Page 48 of Fish and Chip: Nine Lives One Murder
I know, I know. Too soon.
“What did you expect? The public library?” Georgie shouts back, already scanning the room with predatory focus. Her eyes land on a bartender with forearms you could grate cheese on. “If this is alien abduction, I volunteer as tribute.”
Fish and Chip peer out from their tote bags, registering vastly different reactions to our new environment.
This is what happens when science fiction and a hangover collide,Fish says with mild horror.
There are seventeen distinct food profiles in this airspace.Chip counters, whiskers twitching frantically as he catalogs each one.Meat. Cheese. Fried items. And is that chocolate WITH bacon? Hoomans are occasionally brilliant.This place is practically a holy site.
Ree, surprisingly, looks perfectly at home among the flashing lights and pounding music. She catches my questioning glance and shrugs. “I dated a DJ in the ’80s. This is actually tame compared to some of the clubs we went to.”
“You continue to be a box of mysteries wrapped in a cardigan,” I tell her, impressed.
Georgie points past me as if she’s on a mission. “Target acquired. Corner booth. Pink hiking boots. Blue smoke. Drink glowing like radioactive mouthwash.”
Sure enough, Patty Sherwood holds court in a curved booth, surrounded by what appear to be campaign volunteers judging by their identicalSherwood for Successt-shirts and slightly desperate expressions. Patty herself looks completely at ease, sipping something electric blue that steams like a cauldron.
Fish looks as if she’s about to go full CIA.Note her line of sightto all exits. Strategic. Also, she’s guarding that purse like it contains either nuclear launch codes or emergency snack reserves.
Probably both,Chip mutters.Never trust a politician without snacks.
I second that.
“Let’s grab that table,” I suggest, pointing to an empty high-top with a direct view of Patty’s booth. “We can observe while figuring out a non-stalkerish way to approach her.”
“I’ll handle the drinks,” Ree volunteers. “I speak fluent cocktail menu.” She takes off as Georgie and I settle in.
“And I’ll handle the men. I speak fluent male,” Georgie adds, adjusting her yeti hat to what she clearly believes is its most alluring angle. “Starting with Mr. Saturn over there.” She nods toward a server whose ripped biceps suggest he could, indeed, have his own gravitational pull.
“You do realize we’re here to investigate a suspect in a homicide case, not to speed-date the staff of a theme park bar?” I remind her.
“Multi-tasking is the cornerstone of efficient detective work,” Georgie insists. “Besides, that man’s steel rear end might contain vital clues.”
“To what? The mysteries of tight uniform pants?”
“Exactly.”
While Ree is off at the bar, I watch Patty closely.
“So, what’s our plan?” Georgie asks, temporarily distracted from her celestial body-watching. “Sneak attack? Good cop/bad cop? Georgie cop/boring cop?”
“I’m thinking more along the lines of casual conversation about the upcoming parade then segueing into a subtle interrogation about her past connection to the park,” I reply.
Dull but prudent,Fish sighs.Though I suggest leading with questions about her choice of footwear. Pink hiking boots indoors? Suspicious and perhaps a fashion violation.
Ask about the blue drink first,Chip counters.People love talking about what they’re consuming. Gets them comfortable, their guard goes down and they talk freely. It’s basic interrogation tactics.
Georgie excuses herself for a moment and disappears into the purple fog now being pumped in through the vents. Ree returns with a tray of drinks that look like they were mixed by a mad scientist with a color wheel and a vendetta against sobriety. They’re so neon they could double as signal flares. Mine has edible glitter and something floating that looks like a fruit or possibly an alien egg.
“What in the name of NASA’s budget cuts is this?” I ask, poking cautiously at a floating star-shaped garnish. “This is either going to taste amazing or unlock a new level of consciousness,” I say, taking a sip. Not bad. Like pineapple candy with an anger issue.
“It’s called a Galactic Sunrise,” Ree informs me. “Vodka, blue curaçao, grenadine, pineapple juice, and edible shimmer. The menu said it would transport your taste buds to another dimension. Knowing this place, that dimension is probably a hangover, but when in Rome...”
“Or when in questionably themed bars with potential murderers,” I agree, cautiously taking another sip as my tongue takes a magic carpet ride on the Scoville scale of heat.
Georgie returns from what was apparently a reconnaissance mission to the bar, looking supremely satisfied with herself. “That bartender—his name is Orion, by the way—tells me our mayor-to-be comes here every Wednesday officially for strategy meetings, but unofficially for cheese fries.”
“Not exactly cloak-and-dagger,” I mutter. “But valuable intelligence gathering nonetheless.” I nod approvingly.
