Page 21 of Fish and Chip: Nine Lives One Murder
“Georgie!” Ree gasps, but there’s a slightly hysterical edge to her response—because let’s face it, humor as a defense mechanism against horror is the only way to go.
I pull out my phone and call 911, my voice steadierthan I feel. “Yes, there’s been a... situation. At Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland. In the funhouse. It’s...uh, sort of murdery.”
As I give the operator the rundown, I wave Fish and Chip toward the entrance. They slink off like furry nightclub bouncers, blocking the curious crowd starting to gather.
With Ree and Georgie’s help, I grab another length of safety chain—because irony is having a moment—and block off the entrance just as the guests start trickling closer.
“What’s going on?” someone yells.
“Is this part of the show?” another guest asks.
“Sure, lady,” Georgie muses. “This is the immersiveCSI: Huckleberry Hollowexperience. Comes with a free churro if you ID the body.”
I leave Ree to field the growing crowd’s curiosity and drag Georgie with me to find the Merryweathers. And find them we do, still chatting by the caramel apples as if nothing is wrong, which honestly, feels a tad criminal.
“Ned Hollister is dead,” I whisper. “Murdered,” I clarify when they don’t react fast enough. “In the funhouse.”
Eddie’s mouth falls open. Edie sways.
“Oh no,” Eddie says. “Not again.”
“Again?” I blink. “Please tell me that’s not a pattern.”
They slump onto a nearby bench like a couple of synchronized fainting goats.
“Don’t worry, I called the police,” I’m quick to assure them. “They’re on their way.” I hope.
“Ned Hollister is... dead?” Eddie repeats, his face draining of color so rapidly I worry he might pass out. “This is terrible,” Eddie murmurs. “Just terrible.”
“And you say the police are coming?” Edie asks, her voice small.
“Yes, they should be here soon. I’ve cordoned off the area, but?—”
The crowd at the funhouse surges with curiosity andsmartphones so I trot back that way. Phones are raised, capturing the scene for social media posts that will undoubtedly tank our already struggling attendance numbers faster than you can sayviralvideo of theme park tragedy.
Security finally arrives—two retirees who look like they just wandered off a golf course. Not exactly SWAT.
“I need everyone to stand back!” I shout.
The guards look relieved that someone is taking control. I’m halfway through fantasizing about hiring actual ninjas when a voice cuts through the crowd.
“Seaview Sheriff’s Department,” a deep voice bellows. “Who’s in charge here?”
A man parts the sea of reporters and rubberneckers, and oh dear sweet kettle corn, he’s tall, has dark hair with broad shoulders, he’s wearing that intense cop-face like he invented it, and he’s built like trouble.
“She’s the manager!” Edie chirps. The Merryweathers immediately throw me under the bus.
“That would be... me?” I squeak.
“She was just promoted!” Eddie adds. “We’re retiring now. Immediately.”
They disappear faster than a cat near a vacuum. And I can’t blame them.
“Homicide Detective Dexter Drake,” Hot Stuff introduces himself, flashing his badge with a flip of the wrist. His expression is a carefully constructed blend of authority and impatience—and those eyes? Blue. Cold. Like winter. Or judgment. Or the ocean when it wants to kill you.
And he is decidedly too hot for his detective britches.
Dexter pins his steel-blue eyes on me, and suddenly I forget every human word I’ve ever known. Have I mentioned how unfairly handsome he is? And that his eyes are the colorof a cloudless sky?
