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As we near the photo op, Fish’s voice slides into my head, cool as marble. I observed your suspect on her return trip. She smiled at every stranger and none of the smiles reached her eyes. My verdict is guilty of something. The pantsuit alone is a misdemeanor against animalkind.

I’ll take it under advisement. Honestly, her instincts are better than half the true-crime podcasts I stay up way too late listening to.

We emerge back into the main event area where Gertie’s already retaken the stage, looking completely composed, not one hair daring to leave that bun without written permission. The woman is a stickler, and even her own follicles are afraid of her.

“THE STAPLER!” Ree’s shriek cuts across the entire seating area. She’s on her feet in the third row, book open, looking wild-eyed. “DELORA. I MADE IT TO THE PART WITH THE STAPLER.”

“I told you,” Delora says, not even glancing up from her own book.

Half the audience applauds. The other half takes notes. And I mentally collect my churro cart, because I called that one within the hour, exactly as predicted. Some days it’s nice being right about something that isn’t a corpse.

“So what now?” Dexter asks once my pulse recovers from Ree’s literary awakening.

“Now we figure out which one of these authors is lying about more than just their word count.”

Because here’s the thing about writers. They’re professional liars. They make up stories for a living, they rehearse alibis for fun, and they attend seminars on making murder look like an accident.

Which makes them either the perfect suspects or the worst ones.

And right now? I’m looking at all of them sideways.

When everyone’s a professional storyteller, the hardest part isn’t finding the lies—it’s finding the one lie that matters enough to kill for.

CHAPTER 16

The Country Cottage Inn’s café is doing its absolute best impression of a haunted Victorian tea room, and honestly, it’s pulling it off in spooky spades.

Black lace tablecloths drape over every surface, LED candles glow in mismatched brass holders, and someone’s strung up enough orange twinkle lights to guide ships safely into the cove. Fake cobwebs stretch across the chandelier, paper bats hang at varying heights, and there’s a life-sized skeleton in the corner dressed as a waiter, complete with bow tie and serving tray. He’s got better posture than half my seasonal staff and, so far tonight, the best attitude in the building.

The scent of roasted garlic, fresh bread, and something involving brown butter hits me the second we walk in, and my stomach immediately forgives me for skipping lunch.

Guests mill around in costume. I spot a witch, two vampires, a deeply committed Frankenstein’s monster, and at least three rumpled Columbos, trench coats and all, which feels a touch bold considering there’s an actual unsolved murder a few miles up the road. The Fright Night Spooktacular is in full swing, and Bizzy has clearly gone all out.

Dexter managed to snag us a corner table near the window overlooking the cove. The sunset’s painting the water in shades of orange and purple that match the Halloween décor almost too well, as if even nature got the memo.

Fish and Chip are curled up in a cat bed Bizzy set up near our table. Technically pets aren’t allowed in the dining room, but Bizzy makes exceptions for staff. Which apparently now includes our cats.

Home sweet gloomy home, Fish sighs, stretching until her toes splay. Best seat in the whole inn, and it’s mine. I checked with management. Management is me.

I smell butter, Chip says, nose twitching. Multiple butters. Regular. Garlic. Brown. Someone in that kitchen is living right, and I intend to live right alongside them.

You say that about every place that has food, Fish points out.

And I’m right every time. Name one exception. Take your time. I’ll be in the kitchen. Chip stretches his limbs. Never mind. I’m too lazy to get up.

A server appears, a college-aged girl dressed as a ghost bride complete with veil and dramatic makeup. “Can I start you folks with drinks?”

“Red wine,” I say. “Whatever you recommend that pairs well with forgetting I found a dead body this week.”

She doesn’t even blink. “We’ve got a lovely Pinot Noir that pairs beautifully with existential dread. I’ll grab you a glass.”

Her tip just doubled, and she knows it.

“I like her,” I tell Dexter once she’s gone.

“You like anyone who enables your coping mechanisms,” he says with the blink of a smile.

“That’s called good judgment.”