Page 14 of Fish and Chip

“No! Absolutely not!” I shake my head so hard my cat ears almost fly off. “I left the party looking for you. You and your mother disappeared for what felt like three hours but was probably more like twenty minutes, and I thought maybe you’d gone somewhere private to discuss her extremely questionable financial decisions regarding free admission and complimentary buffets.”

Dexter’s jaw tightens slightly, and that’s how I know I’m right.

“So I came back here,” I continue, gesturing wildly with my crimson-covered hands, which is doing nothing for my case, “and I tripped over her leg. Oh my word, I tripped over a dead woman’s leg. And I landed face-first in the cemetery display, right on top of her, and our props are really, really good this year, so⁠—”

“Let me get this straight,” Georgie says. “You slapped a body multiple times.”

“I thought it was a dummy!”

“That’s what they all say,” Georgie mutters.

Through a break in the crowd, the party lights still glow from the front of the mansion, and I can just make out Belladonna’s poster propped beside the now-empty stage. Death Checks In at Midnight. I check my watch. Not even ten. Leave it to Belladonna to make an early exit and still upstage her own book.

Ree pats my arm. “For the record, honey, nobody here thinks you did it.” She pauses. “Well. Nobody standing directly next to me.”

Dexter kneels beside Belladonna, and I force myself to look at her properly for the first time since realizing she’s not something I’m going to cram in a plastic tub and store in the shed for the winter.

The poor woman is still in her witch’s costume, her silver raven earrings catching the light from the Haunted Mansion. Her pale blue eyes are open, staring up at nothing, and her elegant chignon has come undone. Her silver hair is matted on one side, and she has a dark spot on her right temple.

Dexter presses two fingers to her neck, checking for a pulse even though it’s pretty obvious she’s beyond saving. He shakes his head and looks up at me with an expression that’s equal parts professional detective and deeply exhausted boyfriend. In fact, I wouldn’t blame him if he were reconsidering this whole romantic equation. Most men date a woman. Dexter dates a recurring crime scene with cat ears.

He pulls out his phone, and I hear him calling it in to the station. His voice drops into that official tone he uses when things are getting serious. I catch phrases like suspicious death and secure the scene and yes, at the theme park again.

That last part stings a little, but he’s not wrong.

I’m fairly certain the station has a betting pool going on my park by now. Odds, dates, probable Hollows. Somebody in dispatch is winning big tonight, and I hope they at least have the decency to feel bad about it. Or share the winnings with me.

After he hangs up, he sends a quick text to park security, his thumbs flying over the screen.

I should mention that after three homicides in a row at Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland (yes, three, and yes, I’m aware that’s a concerning pattern), you might say Dexter and the entire Seaview Sheriff’s Department have become more than a little chummy with the park’s security team.

Who are, by the way, absolutely useless at preventing deaths but extremely good at eating the free snacks in the break room and pretending to patrol the grounds while sneaking on a roller coaster every now and again under the guise of quality control.

Somewhere out there is a security team that stops crimes. Mine stops for churros.

A crowd starts to gather. Of course they do. Because a real dead body mixed in among the fake ones is the hottest attraction this park has ever offered. I’d charge admission, but that feels like a legal gray area.

More screams. An entire choir of gasps. Someone yells, “Is that Belladonna Hershey?” and someone else shouts back, “It is!”

Phones come out in throngs. Because naturally—we can’t just have a murder in peace. We have to document it for social media.

“Everyone step back!” Dexter commands as he flashes his badge. It’s the same tone that probably makes suspects crack and lawyers sweat, and makes me want to do things to the detective that I shouldn’t think about at a crime scene. There’s something wrong with me. We’ll unpack it later.

But of course, no one listens. Because if there’s one thing a direct order to step back accomplishes, it’s a bigger crowd.

I scan the area around Belladonna’s body, trying to notice details instead of just panicking about the body count rising faster than our merchandise sales. And considering Fish and Chip merch sprints off the shelves, the body count is putting in serious overtime.

A breeze blows in and lifts the fog just enough for me to squint into the darkness. Almost instantly I notice a metal bar lying near her head. Maybe two feet long, one end slightly bent as if someone used it for something it wasn’t designed for. Like, say, hitting someone over the head. That would explain a lot, but not enough, since I’ve somehow managed to land myself as the prime suspect in yet another homicide.

I take a few steps in that direction, and it looks like it came from the decorative wrought-iron fencing that’s part of our cemetery display, half of which has fallen inward. The fencing that’s supposed to be charming and spooky, and certainly not weaponized.

Speaking of which, I glance over at the fence, and sure enough, there’s a section that’s broken. A piece is missing right where that metal bar would have fit perfectly.

My eyes drift back to Belladonna’s temple. There’s definitely a smear of darkness there, and a little blood in her hair right above her ear.

Blunt force trauma. Someone hit her with that bar.

Someone murdered Belladonna Hershey with a piece of decorative fencing, which would be darkly ironic if it weren’t so horrifying. The woman built a career on murders so clever readers needed a diagram, and somebody took her out with a fence post. I have a feeling Belladonna would demand a rewrite. With notes—extensive notes. Probably written in red.