Page 27 of Fish and Chip

We watch in horrified fascination as the security guard makes one last desperate spin. Georgie loses her grip, goes flying through the air with a shriek, and lands with an enormous splash in the bayou water feature.

I press two fingers to the spot on my temple where my Georgie-related headache lives. At this point it’s less of a headache and more of a tenant with squatter’s rights.

“I’m okay!” Georgie yells, surfacing and spitting out water. “I’m fine! Nothing’s broken!”

The security guard doesn’t hesitate. He kicks off his shoes and dives in after her, emerging a moment later with Georgie in his arms like some caftan-clad damsel in distress.

Georgie, for the record, is not distressed.

Georgie is having the best day of her life.

“Well,” I say, watching the security guard carry a dripping, grinning granny toward dry land, his white T-shirt clinging to every muscle, “that’s one way to see him in a wet shirt.”

Somewhere behind me, Eulla Bell starts applauding. I have a feeling this bookcation is going to end one of two ways—with a solved murder or a viral video. Knowing my park, probably both.

Henrietta blinks once, slow and satisfied. At least someone got what she came for.

CHAPTER 7

If someone had told me a year ago that I’d be standing in a theme park gift shop at nine o’clock on a weeknight, elbow-deep in glow-in-the-dark merchandise while trying not to think about the dead body I found less than twenty-four hours ago, I would have laughed.

Now? This is just another day in my jinxed life.

The Wonderland Mall is a long, winding trail of connected shops that snakes along either side of Huckleberry Lane like a retail fever dream.

Each storefront flows into the next, no doors, just archways decorated with twinkling lights and enough Halloween décor to make Salem, Massachusetts, look like it wasn’t even trying. There’s orange and black bunting draped everywhere, animatronic witches cackling from corners, fake cobwebs stretched across ceiling beams, and jack-o’-lanterns grinning from every available surface as if they know something I don’t. In this park, they probably do.

The shops sell every type of theme park merchandise imaginable: T-shirts, mugs, keychains, plushies, and about seventeen different variations of Fish and Chip ear headbands. The cats have opinions about the likeness, and I’ve been forced to hear every single one of them.

Interspersed between the gift shops are an ice cream parlor (currently serving flavors like Boo-Berry Blast and Pumpkin Scream), a bakery pumping out the scent of fresh cinnamon rolls, a pizzeria with a wood-fired oven, and a café that’s doing brisk business in caramel apple lattes.

I’m currently sorting through a shipment of glow-in-the-dark merchandise that consists of skeleton hands that glow green, ghost-shaped stress balls that pulse with an eerie white light, glow sticks shaped like witch’s wands, light-up pumpkin rings, and my personal favorite, temporary tattoos of Fish and Chip dressed as tiny vampires.

Fish took one look at her fanged likeness and informed me the cape made her hindquarters look wide. Chip asked if he could be paid in ham. Negotiations are ongoing.

A tall, dark, and decidedly handsome shadow falls over my merchandise mountain, and I turn to find my favorite detective leaning against the doorframe with a smile that could melt steel.

“Hey, hot stuff,” I say.

“Right back at you.” He winks, and just like that, my insides do that annoying flutter thing they’ve been doing since we started dating.

We share a quick kiss. Then a much, much slower kiss. Then an even slower, deeper kiss that makes me forget I’m standing in a gift shop surrounded by glowing plastic skeletons. One of them is judging us. I can feel it.

“I was in the area,” Dexter says when we finally come up for air, “and I thought I’d pop in and see if you’ve drummed up another body.”

“I’ve already met my quota for October, thank you very much.” Hand to heaven, I’ve met my quota for a lifetime.

“I’m afraid you might try to outdo yourself and go for a body-a-day record.”

I laugh despite myself. This is what passes for flirting when you’re dating a homicide detective. Honestly, it’s working for me. “The cats are still working the late shift at the photo station, so I’ve got another hour before I need to collect them. Want to hit some rides?”

His eyes light up. “I cannot think of a better way to spend the evening.”

“Let’s fuel up first,” I say, already heading toward the exit. “Can’t ride the Tilt-A-Whirl on an empty stomach. Well, actually you shouldn’t ride it on a full stomach either, but that’s never stopped me before.”

We make our way down Huckleberry Lane and stop at every concession stand in our path to sample Savvy’s latest gourmet carnival creations. All of them. This is called research—and also a bad decision in the making.

First up are truffle-butter corn dogs with a honey-mustard aioli that makes me want to propose marriage to a piece of fried food.