Page 46 of Fish and Chip

It touched me. I demand a towel and a formal apology.

“So what’s your next move?” Bizzy asks. “With the investigation, I mean. Though I’m also curious about the Dexter situation.”

“I’ll be talking to Gertie Gloomwood tomorrow morning. She’s doing a panel on corporate crime, and I need to see if she’d actually kill to keep her embezzlement secret under wraps. Nothing says subtlety like attending a panel called Corporate Crime while under suspicion of, well, crime.”

“And if she’s not the one?”

“Then I’m back to square one with three suspects and no idea which one actually did it.” I glance down at the doll head resting against my chest. “What do you think, Henrietta? Eulla Bell, Gertie, or Felicity?”

Henrietta blinks—one eye at a time. And I could swear her smile inches a little wider.

Bizzy and I stare at each other for a long beat.

“It’s the moonlight,” I say.

“Absolutely,” Bizzy agrees, inching away from me on the log. “The moonlight.”

Neither of us sounds convinced, and I make a mental note to ask Savvy exactly where she got this doll. And whether Henrietta has ever testified in court.

“Sometimes I miss the days when my biggest problem was Clyde’s podcast being too loud while I was trying to read,” I sigh.

“No, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t,” I agree. “But I do miss feeling like I knew what I was doing.”

“Josie, nobody knows what they’re doing. We’re all just pretending and hoping nobody notices.” Bizzy bumps my shoulder again. “The difference is you’re pretending while also running a theme park and solving murders. Most people can barely manage their email.”

“Wise words from someone currently hosting a festival where Georgie’s died seven times.”

“Eight now, probably. I heard screaming from the dining room right before I came down here.”

Somewhere up at the inn, a fresh round of shrieks confirms it. Death number eight, presumably with jazz hands. Leave it to my life that the fake murder gets a standing ovation while the real one keeps me up at night.

We sit in comfortable silence after that, watching the waves roll in while the cats investigate tide pools with varying levels of enthusiasm. Chip pokes one, comes eyeball to eyeball with a crab, and retreats with his pride in shambles.

We don’t speak of this, he informs the group.

Woodsmoke from the festival bonfire drifts down the beach and tangles with the salt air, and my cider’s gone lukewarm in my hands. Somehow I don’t mind. Some conversations are worth a cold drink.

“Can I ask you something?” I finally say.

“Always.”

“Do you ever get tired of finding bodies? Like, does it ever make you want to just... stop investigating and let the professionals handle it?”

Bizzy considers this, her gaze drifting out over the water. “Every single time. And then I remember that the ‘professionals’ are Jasper and Dexter, who are very good at their jobs but sometimes need a little help from the mind-reading department—and from witnesses they don’t even know are witnesses.” She looks at me. “You’ve got a gift, Josie. A weird, sometimes inconvenient gift. But it’s saved lives. Including mine, more than once.”

“Thanks, Bizzy.”

“Anytime. Now finish that cider and tell me more about Detective Dreamboat. How’s his kissing technique? Does he do that thing where⁠—”

“I’m going back to the murder investigation!”

“That’s what I thought,” she laughs.

Hoomans are so weird about romance, Chip observes. Just admit you like the bacon-bringing detective and move on.

For once, we agree, Fish says.