Chapter 21
“Detective Drake,” Wallis says, his Southern drawl thick enough to pour over pancakes, his eyes twinkling like he’s selling charm by the ounce. “A pleasure as always, but I figured we had wrapped up our little murder talk yesterday.”
He turns to me with a smile that probably gets him free upgrades at hotels. “And you must be Ms. Janglewood, the mastermind behind turning house pets into marketing gold. Gotta admit, I admire a woman who can weaponize whiskers.”
“Mr. Fulton.” Dexter nods with professional courtesy as we approach our suspect right here in The Fairy Tale Feast in the heart of Storybook Hollow. “Mind if we join you for a moment? We have a few follow-up questions.”
“Follow-up questions over dessert?” Wallis gestures to his half-eaten pie with the enthusiasm of a man who’s just been asked to discuss tax law during a root canal.
“How could I refuse? Though I must warn you, I’ve already told you everything I know about poor Ned’s unfortunate demise.
The man was as skilled at making enemies as he was at finding fault with five-star resorts. ”
We settle into chairs across from him, and I note that the blueprints have mysteriously disappeared faster than free samples at a big box store on a Saturday afternoon. Wallis dabs at his mouth with a napkin, the picture of Southern gentility with a side of evidence tampering.
“I understand you were Ned’s business partner,” I begin casually, as if I’m asking about his meal instead of potential murder motives. “That must make his death particularly difficult for you.”
“Business partner is perhaps overstating things,” Wallis corrects smoothly, with ease as if he’s had to explain complicated business relationships before.
“We co-owned a travel website, yes, but it was more of an investment on my part. Ned handled the content side. I merely provided the financial backing and occasional bail money when his reviews provoked physical retaliation from disgruntled restaurant owners.”
“Was it a profitable venture?” Dexter asks. His tone is conversational enough but his eyes are sharp enough to perform surgery. So very hot.
“Modestly profitable.” Wallis takes a bite of pie, chewing thoughtfully like he’s savoring both the flavor and the time it buys him to formulate answers that won’t land him in handcuffs.
“I will say, though, Ned had been... well, difficult lately. He wanted to take the site in a different direction.”
“Different how?” I lean forward with the enthusiasm of a girl who’s finally getting somewhere in this investigation.
“He was gravitating toward exposés rather than reviews. He wanted to uncover the dark side of the travel industry.” Wallis shakes his head with a weary expression as if he tried to talk sense into a brick wall.
“I told him scandal sells less reliably than service, but Ned always did love stirring the pot. The man couldn’t eat soup without creating waves and probably alienating the entire kitchen staff.
Our business model worked until he got the itch for scandal. ”
“Scandal doesn’t pay?” Dexter asks.
“Not reliably. You know how it is—one exposé brings clicks, two lawsuits, and suddenly your accountant starts sweating more than your targets.”
Dexter leans forward slightly. “These exposés—any idea what specifically he was working on?”
“Nothing concrete. Like I said, he wanted to take the site in full dark mode—exposés, conspiracies, shady backstories of luxury spas. I told him nobody wants doom with their destination recs.”
“Was he poking around the park?” Dexter leans in.
“Yes. In fact, he mentioned looking into the history of this very park. He seemed quite fixated on it, actually. Like a dog with a particularly juicy bone, if you’ll pardon the expression.”
My pulse quickens like I’ve just spotted a clearance sale at my favorite store. “Did he say what about the park interested him?”
“He said there were skeletons buried deeper than any ride foundation. He talked about cover-ups like we were in a spy novel instead of a town where the mayor still uses a flip phone.”
“When was the last time you saw him?” Dexter asks, watching Wallis’s face with the intensity of a detective reading a book written in invisible ink.
“At the reception, of course. But I left early. These old bones don’t tolerate late nights like they used to.” He chuckles self-deprecatingly, patting his knee like it might provide character testimony. “Youth is wasted on the wrong people, as they say.”
“And you didn’t see him later that evening? Perhaps in the funhouse?”
“Heavens, no.” Wallis looks genuinely startled, but whether from the question or its implication is about as clear as mud in a rainstorm. “I was back at my hotel by nine. The front desk clerk can confirm it. I was in bed with a good book and a better brandy by ten.”
I notice the slight tension in his hand as he sets down his fork, his knuckles whitening just a fraction—like someone trying to appear casual while internally calculating escape routes.
“Did you notice Ned speaking with anyone in particular that night?” I ask. “Anyone who seemed agitated?”
Wallis pauses, his expression suggesting internal calculation more complex than my tax returns. “Well, now that you mention it, I did see him in what appeared to be a rather heated discussion with Vivian Templeton. Behind the catering tent.”
Dexter’s posture shifts subtly, like a hunting dog catching a scent. “Vivian Templeton? What time was this?”
