Page 26 of Fish and Chip

Noted. The dead woman collected enemies the way the rest of us collect throw pillows. Speaking of which, Fish and Chip would look so cute on a pair of throw pillows. I’m already mentally adding it to the holiday merch lineup.

“Did she have family?” I ask, trying to sound casual. I’m about as casual as a doll head necklace, but here we are.

I glance down at Henrietta, and I’d swear on everything unholy the thing just winked at me.

Good grief. I’m going to need to take a bath in holy water after this.

“Oh sure, she’s got a couple kids,” Eulla Bell begins. “Her daughter is married and living out in Washington State, I believe. And she has a son. Trevor, I think his name is. He’s local, actually. He’s been in a bit of trouble over the years from what I hear, but apparently he’s cleaned up his act and doing well now.” She pauses. “Or at least that’s what Belladonna liked to tell people. You know how mamas are. Nothing like one of your own kids to land you on the elevator down with the sinners.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” I say. “I have two college-age daughters. If either of them robbed a bank, I’d tell you the bank started it.”

The three of us share a quick laugh.

“Anybody else in her orbit we ought to know about?” Savvy prompts. “Kinfolk, enemies, ex-husbands—I hear those last two travel in pairs.”

“Well,” Eulla Bell says, leaning back against the alligator’s tail, “if you really want to know about Belladonna, you should talk to Felicity Graves. Those two go way back, much longer than I’ve known either of them. In fact, I seem to remember Felicity’s daughter and Belladonna’s son were close friends at some point. Or maybe they were an item? I can’t quite remember the details, but there was definitely some connection there.”

Three women trading murder gossip in the mouth of a giant alligator. If irony gets any thicker, we’re going to have to butter it.

Felicity’s daughter. Belladonna’s son. Two threads dangling in the same breeze. Somewhere in this park, a motive is standing in line for the Ferris wheel, waiting for me to notice it.

“What was cookin’ between Felicity and Belladonna?” Savvy asks. “And I don’t mean cobbler. I’ve got a nose for burnt bridges, and something around here smells extra crispy.”

I’m grateful she’s thinking along the same lines I am.

Eulla Bell leans in so close I can smell her face powder. “Now this didn’t come from me, you hear? But the whole gaggle of us authors got together for a luncheon before this here bookcation, and I caught Felicity and Belladonna out by the coatrack, going at it like two roosters over one worm.”

“About what?” I lean forward. Henrietta leans with me because we’re a team now.

“About a book,” Eulla Bell says. “But here’s the strange part. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what sweet little Felicity could get so riled up over. That woman wouldn’t say boo to a goose. But that afternoon? Honey, she was madder than a wet hen in a tote sack, and Belladonna was the one holding the sack.”

“What exactly were they saying?” I press.

“Something about truth and lies and ‘you can’t publish that,’” Eulla Bell says. “But they buttoned up tighter than granny’s coin purse at a yard sale when they spotted me. Of course, I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but Belladonna was nothing but a wicked old witch. That woman could make Mother Teresa herself turn ornerier than a junkyard dog with fleas.”

In my experience, arguments about truth and lies have a funny way of ending in evidence bags. I file that one under things I wish I didn’t know firsthand.

Savvy nods sagely. “Heaven knows I’ve met my share of those wicked witches. Sweet as pie to your face, then the second you turn around they’re sharpening the cutlery.”

Verdict, Fish? I nod her way as if to ask the question.

Fish considers Eulla Bell. Liars keep it short and she’s longwinded. But then again, this woman is a storyteller so it’s hard to say.

My brain is still trying to process this trip through the Deep South when a whistle blows—sharp and urgent.

We all turn toward the event area and witness something that defies explanation.

Georgie Conner is riding on the back of the massive security guard like he’s a very confused, very muscular horse.

“Giddyup, big boy!” Georgie shouts, her caftan billowing around her. Thank goodness she’s wearing underwear today. And from the looks of it, they’re clean too. Her mother would be so proud, assuming her mother had wildly recalibrated expectations.

The security guard is blowing his whistle frantically, spinning in circles trying to dislodge her while simultaneously calling into his radio. “I need backup! I repeat, I need backup!”

“Is that security guard hollerin’ for reinforcements?” Eulla Bell asks, her eyes going wide as pie pans. “That poor man is spinning like a weather vane in a twister.”

“From Georgie Conner?” Savvy nods. “Honey, he’s gonna need the sheriff’s department, the National Guard, and a tranquilizer dart they’d normally save for livestock.”

“The National Guard will need snacks,” I add. “It’s going to be a long siege.”