Page 63 of Fish and Chip

Still no. I’m the only reason you’ll live to see Christmas.

Chip huffs. And you never let me forget it.

We finish dessert while Delora regales us with theories about how the murder happened, who had opportunity, and why she thinks we should search everyone’s hotel rooms for evidence. Midway through her closing argument, she gestures with a cookie she swiped from Dexter’s plate and launches it clean off the table. Chip is on it before it stops rolling.

Told you, Chip says around a mouthful of pumpkin spice cookie. Patience plus proper positioning eventually pays off.

“Searching hotel rooms is illegal,” Dexter says for the third time, blissfully unaware of the cookie heist happening at his feet.

“Not if a door happens to be open and I happen to wander through it,” Delora counters.

“That’s not how laws work.”

“It’s how investigations work.”

I watch the back-and-forth over the rim of my coffee cup, having long since retired as referee, when Bizzy appears at our table, looking pleased with herself.

“How was everything?” she asks.

“Perfect,” I say. “Your chef deserves a raise and possibly sainthood.”

“I’ll pass that along.” Bizzy grins. “Also, I saw you three plotting over here and figured I’d check if you need anything else. More coffee? Bail money? Alibi witnesses?”

“We’re not plotting,” Dexter says.

“We’re absolutely plotting,” Delora corrects.

“I’m staying neutral,” I add.

Without a word, Dexter slides the last surviving cookie onto my plate. Neutrality pays.

Bizzy laughs. “Well, if you need anything, including a séance to ask Belladonna who killed her, just let me know. We’re running paranormal activities all week.”

I’d laugh, except with Bizzy there’s a solid forty percent chance she’s serious.

She heads off to check on other tables, and Delora stands, gathering her witch’s hat.

“Well, this has been lovely. Same time tomorrow?”

“No,” Dexter and I say in unison.

“See you in the morning!” Delora winks and sweeps away in a flutter of black fabric and purple accents.

Off to a coven meeting, no doubt. And whatever coven it is, Delora didn’t join it. She founded it.

Dexter sighs my way. “I’m sorry about her.”

“Don’t be. She’s entertaining.”

“She’s exhausting.”

“Also true.” I reach across the table and squeeze his hand. “But she means well.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

I take in the last of my coffee and finally pull out the question I’ve been carrying in my back pocket all evening. “So. The bar from the fence post came back clean, didn’t it? No DNA.”

Dexter takes a slow sip of his coffee. I know that sip. That’s a stalling sip.