundred precent tall, dark, and dangerous-to-your-emotional-stability.” She shrugs my way.
“Jasper said every female officer at the station has developed a sudden interest in theme park murder investigations.” She leans forward.
“You know, for someone who discovered a corpse, you’re looking remarkably. .. glowy.”
I groan, sinking deeper into my chair. “I’m not glowy. I’m flushed with righteous indignation at men in general.”
“You’re into him,” she insists.
I groan. “I’m not into him. I’m just... not immune to the laws of attraction and good grooming. And muscles for days, and that whole tall, dark, and brooding thing. And a jawline that could slice deli meat.”
Her pupils dilated when the detective was mentioned, Sherlock observes clinically. Classic physiological response to attraction.
Hoomans, Fish sighs. So predictable. At least choose a mate who brings you premium treats, not handcuffs.
I liked him, Chip declares, stretching lazily. He gave me funnel cake. I’d marry him.
“For your information,” I say with as much dignity as I can muster, “I am not interested in Detective Drake or any other man with a pulse. I’m recently separated, righteously angry, and focused on my career.
I’ve got a park to fix, a murder to solve, and a pirate animatronic with a flashing boob problem. ”
“Sure,” Bizzy says, her tone way too smug. “And if a certain tall drink of justice wants to help fix your... rides, all the better.”
My mind flashes to his shirt. His stubborn smile. The way he looks at me like I’m more than just a walking disaster with access to deep-fried everything.
“He’s totally irrelevant,” I say. “Completely.”
“For what it’s worth,” Bizzy says, her tone softening, “there’s no timeline for moving on after betrayal. Some people take years. Others find that the best antidote to a broken heart is a new perspective. Or a new detective with great biceps and access to handcuffs.”
I laugh despite myself. “I’m not sure my hormones got the memo about the appropriate mourning period for failed marriages. They’re staging a very enthusiastic rebellion that involves inappropriate thoughts about law enforcement officers.”
Bizzy raises her mug. “To righteous anger. And possibly dating a man with a pension.”
We share a laugh that lingers a little too long.
“In all seriousness, though,” I sigh, watching the steam curl up from my mug like tiny ghosts of my former life, “isn’t it too soon?
It’s only been days since I left Clyde, and here I am getting fluttery over a man I met while standing over a corpse. That can’t be normal behavior.”
“Emotional time isn’t measured in calendars,” Bizzy points out. “It’s measured in realizations. And it sounds like you realized your marriage was over long before you packed your bags and found your husband doing unspeakable things with flexible people.”
“Maybe.” I consider this. “Or maybe I’m just so angry at being discarded for a yoga instructor that I’m willing to throw myself at the first attractive man who doesn’t treat me like yesterday’s leftovers or suggest I need to find my inner goddess through meditation and overpriced smoothies.
” I stare out at the moonlit cove, the surface silver and smooth like it’s been photoshopped for a dating app backdrop.
“I just don’t want to be the cliché. The woman with a heartbreak haircut and a sudden thing for emotionally unavailable law enforcement. ”
“You’ve already got the talking cats and the murder,” Bizzy says, patting my arm. “The cliché ship has sailed.”
Hoomans overcomplicate everything, Chip comments while grooming his paw with single-minded dedication. You like him? Sniff his hand. Nudge his knee. Demand snacks. Done.
Yes, excellent advice, Fish mewls wryly. Nothing says romance like demanding food and staring directly into someone’s soul.
Feline wisdom aside, Sherlock interjects with a woof, Jasper says that trauma can make people rethink their priorities. Make them realize what they actually want out of life instead of what they think they’re supposed to want.
Bizzy and I exchange a glance at the unexpected insight from our furry friends.
“How did you know with Jasper?” I ask Bizzy suddenly, struck by genuine curiosity. “That he was the one? You’d dated other guys before—I remember that disaster with the guy who collected vintage lunch boxes.”
