Page 61 of Fish and Chip

I like her, Chip says. She’s fun. Like Josie but with more jewelry.

Our food arrives, and for a blessed few minutes, conversation stops in favor of eating. The salmon is perfect—crispy skin, tender meat, and paired with garlic mashed potatoes so good I briefly consider a marriage proposal to the chef. I’d need to run it by Dexter first, but I think he’d understand.

Dexter’s short ribs are falling off the bone, and Delora’s scallops are seared gold at the edges.

“Oh my word,” Delora moans after her first bite. “This is incredible. Bizzy’s chef is a wizard.”

“Or a witch,” I say. Exhibit A is sitting across from me in a pointed hat.

“Speaking of Halloween,” Delora says, already two topics ahead of the rest of us, “what are you two doing for the actual holiday? The park’s hosting that big Boo Crew Bash, right?”

“If we haven’t arrested anyone by then, yes,” Dexter says.

“The bash is happening either way,” I say. “The show must go on. Plus, my daughters are coming with friends, and I promised them tickets.”

“Dexter’s kids will be there too,” Delora says. “Which brings up an important question. What exactly are your girls’ intentions toward my grandson? And are they a good influence on Emma? I like to know these things.”

“Mother.” Dexter winces at the witch.

I busy myself with my potatoes and try very hard not to picture holidays with four kids, two careers, and my track record with dead bodies. The picture assembles itself anyway. Weirdly, it’s not a bad one.

She waves him off. “I’m just being thorough.”

Sure. And the skeleton in the corner is just resting between shifts.

“You’re meddling,” he tells her.

The man has got some serious cookies.

“I’m being interested in your life,” Delora says, spearing a scallop. “There’s a difference.”

I take a very large sip of wine.

The family dynamics are fascinating, Fish muses. Two hoomans circling the same topic, and neither one willing to pounce first.

Are they going to fight over the Brussels sprouts? Chip asks. Because if so, I volunteer to dispose of any unwanted vegetables.

Fish scoffs. You don’t even like Brussels sprouts.

I like everything that falls on the floor.

This is true. I can attest to this under oath.

“So,” I say, desperate to change the subject, “anyone have theories about Felicity?”

Delora perks up. “Now she’s interesting. Very sweet, very gentle, but there’s something there. Something she’s protecting.”

“Her daughter,” I say. “She mentioned Belladonna knew something about her daughter, but she wouldn’t elaborate.”

“Classic protective mother behavior,” Delora says, then looks at Dexter. “Not that I would ever murder someone to protect you.” She gives me a sideways glance as if she’s reconsidering it.

“Comforting,” Dexter mutters.

The fact that she felt the need to clarify is doing a lot of heavy lifting at this table.

“But I understand the instinct,” Delora continues. “If someone was threatening my child, I’d consider all options.”

“Including murder?” I ask.