“Jasper told me what happened,” Bizzy continues, sliding me a coffee mug that might actually save my sanity. “He said you managed to bag another body. Keep this up and people will think you’re gunning for my title as Maine’s Corpse Discovery Champion.”
“Hey now.” I wrap my hands around the mug. “One murder does not a serial crime scene stumbler make. You’ve got what, a baker’s dozen under your belt?”
“I don’t keep score,” she lies with the smooth delivery of someone who absolutely keeps score. “Although I will say your timing is impressive. Most people ease into the murder-finding business.”
I chug the java without hesitation. “Wow, Bizzy. This coffee just hit my bloodstream like salvation in liquid form. Not like the motor oil they called coffee back when I lived in suburbia. Back when my biggest worry was whether Clyde remembered to pick up his yoga pants instead of whether he was using them to seduce bendy blondes.” I take a moment to sigh.
Speaking of your ex,Chip observes while eyeing the pastry case,I bet he’s still trying to find his center. Last I heard, it was somewhere between his yoga instructor’s apartment and his podcast studio.
“Not helpful,” I mutter.
Bizzy bursts out laughing. “Oh my word, Chippy, you have some serious sass.”
I should mention that Bizzy can read minds, too. But not only can she read the minds of animals, she can peek into the horror that goes on in the human skull, too. Which means she probably knows exactly what I’m thinking about Detective Drake’s jawline and my complete lack of a romantic game plan.
It turns out, both Bizzy and I are something called transmundane, further classified as telesensual, whichmeans we can read minds. There are other supernatural talents that fall under the transmundane umbrella, like seeing into tomorrow, trotting around the time continuum, and even speaking to the dead. As far as supernatural curses go, Bizzy and I seem to have contracted the easier end of the stick.
Your romantic track record reads like a cautionary tale for dating apps,Chip observes while eyeing a platter full of ghost-shaped cookies iced to spooky perfection.First, a cheating husband, now you’re mooning over a detective whose mother might be a murderer.
And let’s discuss your career trajectory,Fish adds with clinical precision.From suburban housewife to theme park owner to amateur sleuth. Are we collecting dangerous hobbies now?
“Great,” I mutter. “Chip is critiquing my romantic disasters, while Fish is questioning my career path.”
I’m questioning your entire decision-making process,Fish corrects.Starting with marrying a man who confused spiritual enlightenment with horizontal enlightenment.
“Valid point.”
Bizzy settles in with the expression of an innkeeper about to extract every juicy detail from me. When your life explodes and you need somewhere to land, you don’t go to some soulless hotel chain. You go to the friend who won’t charge you rent and definitely won’t judge you for eating ice cream for breakfast.
“So,” she says, “walk me through this latest addition to your body count.”
I give her the full horror show—Dilly face-planted in Savvy’s coffin cake, Delora looming over the carnage with a marble rolling pin fresh from a slasher film, and my subsequent vocal contribution that probably woke half the county.
Bizzy’s coffee mug freezes halfway to her lips. “Wait. Delora, as in Delora Drake? As in your newly minted boyfriend’s mother?”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I protest. “We’ve had exactly one kissand several conversations that may or may not constitute dates—more like very sexy interrogation sessions.” I may have been one of his prime suspects in his last homicide case.
“His mother is your prime suspect?” she continues, ignoring my romantic clarifications. “Talk about meet-the-parents gone wrong.”
The relationship complications are staggering,Fish notes.Nothing says family bonding like prison visits at the holidays.
Plus, the food would be predictable,Chip adds.Prison cafeterias probably have better consistency than most holiday meals.
“The cherry on this disaster sundae?” I continue. “Dexter wants me to butt out of his investigation. Which would be adorable if his mother wasn’t the number one suspect in a murder that happened at my event, in my park, with my merchandise.”
“Oh sweetie.” Bizzy shakes her head. “Given your track record—you know, that little matter of actually solving last week’s murder while everyone else was running around playing amateur hour—he’s going to want every available detective on board. Even the ones with attitude and talking cats. Even the amateur sleuths.”
Who are you calling an amateur?Fish bristles.We’re professionals. We have a merchandise line.
And a flawless success rate,Chip adds.One case, one solved murder. That’s mathematically perfect.
“I didn’t mean you two,” Bizzy is quick to clarify and even quicker to produce treats for the furry among us before a single ego can bruise.
Speaking of the furry among us, the conversation gets interrupted by approaching paw steps as Sherlock Bones makes his entrance. Bizzy’s red and white freckled mutt manages to look both adorable and superior, which is quite the trick.
Well, well, he woofs, claiming his space at the base of the counter with the authority of a cute pooch who’searned his spot.If it isn’t the Feline Detective Agency. Ready to bungle another investigation?
Fish’s fur does that thing where it doubles in size.Bungle? We solve crimes with efficiency and style. Which is more than I can say for you and Detective Donuts.
