Page 62 of Fish and Chip

“I’d start with strongly worded letters and escalate from there.” Delora cuts into her scallops, and somewhere in Maine, a stationery store shudders. “But Felicity seems genuinely sweet. It’s hard to imagine her bashing someone over the head.”

For the record, Fish offers from her cushion, the sweetest purrs come with the sharpest claws. Every cat knows it. Most hoomans learn it the hard way.

The café’s getting louder around us, more guests arriving for dinner while the Halloween party in the main dining room spills over with laughter and music. Someone’s playlist keeps cycling through “Monster Mash,” “Thriller,” and a jazzy version of the Addams Family theme, and by the third rotation I’m ready to confess to crimes I didn’t commit just to make it stop.

Two tables over, I spot Eulla Bell Nightwind in a sequined fortune-teller getup, happily working her way through a slab of chocolate lava cake. Nothing quite like dissecting a woman’s motive for murder while she enjoys dessert forty feet away. She catches my eye and waggles her fingers at me. I wave back, because manners survive everything, including homicide investigations.

The fortune-teller has been watching this table longer than she’s been eating that cake, Fish notes. Either she’s curious about us or she’s taking notes for a sequel.

“This whole week has been surreal,” I say, stabbing a piece of salmon. “Murder at a cozy mystery convention. The universe has a sick sense of humor, and I’m its favorite punch line.”

“Or impeccable timing,” Delora suggests. “Think of the publicity! I’m an employee at the park now. I care about these things.”

“Mother.”

“What? I’m just saying, once this is solved, the park’s going to be famous. People love murder tourism. Think of the bank accounts it can line.”

Starting with hers.

“We’re not a murder tourism destination,” I protest.

She lifts a crooked brow. “You’re averaging one murder per season. That’s basically a murder-themed attraction at this point.”

“She has a point,” Dexter admits.

“Don’t encourage her.” I make a mental note to never, under any circumstances, let Delora within shouting distance of my marketing department.

The witch has a point, Fish says. Some hoomans collect stamps. You collect crime scenes.

It’s a gift! Chip adds. A terrible, terrible gift! Although if she could learn to attract bacon instead, I’d never complain again.

Our server returns to clear plates and offer dessert menus. Delora immediately orders the chocolate lava cake. Dexter asks for coffee. I get both the pumpkin cheesecake and coffee, because if I’m going down, I’m going down with sugar and caffeine.

“So tomorrow,” Delora says, because we’re a task force now, “what’s the strategy? Are we ruling anyone out? Focusing on someone specific?”

“We,” Dexter says, “are not doing anything. I am continuing my investigation. Josie is running her theme park. And you are⁠—”

“Helping,” Delora finishes. “I’m helping. I’m very good at helping with the events. In fact, I coordinate them. Remember?”

“You’re very good at chaos,” Dexter corrects.

“Same thing.”

Our ghost bride returns with the desserts. “Pumpkin cheesecake for the lady still processing the homicide,” she says, setting down my plate.

Her tip just tripled.

The chocolate lava cake looks obscene—molten chocolate oozing out the center, vanilla ice cream melting on top, raspberry sauce drizzled artistically across the plate. And she also sets down a small plate of complimentary cookies for the cute detective. Okay, fine, she said “for the nice man,” but I felt her words needed a correction.

My pumpkin cheesecake is decorated with a chocolate spiderweb and comes with whipped cream that’s been dyed orange.

“This is ridiculous,” I say, taking a bite. “Ridiculously delicious.”

Is she going to share? Chip asks, eyeing my plate.

Cats can’t have chocolate, Fish reminds him.

But she’s not eating the chocolate, he’s quick to point out. She’s eating the pumpkin part.