Page 47 of Fish and Chip

Write that down, Chip says. This is a hiss-toric moment.

We sit there until the cider’s gone and the moon’s climbed higher, talking about everything and nothing. Murders and romance and whether Georgie’s going to survive her ninth dramatic death scene, and whether the guests will demand an encore if she doesn’t.

Eventually the cold wins, and we gather cats and cardigans and head up the path toward the inn.

The snail has been released without charges, Fish announces. For now.

Through the dining room window, I catch the show in progress: Georgie sprawled across a banquet table with a rubber knife tucked under one arm, clutching a dinner roll to her chest and delivering a farewell monologue of epic length to a room of riveted guests. Death number nine, ladies and gentlemen. She’s saved her best material for the finale.

“Should we go in and applaud?” I ask.

“Are you kidding?” Bizzy says. “If she sees an audience, she’ll do an encore. Keep walking.”

And for the first time all day, I feel like maybe, just maybe, I can figure this whole thing out.

The murder. The park. The detective with the storm-blue eyes and the habit of making my brain short-circuit.

All of it.

The best therapy for investigating murder isn’t avoiding Halloween festivals after all. It’s sitting on a beach with your best friend, two opinionated cats, one cute pooch, and the brand of honest conversation that reminds you you’re not doing this alone.

Even when it feels like you are.

Against my chest, Henrietta blinks in agreement.

Up at the inn, a fresh scream splits the night. Death number ten.

Georgie found her calling after all.

CHAPTER 13

The Enchanted Confections Café is packed this morning, and I mean packed. Standing room only with guests spilling out onto the sidewalk clutching pumpkin spice lattes and ghost-shaped croissants like their lives depend on caffeinated sugar.

Halloween décor has reached critical mass. Black-and-orange streamers crisscross the ceiling, paper bats dangle at varying heights (one keeps swiping at my face every time I move; it’s not Kevin; this one’s a Reginald, and Reginald fights dirty), and the baristas are wearing witch hats that look one strong breeze away from achieving flight.

The whole place smells like cinnamon, nutmeg, and enough sugar to keep a dentist in business until spring.

I’ve claimed a corner table near the window where I can people-watch and pretend I’m not eavesdropping on the conversation happening two feet away. I’m not proud of it, but I’m also not stopping.

Delora and Ree are huddled together like coconspirators planning a heist, except instead of stealing jewels, they’re exchanging cozy mystery novels and gossip about the Boo Crew authors with the intensity of CIA operatives trading classified intel. It’s inspiring on a disturbing level.

“And then in book fourteen,” Ree says, clutching a hardcover to her chest, “Eulla Bell had the tearoom owner solve the murder using nothing but overheard gossip and a well-timed batch of poisoned scones. It was brilliant!”

“I stayed up until three in the morning reading that one,” Delora admits, sliding a stack of books across the table. “Here, you’ll love these. Gertie’s Corporate Corpses series gets dark in book six. There’s embezzlement, insider trading, and a murder committed with a letter opener during a board meeting.”

“Stop, you’re making me want to skip Josie’s investigation and just read all day.”

“Why not do both?” Delora grins. “We can investigate while discussing plot structure and red herrings. It’s called multitasking!”

I resist the urge to remind them that one of their favorite authors might actually be a real murderer, not just writing about them for fun and royalties.

Poisoned scones. Letter openers. Board meetings. My suspects have literally published their own how-to guides, and my investigative team is trading them like baseball cards.

At the next table over, Savvy and Georgie are having their own conversation, and by conversation, I mean they’re rating every man who walks past the café window and holding up mental scorecards.

“Now that one’s a solid eight,” Georgie says, eyeing a guy in a lumberjack costume carrying an axe. “The flannel is doing things for me. Very good things.”

Nobody blinks at the axe, by the way. We’re a week into a murder investigation and half my guests are strolling around armed with novelty weapons. I’d worry, but the axe is foam and my standards have adjusted accordingly.