She considers this for a moment. “I knew because he felt like home—not the home I’d had, but the home I wanted to build.
And because he looked at me like I was a puzzle he wanted to spend his life solving, not a problem he needed to fix.
” She shrugs. “Also, Sherlock approved of me immediately. He belonged to Jasper first, and that sealed the deal.”
It took approximately seven seconds to determine she was worthy, Sherlock confirms, tail wagging. A personal record.
The night deepens around us, stars emerging one by one like shy dancers taking the stage.
Bizzy glances at her watch and rises. “Speaking of my better half, I should head home. Jasper’s probably wondering where his dinner is, even though I’ve told him a thousand times that opposable thumbs are not just for show.”
I stand to walk her out, and we gather the animals. Fish goes with Bizzy, shooting Chip a look of long-suffering dignity.
Don’t burn down the inn while I’m gone, she warns.
Define burn, Chip says, and ignites a roar from Fish in response.
We say our goodnights and Bizzy promises to track me down tomorrow night for updates on both the murder investigation and what she insists on calling Operation Blue-Eyed Justice.
Back on the porch, I curl up under one of the plaid blankets with Chip nestled in my lap like a furry heating pad with opinions. The cove stretches out before us, dark and mysterious in the moonlight like something from a romance novel where everyone has excellent cheekbones and mysterious pasts.
I pull out my phone and scroll through the photos from earlier, trying not to focus too much on how good Dexter and I look together.
In one shot, Dexter is mid-laugh at something I said, his entire face transformed with genuine amusement that makes him look about ten years younger and possibly dangerous to my mental health.
Without overthinking it, I select that photo and send it to the family group chat with McKenna and Riley. Their responses are immediate.
McKenna: OMG WHO IS THAT?
Riley: Mom’s got GAME! Spill. The. Tea!!!
I’m smiling like a fool when a third message pings.
Clyde: Who is this yahoo? Where did you find him? This is completely inappropriate, Josie!
This from the man who literally got caught playing downward doggie with his yoga instructor in our guest bathroom?
Before I can respond with something petty but poetic, the girls jump in like synchronized lawyers.
Riley: Chill, Dad. Mom’s allowed to have friends.
McKenna: Turnabout is fair play, right? Pretty sure you didn’t get a permission slip for Flexi-Greta.
My smile turns borderline villainous. The kind of smile that comes with theme music and a slow clap.
I read the exchange to Chippy, who blinks up at me with lazy interest.
Betrayed mate is exhibiting textbook territorial behavior, Chip points out while stretching lazily across my lap. Very satisfying. Almost as good as catching a mouse with performance anxiety.
“You do have a dark side, Chip.” And I offer him a scratch behind his ears because of it.
I’m a cat, he mewls back. Revenge is my love language.
And I’m starting to think it’s mine.
I’m still smiling when my phone pings with another notification. An unknown number.
Thanks for the tour today. Let me know if you need help with anything—park-related or otherwise. —Dexter
I gasp hard. Or otherwise?
I stare at the message like it’s a handwritten invitation to something indecent and delicious. Without hesitation, I save his number under Detective Dreamboat—which I’ll change to Dexter Drake, Serious Lawman, or something equally boring before anyone else sees it.
I send back a quick thanks, adding that I might take him up on that offer sooner rather than later. And then immediately relay it all to the big ball of orange fluff shedding in my lap.
And the courtship dance begins, Chip purrs smugly. You’re welcome for my expert matchmaking services. I accepted funnel cake as payment, but future compensation in premium tuna would be appreciated.
I gaze out at the moonlit cove, cider still warm in my hands, the scent of cinnamon clinging to my sweater, and my cat curled up like a purring trophy.
Murder, malfunctioning rides, a sexy detective, and a park with more secrets than storage closets.
Welcome to Huckleberry Hollow, folks. Where the funnel cake is hot, the clues are hotter, and if the rides don’t kill you, someone else just might.