“Must have been around eight-thirty, shortly before I left.” Wallis takes a sip of his water with studied casualness.
“They’ve had a contentious relationship for years—professional rivals, you understand—but this seemed different.
More personal. Vivian was holding something.
.. papers, perhaps? Ned seemed quite agitated about whatever she was showing him. ”
“Any idea what they were arguing about?” Dexter presses.
Wallis leans forward. “I couldn’t hear clearly, but I did catch Vivian saying something about proof and Ned responding that the public deserves to know.” He sits back, spreading his hands. “Make of that what you will. Personally, I find it rather intriguing, don’t you?”
He’s laying it on just thick enough to look helpful, Fish mewls from our table, where she’s apparently been monitoring the conversation with the focus of a feline surveillance expert.
Yet another classic misdirection technique.
Next, he’ll offer you his dessert. Distract the hooman with pie, point fingers at someone else, and hope we’re too full to notice.
Also, your chicken is delicious, Chip adds, confirming my suspicions about our unguarded meals. The honey sauce pairs excellently with the herb marinade. I had to try it six times. For, you know, scientific reasons.
“Mr. Fulton,” Dexter continues, “I couldn’t help but notice you were studying what appeared to be park blueprints earlier. Professional interest?”
Wallis winces before his charming smile returns faster than a boomerang with attachment issues. “Just researching for a new guidebook. Hidden Histories of American Amusements. This park has such a fascinating past.”
“Including your personal connection to it?” I ask innocently, like I’m inquiring about his favorite color rather than potentially explosive family secrets.
His hand freezes halfway to his water glass. “I’m not sure I understand, Ms. Janglewood.”
“Just that you seem to have a particular interest in Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland. Almost familial.”
The Southern charm drops a few degrees, like someone adjusted the thermostat from hospitable to mildly homicidal.
“You’ve been speaking to Patty Sherwood, I see.” He forces a smile. “She always did have an overactive imagination. The girl could turn a handshake into an engagement announcement.”
“Is it her imagination?” I press, sensing I’ve hit a nerve. “Or is there some truth to the rumor that you’re related to the Merryweathers?”
Wallis dabs his mouth with his napkin, a gesture that seems designed to buy thinking time and possibly hide facial twitches. “Family is a complicated concept, Ms. Janglewood. The Merryweathers and I have history. But I assure you, my interest in the park is primarily professional.”
“And yet you’re studying blueprints rather than taking the standard tour,” Dexter points out with detective-level precision. “Most visitors don’t require structural engineering documents to enjoy the cotton candy.”
“I believe in thorough research.” Wallis glances at his watch with urgency, like he’s just remembered an important appointment or needs an excuse to escape.
“Speaking of which, I have a conference call with my publisher in fifteen minutes.” He stands, his smile returning to full wattage.
“It’s been a pleasure chatting with you both.
The berry cobbler is particularly magnificent—almost worth killing for.
” He pauses. “A figure of speech, of course.”
With a slight bow, he takes off, leaving his half-eaten pie behind like abandoned evidence.
He’s lying about something, Fish declares as we watch him exit. His tail would be twitching if he had one. Hoomans have terrible poker faces without proper tails for emotional concealment.
The real crime is abandoning perfectly good pie, Chip adds solemnly. Some desserts never get their justice.
“Well, that was interesting,” I murmur as we watch Wallis disappear into the crowd.
“Very.” Dexter’s gaze follows his retreating form. “He was awfully quick to point the finger at Vivian.”
“While being deliberately vague about his own connection to the park,” I add. “Do you think he’s our guy?”
“He’s definitely hiding something,” Dexter concedes. “But whether it’s murder or just a few family secrets remains to be seen.”
We return to our table, where Fish and Chip have made a valiant effort to appear innocent despite clear evidence of food tampering on both our plates.
The Southern hooman redirected attention to the silver-haired female, Fish reports with clinical precision. Classic predator behavior—create a distraction, then slip away.
He smelled nervous when you mentioned the blueprints, Chip meows. Like burnt toast and secrets. And possibly expensive aftershave trying to cover both.
As we settle back into our seats, Dexter gives me an appraising look. “You handled that well. The question about his family connection caught him off guard.”
“I’ve had practice with deflection artists,” I shrug. “Twenty-five years of marriage to Clyde was basically an advanced degree in detecting bull.”
“So, what’s your take?”
I take a thoughtful sip of my Dragon’s Breath. “Wallis is definitely pursuing his family claim to the park, but murder seems extreme even for inheritance disputes. My money is still on Patty and her pink boots.”
“Speaking of Patty,” Dexter says, “we should compare notes about your conversation with her.”
“I say we compare every note we have on the case.”
He nods and we’re about to do just that.
And somewhere in this enchanted mess, a killer is watching, waiting, and perhaps planning their next move. But I’m ready to write my own ending—preferably one without any more bodies in the funhouse.