Page 53 of Fish and Chip

“I’m stopping!”

She is not stopping. Delora Drake has never once stopped in her entire life, and that stapler will be back within the hour with a bigger role and possibly a body count.

Fish and Chip have claimed the entrance again, holding court in their now-permanent photo op setup. A park employee has wheeled out the glass pumpkin carriage, and there’s already a line of people waiting to take pictures with Maine’s most famous feline mascots.

The mister just went off directly over my head, Fish reports. I now have jungle hair. Nobody speak to me.

It’s a good look, Chip says. Very adventure-ready. Very “I’ve seen things in the canopy.”

I look like I lost a fight with a sprinkler.

And yet you’re still the second-best-looking cat here, Chip chortles at his own joke.

The seating area is filling up fast. At least fifty people have shown up for Gertie’s panel, most of them clutching notebooks and wearing expressions of serious academic interest mixed with barely concealed bloodlust for craft knowledge.

I spot several guests in costume. A woman dressed as Sherlock Holmes complete with pipe and deerstalker cap, a woman in a Poirot-style three-piece suit sporting the most impressive mustache I’ve ever seen outside of a wax museum, and someone dressed as Miss Marple, sensible tweed and knitting needles. If anyone gets murdered in the next hour, at least we won’t be short on consultants.

We claim seats in the third row. Ree and Delora immediately flank the ends, creating a buffer zone. Savvy sits on my left, Georgie takes the seat beside her, and Dexter claims the chair directly to my right, cool as can be, because this man knows exactly what he’s doing.

Have I mentioned he’s lethally handsome this morning?

His knee settles against mine and stays there while his thumb draws a slow, lazy circle over my knuckles, which should not be legal in a family park.

I lean toward him. “Behave.”

“I’m sitting quietly in a chair.”

“You know exactly what that thumb is doing.”

“I do,” he says, and does it again, slower.

I face forward and think very hard about the mister schedule, because the alternative involves thoughts a woman should not be having this close to a podium.

Henrietta dangles from my neck, her plastic eyes catching the filtered jungle light and blinking ominously.

“That doll is going to give me nightmares,” Dexter murmurs.

“Don’t worry. She’s on duty.”

“Doing what? Scaring small children?”

“Guarding my general wellbeing. Savvy says nothing wicked gets past her.”

“Does that include detectives who told you to stay out of investigations?”

“Apparently not, since you’re sitting right here.”

He grins. “Touché.”

The crowd settles as Gertie Gloomwood takes the stage, and I have to admit, the woman knows how to make an entrance.

She’s dressed in what can only be described as corporate jungle chic, a tailored gray pantsuit with subtle leopard-print accents, sleek dark hair pulled back in a low bun, and a statement necklace made of what looks like bone beads (probably fake, hopefully fake, and I refuse to investigate further). She’s carrying a leather portfolio, and from the way she surveys the crowd, she’s run a boardroom or fifty and misses the bloodsport.

“Good morning, everyone!” Gertie’s voice carries easily without the microphone, crisp and commanding. “Thank you all for joining me for ‘Murder in the Boardroom: Corporate Crime for Cozy Writers.’ I’m Gertie Gloomwood, author of the Corporate Corpses series, and former publishing executive who learned firsthand that the real crime in corporate America isn’t murder—it’s the coffee in the break room.”

The crowd laughs, warm and appreciative.

“But seriously,” Gertie continues, “today we’re going to talk about bringing authentic corporate culture into your cozy mysteries. How to make your white-collar crime feel real, your boardroom drama compelling, and your embezzlement schemes actually plausible.”