Page 51
“Oh honey, that’s messier than barbecue sauce on a white pantsuit.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
Georgie leans over. “Is the station manager single?”
“Georgie!”
“What? I’m just gathering information.”
“He’s sleeping with my ex-husband’s ex-girlfriend.”
“So that’s a maybe,” Georgie says thoughtfully.
“That’s a biohazard,” Ree corrects without missing a beat. “Even you have standards, Georgie.”
“I have preferences. Standards are for people with time to waste.”
Ree and Delora look up from their book exchange.
“Are we ready to go question Gertie?” Ree asks, clutching her notebook like a security blanket.
I check my watch. “She’s doing a panel called ‘Murder in the Boardroom: Corporate Crime for Cozy Writers’ in twenty minutes at Wild Adventures Hollow.”
Because nothing screams innocent like teaching a master class on the exact crime you’re suspected of committing. I’d applaud the audacity if it didn’t make my job harder.
“Perfect,” Georgie says, standing and adjusting her caftan. Today’s selection is orange with tiny witch hats printed all over it, and somehow she makes it look high fashion. “Let’s go see if our corporate killer wrote her crimes from experience.”
“Allegedly,” Ree adds primly. “We say allegedly now. I read that in book six.”
I stand, grabbing my tote bag and preparing to collect Fish and Chip from their photo station.
“Time to question our next suspect,” I announce.
A deliciously deep voice behind me says, “You mean my next suspect.”
I freeze.
I know that voice. I know it intimately. I know what it sounds like when it’s amused, annoyed, and whispering things in my ear that make me forget my own name.
I turn around slowly, and Reginald the paper bat smacks me directly in the face on the way. Because the universe wanted witnesses.
I peel a construction-paper wing off my cheek with as much grace as I can salvage, which is none.
Dexter Drake stands there in his usual detective attire—dark jeans, button-down shirt, badge clipped to his belt—looking like every romantic suspense novel cover come to life. His storm-blue eyes are locked on mine, and there’s a smile playing at the corner of his mouth that suggests he witnessed the entire bat incident and plans to cherish it forever.
“Detective,” I say, trying to sound casual and failing spectacularly.
“Josie,” he says, and the way he says my name should be illegal in at least twelve states. Maine included.
Behind me, I hear Savvy whisper, “Sweet tea and salvation, that man is fine wine and a bucket of crispy chicken to boot.”
“Don’t I know it,” I mutter without turning around.
“I can hear you,” Dexter says, though he’s still smiling.
“Good,” Savvy calls out. “You should know you’re appreciated.”
That one’s already been sniffed and claimed, Cupcake drawls from under the table. See? My system works. You’re welcome.
