Page 3 of Fish and Chip

She’s not entirely wrong either.

This is her third stint as an events coordinator at Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland Theme Park, which I suppose makes her a permanent fixture in my life whether I like it or not. And she’s made one thing clear—she wants the best for her son.

Apparently, that’s not me.

But she loves cozy mysteries more than she dislikes my influence on Dexter’s life, so here we are, united by murder fiction and separated by everything else.

“They’re probably somewhere in the crowd,” I say, gesturing to the sea of costumes. Half the guests are dressed as characters from various cozy mystery series. I’ve spotted at least three amateur sleuths with magnifying glasses, two cat-themed detectives, and one woman in a full baker’s outfit, complete with a rolling pin covered in suspicious red splatters. “It’s a little hard to pinpoint anyone specific when everyone’s⁠—”

“Look!” Delora points toward the author stations set up throughout the hollow. “That’s Belladonna by the zombie and the headless horseman! Oh my word, she’s even more stunning in person.”

Ree and Georgie reappear, looking eagerly into the crowd.

“Wait, Belladonna Hershey is here?” Ree lights up. The Belladonna Hershey? As in Moonlight Manor Belladonna?”

Georgie brightens. “Zombie, headless horseman... so there are men here.”

“I don’t think we’re allowed to count zombies and the headless,” I say.

Ree huffs. “You haven’t met Georgie.”

“Besides,” Georgie says, “the headless one can’t interrupt me. Honestly, more people should be headless. Show me another man who lets you finish a sentence.”

“Never mind that, there she is, the one and only Belladonna Hershey.” Delora fans herself. “I’ve read every single one of her books. Twice. And I have thoughts about the cliffhanger in book nine that I absolutely must share with her.”

“Get in line,” Ree says, suddenly spellbound by the prospect of literary greatness among us. “I’ve been waiting three years to ask her about the red herring subplot in Death Checks In at Midnight!”

Georgie squints toward the makeshift cemetery. “Is she the tall one with the silver hair who looks like she could murder someone and make it look like an accident?”

“That’s the one,” Delora sighs and maybe swoons, too.

“Good to know,” I say. “I’ll be over here being harmless and agreeable.”

A ripple moves through the crowd, the ripple that only happens when a man strolls in looking far too good for public consumption, especially at a party stocked wall-to-wall with middle-aged women who have a flair for elaborate fantasies.

A few catcalls ring out.

Okay, fine, one of them was from me. I can’t help it. I know a fine specimen when I see one.

Detective Dexter Drake moves through the Boo Crew Spook and Mingle as if he owns the place. Technically, the deed disagrees. But I’m willing to let a man that handsome believe whatever keeps him walking my way.

His dark hair is tousled just right, he’s got your classic sharp jawline, shoulders that fill out his leather jacket like trouble with excellent posture, and a walk that makes you think about handcuffs in contexts that have nothing to do with law enforcement.

I’m pretty sure half the women here would line up to be arrested by him.

The other half would line up to be handcuffed to him. I sort of fall into both categories myself.

He spots our group and heads over, his mouth quirking into a smile that could melt chocolate. My pulse doesn’t stand a chance around him, and frankly, it stopped trying months ago.

“Ladies.” He arrives at our little circle, and I swear the temperature drops three degrees from Delora’s stare alone. “Mother.”

Delora beams as though she’s just been handed a signed first edition. “Dexter! Oh, you look so handsome. Did you eat? You’re working too hard. I brought extra severed finger breadsticks⁠—”

“I’m fine, Mom.” He’s already leaning toward me, and Delora’s face slides from maternal pride to something that could generously be called resigned tolerance and more accurately be called I’m watching you, Janglewood.

Dexter dips down and gives me a kiss. Not a peck, but not quite worthy of a warning label either. Just enough to remind everyone in a fifty-foot radius that we’re together and he’s not apologizing for it.

Somewhere behind me, Delora makes a sound that could peel paint off the Haunted Mansion, and Georgie lets out a wolf whistle loud enough to wake the animatronic pirates.