Page 24 of Fish and Chip: Nine Lives One Murder
“More coffee, Josie?” The barista—Mara, per her name tag and perfectly winged eyeliner—smiles as she approaches with a carafe.
“I’d mainline it if you had the equipment,” I reply, nudging my mug her way.
She gives a quick laugh while topping off my cup. “I’m working on a special latte for you, hon. Just putting the finishing touches on it.”
Fish sits regally on a plush purple cushion that one of the waitresses provided specially for the distinguished park mascots, which Fish accepted as her birthright. She surveys the room with the dignified air of royalty tolerating the presence of commoners.
The peasants are certainly attentive today,she mewls as yet another family approaches, smartphones at the ready.I’ve counted seventeen requests for photographs already.Honestly, I should start charging.
I’m more interested in the seventeen bacon bits that waitress slipped me,Chip counters from his matching cushion, looking like he’s already halfway into a post-snack nap.Being famous is delicious.
Bizzy was kind enough to send Fish off to work with me this morning, insisting that the newly appointed mascots should stay together for brand consistency. I suspect it was also so she could have her breakfast uninterrupted by royal squabbling. Either way, the cats are soaking up the fame like its sun through a bay window.
Outside, the entrance to Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland is buzzing. The fog has lifted, the day is peak autumn, and the crowd is surprisingly robust. Especially considering, you know, the whole murder thing. Come to think of it, that might be the draw.
The Merryweathers called earlier, sounding almost giddy about the unexpected spike in attendance.
“It’s those cats of yours,” Eddie had explained. “Someone posted videos of them at the reception last night, and they’ve gone viral. Check the park’s social media accounts!”
Sure enough, #FishandChip is trending locally, with photos of my reluctant feline employees generating thousands of likes. Apparently, a dead body is bad for business, but cats in bowties are great PR and even better damage control.
Tragedy plus tabby equals clickbait.
I can understand why. Cats and booze are basically the internet’s favorite emotional cocktail.
Mara returns, placing a pumpkin spice latte in front of me with foam art so detailed I immediately recognize Fish’s signature glare and Chip’s eternal snack-seeking optimism.
“This is amazing,” I tell her, genuinely touched by the gesture. “Your talents are wasted here. You should be selling these for triple the price in some hipster café in Portland.”
“Then I’d miss all the gossip.” She winks, tapping my notebook. “Making progress on your park plans?”
I glance down at the chaos in front of me—grand ideas, half-baked repair estimates, and one highly satisfying doodle of Clyde being mauled by a feral raccoon.
“Rome wasn’t built in a day,” I sigh. “But it probably had fewer safety violations than the Gold Rush Hollow roller coaster and zero squirrel infestations.”
I sip and confirm this is heaven in a cup. And for one brief moment, all is right in the world.
Then reality slaps me upside the head with a blood-stained chain.
I found a body yesterday.
On my first day.
In a funhouse.
This was definitely not in the jobdescription.
Is this some kind of omen? Is this fate? A cursed park? A sign that I should become a coconut barista in Bali?
Should I be updating my résumé already? I can just imagine that cover letter. Managed theme park for one day. Discovered corpse. Excellent at crisis management.
The strange pins I’d noticed near Ned’s body—the Tree and the Haunted Gold Mine—flash in my mind. The same pins I’d seen on Vivian Templeton’s vest earlier that evening. And those triangular marks on the floor... what were they? Footprints? Hieroglyphics? Illuminati breadcrumbs?
And then there’s Detective Dexter Drake.
The man’s eyes could slice glass and set it on fire simultaneously. He walked into the funhouse like he owned the air we breathe. I really don’t need to be noticing his forearms this early in my post-divorce glow-up. But he smells like coffee and determination. And face it, I am tragically weak.
Nope. Shut it down. I need a stiffer drink to cope with that train of thought. It’s far too soon to be mentally undressing anyone. I just left a husband who couldn’t keep it zipped during yoga class.
