Page 66 of Fish and Chip

Eulla Bell’s gaze sweeps the crowd and lands directly on me. She lifts one gloved hand and gives me a slow two-finger wave—at least it’s not a one-fingered wave. I’ve seen my fair share of that since I’ve taken over the park. It seems reprimanding people for near-fatal shenanigans isn’t looked upon too highly by the clientele around here.

Eulla Bell smiles right at me, and her fangs flash under the parade lights. I get the distinct impression I’ve just been marked in some way I don’t have the vocabulary for yet.

I wave back because I’m polite, and possibly an idiot.

“They look amazing,” Ree breathes.

“They look like suspects in designer costumes,” Georgie shoots back.

“Why can’t they be both?” I ask.

Georgie nods. “Most people are.”

“I found them!” a familiar voice cuts through the chaos, and I turn to see Delora pushing through the crowd with Dexter trailing her, and I have some thoughts about his costume choice.

All of them appreciative.

He’s dressed as himself. Dark jeans, button-down shirt, leather jacket, detective badge prominently displayed. On any other man, that would count as not trying. On Dexter, it counts as a public service.

“Best costume of the night,” I tell him as he closes the distance. “Hot detective. Ten out of ten. No notes.”

“Is that so?” He slides an arm around my waist and pulls me in for a kiss that’s brief enough to be decent in public and long enough to make me forget there’s an entire parade happening behind me. When he finally lets me up for air, his mouth curves. “Says the woman in the catsuit. You do realize I’m supposed to be observant tonight, and you’re making it impossible to look at anything else.”

“Blame the costume shop. This was all they had left.”

“Remind me to send them a thank-you card.”

Delora, on the other hand, has committed fully to Sherlock Holmes—the fourth one I’ve seen this week. Everyone’s a detective. Deerstalker cap, tan tweed jacket and matching skirt, a magnifying glass that matches Ree’s, and a pipe that’s definitely a prop but looks disturbingly realistic. Somewhere in England, Arthur Conan Doyle just sat up in his grave and applauded.

“We’re costume twins! I’m a sleuth, too!” Ree says, practically pulsating with excitement as she and Delora compare magnifying glasses.

“Great minds think alike,” Delora agrees.

“Or lazy minds shop at the same costume store,” Georgie suggests.

She’s not wrong.

Dexter’s eyes do another slow tour of my purple catsuit situation, and his face settles into something that makes my stomach do acrobatics it hasn’t attempted since high school gymnastics.

“You’re staring,” I inform him.

“You’re a cat,” he says, as if that explains everything. Going by his face, it does.

“We covered this five minutes ago.”

“I’m still processing. Some things deserve a thorough investigation.”

“Good, because I’m not changing. Also, I might need help getting out of this later. Possibly involving scissors.”

“I’ll clear my schedule.”

His eyes drop to Henrietta dangling from my neck, and he smiles. “The doll head is back.”

“She’s my new best friend. I don’t leave home without her.”

“Well, she’s definitely memorable.” He reaches out and gently taps Henrietta’s plastic head, making her swing. “Though I’m not sure what she brings to the friendship.”

“Protection. From evil spirits. Bad vibes. Possibly murderers.”