Page 75 of Fish and Chip

“Well of course it was getting heated!” Her voice rises as she backs up a notch. “That woman spent seven days making little digs, dropping hints, reminding me she could ruin me anytime she pleased. I was madder than a wet hen in a thunderstorm!”

“Mad enough to wallop her upside the head with an iron bar?” Savvy asks, and despite the sweetness in her voice, the question lands like a slap in the face.

Eulla Bell’s eyes flash hotter than a skillet in August. “Sugar, if I’d wanted that woman dead, I sure as shootin’ wouldn’t have done it with some tacky piece of park décor. I’d have handled it with a little Southern style and an alibi tighter than my girdle on Sunday. If I’d done it, I’d have planted enough clues to send the whole county barkin’ up the wrong tree.”

She has a point, Cupcake says. Southerners are nothin’ if not stylish about their revenge.

Her hands are steady, too, Fish points out, watching Eulla Bell with those sharp witchy eyes. Guilty hoomans fidget. She’s either innocent or the scariest woman at this party.

For the record, those two things have never once been mutually exclusive in my experience. Exhibit A is currently hanging from my neck.

Could be both, Chip offers. It’s also the scariest night of the year. That has to count for something. Most likely it counts for candy, and I’m okay with that.

He shoots me a look that says Candy now, woman.

“So you didn’t kill her?” I ask directly.

“Absolutely not.” Eulla Bell’s accent goes full steel magnolia. “Because I was planning something much, much better. I was going to destroy Belladonna’s career in a very public manner, timed perfectly for Christmas when book sales matter most and everyone’s paying attention. And now she’s gone, and so is my opportunity for some serious revenge. It just burns my biscuits.”

Savvy and I exchange glances.

“Destroy her career with what?” I ask.

Eulla Bell’s smile turns sharp as those vampire teeth in her mouth. “Belladonna’s son, Trevor. That boy’s been accused of some very nasty things. Assault, manipulation, using his mama’s money and influence to ruin young women’s lives. And Belladonna protected him every step of the way and covered up his messes. She even paid people off to keep quiet. If she was good at anything, it was making all that boy’s problems disappear.” She pauses. “I had proof. Documents. Testimony from victims.”

Salem’s tail goes still. Even the cat knows when the gossip stops being gossip.

Eulla Bell nods. “I was going to release everything right before the holidays and watch her perfect author image crumble to dust.”

I don’t like this Trevor, Chip announces. He sounds like the sort to steal food off a defenseless cat’s plate.

Honey, Cupcake says, he sounds like the sort to lick the gravy first so nobody else wants it.

Salem gives a disapproving flick of her tail. Sugar, that boy sounds slicker than goose grease on a glass doorknob.

Fish goes quiet. He sounds worse than that.

Nobody argues with her.

My brain starts racing. Trevor? Belladonna’s son. Could this be the one Felicity mentioned, the one connected to her daughter somehow?

A swarm of fans descends on Eulla Bell and swallows my next question whole, waving books and phones and begging for selfies.

“Duty calls, sugars,” Eulla Bell says, slipping back into gracious author mode. She shifts Salem into the crook of her left arm, takes a fan’s pen with her right hand, and dashes off a signature big enough to double as wall art. “Y’all enjoy the party now.”

She’s swept away in a flutter of green velvet and vampire drama, with Salem looking deeply put out by the interruption.

My hooman has nothing to hide, she calls back over her shoulder. And if she did, I certainly wouldn’t be the one to tell you. A cat’s loyalty runs thicker than molasses.

Comforting. Mostly.

My crystal ball says she’s tellin’ the truth, Cupcake announces. Also that somebody’s about to drop a cream puff pumpkin. It’s a very busy ball.

We’re about to leave when a park employee comes sprinting toward Savvy, looking wild-eyed and waving both arms at the dessert station, where guests are shoving each other over the dwindling supply of chocolate coffins.

“Heavens to Betsy,” Savvy says. “Folks will lose every last bit of good sense over free sweets.” She pokes her elbow in my ribs. “Now go fetch your hot detective boy-toy and tell him what we’ve been jawin’ about.”

She hurries off with Cupcake trotting behind her.