Page 50 of Fish and Chip: Nine Lives One Murder
“Well, I was thinking of making some changes to this year’s parade,” I venture. “Since it’s coming up on Sunday. The Merryweathers gave me carte blanche, but I’d love to get your input, what with your history with the park and your, um, mayoral expertise.”
Patty’s practiced smile shifts slightly as if she were recalibrating. “I’d be honored to consult. But you should probably understand that parks like this one operate under very specific safety regulations. One unfortunate incident can have...well, lastingconsequences.”
The way she says unfortunate incident sends a chill down my spine that has nothing to do with the Cantina’s aggressive air conditioning.
“Speaking of incidents,” Ree leans in, “what’s your take on the murder of that food critic? Must be awful publicity for the town, especially during election season.”
“It’s a terrible tragedy,” Patty says smoothly, not missing a beat. “But I assure you, Huckleberry Hollow’s reputation as a safe, family-friendly destination remains intact. One isolated incident doesn’t define us.”
“So true,” I agree, but I don’t believe it for a second. That murder practically dragged this place into theme park infamy. “I hope the killer is caught, and soon.”
Patty sheds an easy smile. “I have full faith our local law enforcement will handle it with discretion.”
Just the mention of law enforcement sends visions of Dexter dancing in my head. Okay, so it’s a naked visual, but I can’t be blamed. The strobe lights and neon in this place are making me yearn for far more neutral tones.
I clear my throat as some of her employees stand to leave. “Maybe we could discuss some parade ideas somewhere quieter?” I ask the woman before she up and leaves with them. “This music is giving me a migraine with a PhD in pain distribution.” There are no truer words.
Patty checks her watch—a delicate rose gold piece that probably costs more than all that money I spent on merch last night—and nods. “I have a few minutes before my next campaign stop. There’s a quieter lounge area behind the DJ booth.”
“I’m out, Toots,” Georgie says while continuing a conversation with one of the campaign volunteers about the astronomical implications of his zodiac sign.
“After you,” I say to Patty, grabbing my tote with Chip while Ree hands me Fish.
“You two go ahead,” she tells me with a slight wink. “I’d better protect the aliens and the guests from Georgie.”
And just like that, it’s just Patty and me—and well, two four-footed furry creatures with far too much to say about everything.
Fish snorts.If she offers us glow-in-the-dark snacks, I’m defecting.
If she offers us glow-in-the-dark snacks, I’m worshipping her,Chip purrs with delight.
Proceed with caution,Fish tells me.My claws are out.
And so are mine, I think as we follow Patty as she leads the way.
Patty leads us toward a beaded curtain at the back of the bar and we head into the next room together. Twenty minutes ago, I was selling cat ears to tourists. Now I’m following a potential killer into a secluded area with only my wits and two opinionated cats for protection.
Life comes at you fast in Huckleberry Hollow—sometimes with glowing blue nachos, sometimes with homicidal intent, but rarely with an instruction manual for either.
CHAPTER 18
The VIP lounge of the Cosmic Cantina turns out to be less “VI” and more “P” than I expected—kind of like calling a gas station hot dog gourmet because it’s under a heat lamp.
As we pass through the shimmering beaded curtain, the pulsing dance music recedes to a dull throb, replaced by ambient electronic tones that sound like what whales might compose if given synthesizers and a serious case of the blues.
The lighting shifts dramatically—still space-themed, but more luxury starship captain’s quarters than alien acid trip designed by someone with a vendetta against eyeballs.
The furniture looks like it actually remembers what comfort feels like—plush velvet couches in purple and midnight blue, sleek chrome tables, and privacy booths with curved high backs.
The air carries subtle hints of something expensive and botanical rather than the nacho-and-sweat cocktail from the main bar. A small bar in the corner is staffed by a bartender who doesn’t have antenna headbands but does sport an elegant silver vest that would look at home in a high-end Manhattan establishment—or at least what I imagine one would look like based onmovies where people order martinis without checking the price first.
“Better, right?” Patty smiles like she didn’t just lead us into the scene of every Bond villains’ after-hours lair. “I can’t handle that noise for more than fifteen minutes without developing a migraine with ambitions of world domination.”
“Much better,” I admit, sliding into a purple couch that swallows me like a judgmental marshmallow. “I didn’t even know this place existed. I thought it might be a myth, like calorie-free fudge.”
“Locals rarely get past the glow-in-the-dark nachos,” she says, settling across from me like she owns both the couch and the galaxy. “VIP in my world is usually code for donated to my campaign. Politics—where the drinks are cold, the secrets are hot, and the bar tab is a write-off.”
We share a quick laugh.
