Page 44 of Fish and Chip

“She does that. She likes to keep me on my toes.”

“That’s somehow worse.” Bizzy sits back down and pats the log next to her. “Take a seat before that thing possesses you or whatever cursed objects do in horror movies.”

“She’s not cursed. She’s protective.” Did I just defend an apex predator made of plastic?

“Josie, that doll head looks like it clawed its way out of a Victorian orphanage and chose a career in haunting jewelry.”

“Savvy’s had her since she was six.”

“That explains so much about Savvy.”

“It explains everything about Savvy,” I say, sinking down onto the log beside her while Henrietta settles against my chest with her permanent plastic smile. “She’s actually growing on me.”

“Like a fungus,” Bizzy mutters, eyeing the doll head warily.

Is that thing going to murder us in our sleep? Sherlock asks with a nervous bark.

Probably, Fish says. But we’ll see her coming. Whether she sees us depends on which eye is on duty.

I think she’s kind of cute, Chip offers. In a deeply disturbing way. Like a garden gnome with a criminal record.

“That about sums it up,” I say as the waves rush up within feet of us.

“How’s your festival going?” I ask, taking a sip of cider that tastes like autumn got liquefied, spiced within an inch of its life, and sweetened by an angel with a heavy hand. I could marry this cider. It might be my most stable relationship to date.

“Chaotic. Delightful. And decidedly sticky.” Bizzy pulls her cardigan tighter. “I was just taking a break. We’ve got bobbing for apples, a haunted maze in the back lot, and my mother convinced me to do a murder mystery dinner theater that’s gotten wildly out of hand. Georgie volunteered to play the part of the victim, and she keeps ad-libbing her own death scene. She’s died seven times tonight. Poison, strangulation, a tragic fall from an ottoman. The woman has range.”

I laugh at the thought. “That sounds very on-brand for Georgie.”

“The guests love it. Though I’m pretty sure half of them think it’s real and the other half are placing bets on which method she’ll choose next.” Bizzy nudges my shoulder. “But enough about my controlled chaos. How’s your uncontrolled chaos going?”

“Which chaos are we talking about? The murder investigation, the park, or my love life?”

“All three. Start with the murder and work your way to the good stuff.”

And there it is. Bizzy is ranking my love life above an active homicide. The girl has got priorities.

I fill her in on everything: Eulla Bell’s plagiarism secret, Gertie’s embezzlement past, Felicity’s mysterious daughter situation that she won’t elaborate on, and Belladonna’s apparent hobby of collecting the goods on her so-called friends the way other people collect stamps.

For the record, Fish says from her spot near the water, my money is on the one with the shifty eyes. Which, granted, is all of them. Writers are a suspicious breed. They kill people for a living and call it art.

“So basically,” Bizzy summarizes, “you’ve got three women with solid motives, zero concrete evidence, and a hot detective boyfriend who wants you to butt out.”

“That about covers it.”

“And how is the hot detective boyfriend? You two are official now. I need regular updates. You went from suburban housewife married to Clyde the Cheater to theme park owner exclusively dating a hot homicide detective. That’s character development!”

She has a point, Fish chimes in. Your romantic trajectory has been surprisingly eventful.

I think Detective Dreamboat is good for her, Chip adds. He brings bacon sometimes. That’s husband material right there.

You cannot base relationship compatibility on bacon distribution, Fish argues.

Watch me, Chip says.

“We’re taking it slow,” I tell Bizzy, which is mostly true if you don’t count the fact that I think about him approximately seventy-three times a day and have started wearing lip gloss to work just in case he stops by. Cherry flavored. Not that I’ve planned for contingencies or anything.

“Cherry’s a good choice,” Bizzy says into her mug.