Page 47 of Fish and Chip: Nine Lives One Murder
I’ll rename the parade for you. How about The Majestic March of Fish and Companions?Fish suggests with a twitch of her whiskers.A procession fit for feline royalty.
I vote for The Great Snack Parade!Chip counters.Featuring actual snacks. Like, built into the parade. Edible floats. Treat-dispensing costumes. And tuna. Lots and lots of TUNA!Possibly cannons.
“Noted,” I say.
“Well, Florida awaits!” Eddie says cheerfully, tapping his watch. “Our retirement seminars start next week.Gators and How to Outrun Them. Very educational.”
“Stay safe,” I call as they wave goodbye, feeling both touched by their confidence and slightly terrified by the responsibility.
The Merryweathers depart in a cloud of lavender rhinestones and Florida dreams—and apparently, gator-dodging classes. Istare after them wondering how I ended up here—in charge of a park, a murder investigation, and two egomaniacal mascots, and far too undercaffeinated for my own good.
Then it hits me.
“The uniforms!” I exclaim, startling a nearby teenager who’s restocking cat ear headbands.
A uniform should reflect nobility,Fish says.Mine would include a cape.
Mine needs snack pockets,Chip adds.This is non-negotiable.
“Costumes...” I mutter, furiously sketching.“Not just uniforms,” I clarify with excitement building.
I’m scribbling uniform concepts—storybook gowns for Storybook Hollow, space suits for Galaxy, safari gear for Wild Adventures—when I hear the distant sound of sandals slapping pavement.
“JOSIE!”
I look up to see Ree and Georgie racing toward me, both slightly out of breath and wearing expressions that suggest either incredible news or an imminent disaster. With those women, it’s often a razor-thin line between the two.
“Hold your uniformed horses,” Georgie pants, wearing a green kaftan with cotton candy printed all over it. A different day a different kaftan. At least she’s run out of hats to wear. “We tracked down your second suspect.” She plucks a wicker hat out of her tote bag and it has what looks like a yeti standing on top of it holding a glitter wand. I’m not even going to ask.
“Did you say second suspect?” I immediately snap to attention. “As in Patty Sherwood? Where is she?”
Georgie’s face splits into a grin wide enough to rival the entrance to Magical Marvels Hollow. “Right here on the grounds. And she’s getting her out-of-this-world boogie on.”
“Her what?”
“Come on,” Ree urges, tugging my arm. “You have to see thisto believe it.”
As we rush toward Galaxy Hollow with Fish and Chip hot on our heels, I can’t help but wonder what twist this murder investigation is about to take. First, a corpse in my funhouse; now a suspect dancing in a different galaxy right there in my theme park. At this rate, the killer will be serving cotton candy by dinner time and probably asking me for a Yelp review.
The killer dances while justice approaches,Fish bellows in a sharp meow.How poetic. How tragic. Murder! Music! Scandalous fashion! This story really does have everything.
Or maybe she just likes the music,Chip suggests.That Space Invaders remix they play at the UFO Spin is surprisingly catchy. Do they sell nachos in Galaxy Hollow?
Whatever awaits us in Galaxy Hollow, one thing is certain—in Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland, even the murder suspects come for the entertainment and stay for the cat ears.
CHAPTER 17
The moment we step through the arched entryway of The Cosmic Cantina—Galaxy Hollow’s premiere (and only) bar and grill—my brain immediately files for sensory overload. It’s like walking into a laser tag arena that binge-watched too much Star Trek and developed a glow stick addiction.
Flashing purple lights. Pulsing blue strobes. Music that sounds like a blender got into a fight with a synthesizer and won. The walls are decked out in phosphorescent murals of constellations that look suspiciously like someone let a kindergartener loose with a glow-in-the-dark sticker set.
And the bartop? It color-changes as if it has commitment issues. I won’t lie. I can relate to that more than anything in here.
The air is thick with the scent of spicy nachos, smoked ribs, mystery cocktails bubbling with dry ice, and just enough cheap cologne to fuel a high school dance. Servers in silver jumpsuits and glitter face paint zigzag through the crowd like overexcited aliens.
I pause at the threshold, momentarily stunned by the sensory overload, wondering if this is what being abducted by alienswould actually feel like—disorienting, vaguely sticky, and with an inexplicable abundance of neon.
“So, this is where our suspect is getting her boogie on?” I shout over the pulsating beat of what sounds like a synthesizer being strangled by a utility chain.
