Page 35 of Fish and Chip

“That would make our jobs significantly easier,” I admit. “Though in my experience, killers rarely offer a how-to workshop. It’s very inconsiderate of them.”

Ree clutches her notebook. “But what if she’s innocent? What if we accuse a sweet, cookie-baking, cemetery-loving author of murder and it turns out she’s just a gentle soul who wouldn’t hurt a fly?”

“Then we apologize and buy her a muffin basket,” Georgie says. “But right now, she’s on the suspect list, and we need answers.”

“A muffin basket,” Ree repeats flatly. “For being accused of homicide.”

“Fine, we’ll throw in a chocolate-dipped pineapple,” Georgie says. “You drive a hard bargain.”

Ree huffs and goes back to scribbling in her notebook, and I sneak a peek over her shoulder. Her official investigation notes so far consist of a bulleted list of suspects, a small heart drawn next to Felicity’s name, another heart next to Delora’s, and the words shirtless pirates??? underlined twice.

“Solid police work,” I tell her.

“The pirates could be relevant,” Ree says with a solemn nod.

“To what case?” I ask.

“Georgie’s,” she admits.

“You’ve got a point.”

Georgie grins like a loon. “And it’s a point I’ll prove you right on.”

A golf cart loaded with mechanical bats swerves around us close enough that I feel the breeze, the driver shouting something about a wing malfunction. The three of us press ourselves against the tunnel wall and I remind myself that vehicular manslaughter would really put a damper on parade night.

“I love this park,” I mutter. “It’s a disaster, but it’s my disaster.”

Another shirtless zombie pirate jogs past us, this one carrying a barrel. Georgie watches him the entire way, unbothered by shame, gravity, or her own bifocals.

“I’m starting to think we should have more parades,” she announces. “Like, year-round. For morale—specifically my morale.”

“Newsflash: we do,” I say, checking my watch. “We’ve got an hour before Felicity’s event. Want to grab coffee first, or should we head straight to Gears & Dreams?”

“Coffee,” Ree and Georgie say in unison.

“Obviously coffee,” Georgie adds. “I need caffeine before I interrogate someone. It makes me sharper. And prevents me from getting distracted by shirtless men.”

“Too late for that,” Ree mutters.

“Decades too late,” Georgie agrees, entirely at peace with it.

We head toward the underground elevator that will take us back up to park level, passing more floats, more golf carts, more cast members applying fake scars and theatrical blood. One of them is eating a sandwich mid-application, which I choose to admire as multitasking and also as proof of a stomach made of steel.

Behind us, the first shirtless pirate comes sprinting back the other direction, severed head tucked under his arm like a football, while a frazzled prop manager chases him down the tunnel shouting, “That’s the WRONG HEAD! That head is for the FINALE!”

I don’t ask. The answers are never worth it, and also I’d like to be legally able to claim ignorance.

“Besides,” Georgie says, breezing right past the head situation, “what could possibly go wrong at a parade featuring open flames, twenty gallons of fake blood, and floats held together with duct tape?”

“Did you have to say it out loud?” I’m only half teasing. “Tempting fate is bad enough without doing it in front of witnesses.”

“You know what the worst part is?” Ree says as we step into the elevator. “If Felicity is the killer, it’s going to ruin her books for me. I won’t be able to read about sweet old ladies solving murders without thinking, but what if they’re actually murderers?”

“That’s kind of the point of mysteries,” I say.

“I know, but I liked the safe distance between fiction and reality. Now a harsh reality is killing my cozy fiction.”

“Reality killed an actual person here this week,” I say. “Your fiction is only wounded. It’ll pull through.”