Chapter 22
Wallis Fulton just disappeared through the grand wooden doors of the Fairy Tale Feast, and the jewel-toned light from the stained-glass windows shifts, landing an amber shadow across our table like we’re about to conduct a séance or maybe summon dessert.
Dexter slides his half-eaten Huntsman’s Platter to the side and pulls out a small leather-bound notebook that looks like it’s seen its share of crime scenes, stakeouts, and possibly a few spilled lattes.
His posture straightens, his gaze sharpens, and just like that, lunch-with-a-detective becomes debriefing-with-a-cop.
“So,” he says, flipping open his notebook. “Let’s compare notes.”
“Is this where I officially become your deputy, or are we still pretending I’m not your civilian sidekick with crime-solving swagger?” I ask, nudging aside the remnants of my Rapunzel’s Tower. It has officially collapsed like my patience with suspects.
“Let’s call it a strategic information exchange between a public servant and a concerned citizen.” His lips twitch. “With cats.”
“Speaking of which...” I glance toward Fish and Chip, who have abandoned all pretense of behaving. Chip’s whiskers glisten with gravy like he’s just returned from a culinary crime scene. Fish delicately grooms a spot of sauce off her paw like she’s cleaning blood evidence from her latest hit.
The culinary evidence has been thoroughly analyzed, Fish declares without a shred of shame. That sausage was ninety-five percent tasty and maybe forty-seven percent actual wild boar. False advertising. Possibly a felony.
The gravy alone is worth three confessions and a plea deal, Chip adds, eyes glazed in bliss. I’d confess to stuff I haven’t even done for another bite.
Dexter slides a napkin toward me as if he’s about to present a case to the FBI. “I find visuals help when organizing suspects.”
I grab a pen from my purse (which also contains a mini flashlight, two granola bars, and a keychain pepper spray that looks like a glitter unicorn) and begin sketching a quick triangle.
“Three points of our murder triangle,” I say. “Vivian, Patty, and Wallis. All with motives, all with opportunity, all suspicious in their own special ways.”
“Let’s start with Vivian Templeton,” Dexter suggests, consulting his notes on his phone.
“Former fiancée of the victim, bitter professional rivalry, possible ongoing business conflict based on what Wallis just told us. And also, according to Wallis—a woman with enough grudge potential to fill a landfill.”
“Don’t forget her collection of vintage park pins—two of which somehow ended up next to Ned’s body.” I add this detail to my napkin sketch. “That’s either extremely careless for a murderer or extremely convenient for someone framing her.”
“And I learned her alibi has a gap,” Dexter reveals, tapping his pencil against his notebook. “She claims she was on a conference call with her magazine staff from 8:15 to 9:45, but we can only confirm the call until 8:45. After that, it’s just her word until people saw her again around 9:30.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “That’s a conveniently murder-sized window.”
“Exactly. And places her unaccounted for during the medical examiner’s estimated time of death between 8:45 and 9:15.”
The silver-haired hooman with excessive editor style moved like a seasoned predator, Fish offers. Her smiles were measured. Her gaze calculated. Her shoes? Entirely impractical for fleeing a crime scene, but fashionable enough to distract from guilt.
She smelled like expensive perfume and secrets, Chip mewls. Less helpful, but noted.
“Moving on to Patty Sherwood,” Dexter continues. “Small-town politician with big ambitions, warned you away from digging into the park’s history, and according to your conversation with her, has a direct connection to the park’s past that she tried to downplay.”
“Specifically, she claimed to have worked the ticket counter, but Wallis’s comment about her overactive imagination makes me wonder what’s fact and what’s fiction.” I jot this down, drawing a small stick figure with pink boots.
“Now for Wallis,” Dexter continues. “Publisher. Business partner. Southern charm so thick you could bottle it and use it to glaze ham. And according to your expert sleuthing, possible heir to the Merryweather fortune.”
“Which means motive times two,” I say. “Financial and familial. If Ned was threatening to expose Wallis’s connection to the park or dissolve their travel site, that’s a hit to his money, ego, and carefully curated mysterious charm.”
“He says the front desk to his hotel can confirm his alibi,” Dexter points out. “I’ll make sure that’s true.”
The Southern hooman is playing the long game, Fish notes with grudging respect. Like when you let the mouse run so you can chase it again later. Pure sport. Also shady.
I tap my pen on the napkin. “Three suspects. Three motives. Three alibis made of Swiss cheese.”
Dexter’s expression grows thoughtful. “The key is finding out what Ned discovered about the park. Based on the evidence, he was looking into something specific—something worth killing over.”
This investigative collaboration is surprisingly effective, Fish points out, settling into a more comfortable position to observe us. Although the detective could use a better system. Maybe color-coded suspect tabs. With glitter.
I’m just hoping this parade thing has food, Chip interjects with a rather hungry yowl. All this crime-solving works up an appetite. Murder is hungry business. Justice should be served—with a side of fries.
