“Exactly.” Maya smacked the table again, missing Eve’s attempt at humor. “Anyway, I’ve been thinking about adding an annual murder mystery play to the docket. Tourists would go bonkers for that.” She snorted derisively. “But for it to be really immersive, we would need to stage it somewhere other than the theater. A run-down inn would be the perfect place. Patrons could go from space to space as they try to solve the mystery. Like, was it done with the lamp in the library or the candlestick in the kitchen?”

“I wouldn’t say the Mermaid is ‘run-down’ per se,” Eve said. Yes, every inch was covered in mermaid detritus, and the Pink Room of Pain was like a cherry on top of the whole monstrosity, but that was not the same as “run-down.”

Hold on. Was she getting defensive again? She thought again about the peeling wallpaper and the water stains.

The Mermaid was run-down. It was beyond run-down. It was a dump.

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean run-down–run-down,” Maya said. “Just that it’s got character. And oh! We can do a play where the victim is a mermaid! It can be supernatural murder mystery theater.”

“Her aunt just died, and you’re scoping the place already?” It was Law, back with two more shots—orange ones this time.

Maya opened her mouth and raised a finger as if to shake it at him—there was definitely no love lost between these two. But then she closed her mouth and retracted the finger. “You’re right.” Law raised his eyebrows, and she added, “Once. You’re right once.” She shooed him away. “I’m sorry—truly. I get kind of single-minded about the theater. It’s my job, but it’s also, like, my life.” She rolled her eyes self-deprecatingly.

“It’s okay,” Eve said, and suddenly it was. Even though she didn’t think she was down with murder mystery theater at the Mermaid, she felt better. Maya’s enthusiasm and general air of optimism were contagious.

“We’re here to talk about you,” Maya said. “And your inn.”

“I have no idea what to do about the inn, but I don’t think I’m going to solve it tonight.”

“Cheers to that.” Maya slid Eve one of the orange shots, and they tilted their heads back. It wasn’t sour like the first one. In fact, it was the opposite—disgustingly sweet. Like if Orange Crush and sugar cubes had a baby.

“Uck. He’s doing this on purpose.” Maya glowered in the direction of the bar before returning her attention to Eve. “Is there really not a way to sell it if you want to? You hear about these kinds of stipulations in wills, but, like, only in soap operas.”

“I know! And usually there’s a letter or some dying wish that gets passed on.”

“And there wasn’t?”