Page 17 of Fish and Chip

“I didn’t kill her.”

“I know.” His hand finds the small of my back, warm and steady. “But you found her, which means we do the thing where I take your statement, you remember a crucial detail three days from now at the worst possible moment, and I pretend to be surprised.”

“That was one time.”

“That was every time.”

Chip and I have that defense in common. It’s holding up equally well for both of us.

I look down at Belladonna Hershey one more time. Bestselling author, grande dame of cozy mysteries, queen of the Halloween book world.

And now the latest addition to Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland’s growing body count.

The only thing more dangerous than writing a cozy mystery is being the main character in one.

CHAPTER 4

Another day, another costume, Fish grumbles from the seat next to me. She’s been stuffed into a fuzzy black spider getup, four extra legs bobbing every time she so much as breathes. Why can’t we just be ourselves?

We’re cats, for Pete’s sake, Chip adds with an indignant huff that sets his candy corn costume wobbling—white tip, orange middle, yellow bottom, and a perfect match for his physique. People are running around the park literally trying to be us!

“Darn right,” I say, giving Fish a quick pat. “And they’re ponying up at the cash register to do it, too.”

Fish and Chip are seated on the bench with me—one on each side, because sharing ended in bloodshed sometime last spring—both of them watching the café like two tiny mob bosses casing the joint.

A woman walking past with a worried expression catches me mid-conversation with the cats. Her eyes go wide, and she hurries along once I make eye contact.

Right. It’s easy to forget people can’t hear Fish and Chip the way I do. To the untrained eye, I’m just the park owner having a spirited debate with two cats who aren’t holding up their end. Honestly, at this point, that’s not even in my top ten most concerning qualities.

It’s the day after the murder, and I’m sitting in the Enchanted Confections Café, a bakery tucked into the corner of Magical Marvels Hollow, right near the glorious blue glass castle that changes colors depending on which way the light hits it.

The entire café looks like a coven of overachieving craft-club moms broke in overnight with a glue gun, three cases of glitter, and something to prove. Black-and-orange bunting drapes from the ceiling, plastic bats dangle at varying heights (one keeps smacking me in the head every time I lean forward; I’ve named him Kevin, and we are officially at war), and jack-o’-lanterns with battery-powered candles glow on every table.

The windows are painted with ghosts and witches, and a life-size skeleton dressed as a baker stands behind the counter holding a tray of cookies. It’s unnerving. It’s also, oddly, a showstopper. Much like myself these days.

The scent of cinnamon rolls, pumpkin spice lattes, and fresh-baked croissants fills the air, mixing with the Halloween music playing softly through the speakers. At the moment, “Thriller” is competing with the hiss of the espresso machine and the chatter of guests dressed in everything from vampire capes to cat ears.

Speaking of cat ears, at least half the people in here are wearing Fish and Chip merch. I spot three sets of orange donut ears, two witch-hat headbands, and one guest in full costume, a homemade Fish outfit complete with black-and-white stripes.

Her stripes are going the wrong direction, Fish notes. Bless her heart. Not everyone can be this symmetrical.

Last night comes to mind, and I blow out a breath.

Dexter isn’t thrilled about this whole body-count thing. And honestly, neither am I. We tried to talk after the sheriff’s department cleared the scene, but he needed to get back to the office to file reports and coordinate with the medical examiner, and I needed to go home and sedate myself with an entire pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream while staring at the ceiling and questioning every decision I’ve made since the sixth grade. My love of theme parks has obviously become a problem for me.

I’ve checked my phone eleven times this morning. No text from him yet. Not that I’m counting. I’m absolutely counting.

Twelve, Fish notes without opening her eyes.

So here I am, the morning after yet another murder at my theme park, trying to pretend I’m holding it together.

Spoiler alert: the only thing holding me together is caffeine and denial.

I’m going through my planner, looking at the sheer number of events happening this week. And I’m not just talking about the regular manic level of Halloween events we’ve got scheduled—hayrides, costume contests, trick-or-treating stations, haunted house tours, pumpkin-carving competitions, the annual Monster Mash dance party, and the Spooky Spectacular parade.

No, I’m also dealing with the manic number of events the Boo Crew is hosting. Author readings at every hollow, the “How to Poison Your Characters” workshop, the “Kill Your Darlings” seminar, murder mystery dinner theater at the Bayou Lagoon restaurant, book signings scattered throughout the week, panel discussions on “Crafting the Perfect Alibi” and “Cozy vs. Thriller: When Does Murder Get Too Real?”

Because clearly what this week needs is a few hundred certified experts on getting away with murder roaming my property.