“We’ll talk later, Josie. And Mother?” He turns to Delora with an expression that could stop a charging bull. “You and I are having a very long conversation when I get back.”
He strides out of the restaurant, leaving behind a table full of tension, uneaten food, and one very smug-looking woman who just successfully commandeered our romantic dinner.
Delora waits exactly thirty seconds after he leaves before leaning across the table toward me.
“Listen to me,” her voice dropping to a lethal whisper, “if you think you can destroy my reputation with malicious gossip, you’re sadly mistaken,” she hisses. “I’ve spent decades building my standing in this community, and I won’t let some failed suburban housewife with delusions of detective work tear it down.”
“I’m not the one who had the affair,” I point out reasonably.
“And you’re not the one who’s going to discuss it further,” she continues, her smile sharp enough to cut through prison bars. “Because accidents happen all the time attheme parks, don’t they? Mechanical malfunctions, structural failures, unexpected tragedies. It would be such a shame if something happened to your little business venture.”
The threat hangs in the air between us, clear as crystal and twice as cold.
“Are you threatening me?” I ask, because I want to be absolutely clear about what just happened.
“I’m simply observing that theme parks can be dangerous places,” she replies sweetly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve lost my appetite.”
She stands as if she just delivered a royal decree, smooths her skirt, and glides out of the restaurant as if she hadn’t just threatened my life and livelihood before her salmon could arrive.
“Well,” Georgie says cheerfully, immediately claiming Delora’s abandoned chair and eyeing the untouched catfish. “That was dramatic. Can I have Dexter’s dinner? All this threatening and family drama has worked up my appetite.”
“I’ll take the salmon,” Ree adds, sliding Delora’s place setting toward herself in anticipation of the meal to come. “No point letting good food go to waste just because someone had a homicidal meltdown.”
“Did she just threaten to sabotage my theme park?” I ask, still processing what just happened.
“Oh, absolutely,” Georgie confirms, cutting into the catfish with obvious satisfaction. “Very creative threats, too. I’m impressed by her range.”
“So,” Ree leans in, “who’s our next suspect? Because after that performance, I’m thinking we might need to investigate the detective’s mother.”
I watch through the window as another boat full of tourists sails past, the mechanical wenches continuing their clothing-optional historical reenactment while families scramble to cover their children’s eyes.
“You just watched her leave.”
CHAPTER 15
It’s the very same night, and I’ve dragged myself—Fish and Chip included—back to the Country Cottage Inn where Bizzy convinced me to stop into the lending library for what she called “emergency girlfriend therapy involving cookies and cocoa”.
The lending library wraps around you like a cashmere blanket soaked in literary ambition and old book smell. Floor-to-ceiling shelves overflow with everything from leather-bound classics to paperback mysteries with covers featuring shirtless men wielding swords.
A fire crackles in the stone hearth, casting dancing shadows across Persian rugs, while amber lamplight pools in cozy circles that make everything look like a Norman Rockwell painting had a baby with a cozy mystery novel.
The scent of woodsmoke mingles with vanilla candles and that particular smell of well-loved books, plus the heavenly aroma of Bizzy’s emergency dessert stash—pumpkin snickerdoodles, maple pecan bars, and apple cider donuts that she’s arranged on vintage china plates as if we’re hosting a sophisticated book club instead of dissecting my romantic disasters.
I’m curled up in a burgundy velvet wingback chair with a mug of hot cocoa topped with cinnamon whipped cream, while Chip sprawls across my lap like a furry heating pad with opinions. Bizzy has claimed the matching chair with Fish perched regally on the armrest beside her, and Sherlock lies stretched out on the Persian rug, his freckled coat catching the firelight.
“Okay,” Bizzy says, settling deeper into her chair with a maple pecan bar that looks like it could solve world hunger. “Spill everything about dinner with Detective Dreamboat and his potentially murderous mother. I want details. All of them.”
Finally,Fish mewls with satisfaction.I’ve been waiting all evening to discuss the romantic subplot.
There’s a romantic subplot?Sherlock perks up with interest.No one told me there was a romantic subplot.
“There is no romantic subplot,” I protest, taking a bite of pumpkin snickerdoodle that melts on my tongue like autumn in cookie form. “There’s a murder investigation that happens to involve a very professional detective who?—”
“Who looks at you like you’re the answer to every prayer he’s ever whispered,” Bizzy interrupts with a grin that could power the entire inn. “I’ve seen how he watches you when he thinks no one’s looking. The man is absolutely smitten.”
It’s true,Chip growls.She gets all fluttery when Detective Dreamboat is mentioned,heobserves, pausing mid-grooming to study my face.Her pupils dilate, and she starts doing that thing with her hair.
“I do not do a thing with my hair,” I say, immediately dropping my hand from where it had been twisting a strand around my finger so tight, it was cutting off the blood supply.