Dexter glances up from his notes. “Speaking of the park, I understand there’s a parade coming up. Sunday, right?”
“Yep. The Great Gourd Gala Parade. Worst name ever. It sounds like a pumpkin-themed funeral. I’m hoping to rectify that.”
“Got a replacement?”
“Several. But I’ve rejected them all.” I pull out my notebook, revealing my earlier list of rejected parade names.
Dexter scans the list, his lips twitching. “Impressive collection of rejected options. What about something that ties into your new marketing genius?”
Did he just call me a genius?
“You mean the cats?”
Fish sits taller. I accept this branding opportunity.
The Great Food Parade! Chip says. With fish-shaped snacks! Fish confetti! Treat fountains! With treat stations every ten feet! And fish-shaped confetti, too!
“Feline Fall Festival was a contender,” I say. “But it sounds like a cat-splosion. I’d hate for people to think cats were going to rain from the sky.”
“What about Wonderland Walkabout?” Dexter offers.
“Too Crocodile Dundee.”
“Fairy Tale Fall Frolic?”
“Too many F’s. Feels like a tongue-twister with marketing mayhem. Besides, with all the broken things this place has to offer, we hear enough F words as it is.”
After ten more rejects and one near miss, Dexter holds up a finger. “How about Magic and Mascots.”
I blink. “That... might actually be perfect.”
“No vegetables. Mild whimsy. And it’s cat-inclusive.”
I jot it down with enthusiasm. “Congratulations. You’re now officially a marketing consultant.”
“My mother will be thrilled.”
I pull out my phone and make a note of the name, already envisioning the banners and marketing materials. “Detective Dexter, I believe you’ve just saved me from the embarrassment of the Autumn Antics Parade. The park’s marketing department thanks you. That would be me.”
“Always happy to assist with crime-adjacent naming crises. I hope it goes well.”
“Oh, no you don’t. The parade is Sunday at noon.
The entire town turns out for it, plus tourists.
It’s one of the biggest events of the season.
” Okay, so I just made that last part up.
“You named the parade. You need to be there. Officially for security purposes, or unofficially for the cotton candy. Your choice.”
A brief shadow of professional consideration crosses his face before his expression softens. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
“It’s going to be perfect,” I lie through my teeth. “Though I make no promises about being able to prevent my friend Georgie from adding a parade float to her hat collection.”
He nods. “I understand some forces of nature can’t be contained. Even by law enforcement.”
We’re mid-eye flirt when Sir Lancelot appears, glowing with medieval cheer.
“Pardon me, noble guests! Might I immortalize your merriment with a portrait?”
“You mean take our picture?” I ask.
“Indeed! For the royal gallery!”
Dexter and I exchange glances—half-amused, half-awkward—before I shrug and hand over my phone.
We shift closer together, Fish arranging herself regally on the table between us while Chip flops onto his back in an apparent attempt to showcase his fluffy belly to maximum advantage. I can’t blame him. It is adorable.
Dexter’s arm rests casually on the back of my chair—not quite touching me, but close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from him. Professional distance with just a hint of something more.
“Say dragon’s breath!” Sir Lancelot instructs, before clicking like mad.
The resulting photo captures a moment of genuine connection amid the absurdity—Dexter looking surprisingly relaxed, me with color in my cheeks that has nothing to do with the drinks, Fish posed like royalty, and Chip flopped over and showing off his belly as if he were auditioning for a cat calendar.
I glance at the image and, on impulse, upload it to my family group chat. The response is nearly instantaneous.
McKenna: OMG MOM!!! You and Detective Dimples?!? I think he’s getting hotter! You SLAY!!!
Riley: MOM! I need all the details ASAP!!!
Then, with predictable timing, Clyde’s message appears.
Clyde: Moving on rather quickly, aren’t we? What happened to taking time to process our marriage?
Dexter catches my smile. “Good news?”
“Ex-husband jealousy. It’s like dessert but pettier.”
He pays the bill before I can argue. “Park managers can’t expense dates.”
“Neither can homicide detectives,” I point out.
“Consider it a professional deduction.”
We rise. Our fingers brush and I don’t look away.
“I’ll let you know if anything develops,” he says.
“And I’ll be watching,” I reply. “This park’s secrets have secrets.”
We take off together and part ways as soon as we step outside.
The parade will be the perfect opportunity to observe all suspects in one location, Fish mewls. All gathered for our convenience. Now that’s efficient.
And there will be funnel cake, Chip adds dreamily. Funnel cake and murder suspects. It will be the perfect Sunday.
Magic and Mascots, indeed. And perhaps, if we’re lucky, a killer will finally step into the spotlight.
The suspects are assembling. The parade is coming.
And someone is about to get unmasked—hopefully not me.
Stay tuned.