Page 56 of Fish and Chip: Nine Lives One Murder
The Fairy Tale Feast rises like an enchanted castle in the heart of Storybook Hollow, its stone façade adorned with flowering vines and colorful pennants. Doors large enough to require a giant with a grudge to open them reveal a cavernous dining hall that would make King Arthur consider redecorating Camelot and firing his interior designer for lack of vision.
The vaulted ceiling soars overhead, crisscrossed with dark wooden beams from which hang wrought iron chandeliers filled with flickering (but definitely electric) candles. And stained-glass windows casting rainbow trauma across the stone floors. It’s like King Arthur started a dinner theater franchise.
“This is...” Dexter starts, looking genuinely impressed by the spectacle.
“Where subtlety comes to die?” I suggest. “The Merryweathers never believed in halfway measures. Why have normal lighting when you can have faux-medieval chandeliers that violate at least three fire codes?” Mostly by way of the faulty electrical wiring.
The aroma hits me like a welcome hug from a long-lost friend who’s been baking all day—roasting meats, fresh bread, cinnamon and cloves, and something buttery that makes my stomach immediately file a formal complaint about our recent neglect of proper meals.
“Table for two?” asks a server dressed as Cinderella, complete with a sparkling headband that would put my cat ears merchandise to shame.
“Actually,” Dexter says, “we’d like to be seated near that gentleman.” He discreetly indicates a corner table where a man with silver-streaked dark hair sits alone, studyingwhat appears to be blueprints spread beside his plate like he’s planning a renovation or a heist.
Wallis Fulton. Even from this distance, his Southern charm is practically visible, like an aura of sweet tea and hospitality with a side of questionable family claims and possibly a secret agenda involving park ownership.
“Is this an official interrogation or just an incredibly awkward third-wheel lunch date?” I whisper to Dexter.
“Let’s call it an informal fact-finding mission with excellent food,” he murmurs back, his breath tickling my ears in a way that makes my knees demand to buckle. “And for the record, I’d have invited you even without a murder to solve. Though the murder does add a certain conversational spice you don’t get with the average lunch companion.”
My heart does a ridiculous little tap dance that I firmly instruct it to stop. Now is not the time for adolescent fluttering, not when we’re about to interrogate a suspect who might have strangled someone with a safety chain and could potentially do the same to a newly appointed theme park manager. But later, I’m in for all the fluttering my heart can muster.
Cinderella leads us to a high-backed booth with an excellent sightline to Wallis while still offering privacy. The table is solid oak, carved with scenes fromJack and the Beanstalk. Instead of standard chairs, we sink into throne-like seats upholstered in burgundy velvet that has seen better centuries.
“Not exactly subtle with the theming, are they?” Dexter muses, picking up a menu shaped like an ancient scroll.
“Subtlety isn’t really in the Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland vocabulary,” I reply. “We prefer to beat visitors over the head with whimsy until they surrender their wallets. It’s like Stockholm Syndrome, but with more gingerbread and jousting demonstrations.”
“Good afternoon, noble guests!” booms a bearded man inchain mail. “I am Sir Lancelot, guardian of your dining pleasure and slayer of hunger!”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. “What do you recommend for those battling crime and running theme parks? Something with a side of patience and ibuprofen?”
After ordering—water for Dexter (he’s on duty), a virgin Dragon’s Breath for me—I notice his attention has returned to Wallis, who is making notes on his blueprints while eating something involving an alarming amount of gravy.
“So that’s our publishing mogul,” I murmur. “He doesn’t look like someone plotting park takeovers and murder. More like someone planning to lecture you about artisanal bourbon while name-dropping obscure Hemingway quotes.”
“Killers rarely look the part,” Dexter replies. “How do you think we should approach this?”
“I figured we’d just wander over and ask if he strangled Ned Hollister with a safety chain, then watch him crack under the pressure of my intimidating theme park manager glare. I’ve been practicing it in the mirror. It falls somewhere between disappointed parent and I know you stole the last cookie. Works wonders on teenagers trying to sneak into the park without paying.”
“Sounds foolproof. And your backup plan?”
“Casual conversation that gradually steers toward his relationship with Ned and the Merryweathers while you do that cop thing where you notice microscopic changes in facial expression that reveal people’s darkest secrets.”
“That cop thing, huh?”
“Am I wrong? I’ve watched enough crime shows to know detectives have secret facial expression decoder rings. It’s probably issued with the badge and the permission to look devastatingly handsome in formal wear.”
Did I saythat out loud?
The side of his lips tries to tug into a smile, but he’s far too stubborn to give it.
Our food arrives in a procession that would put most royal coronations to shame. Dexter’s Huntsman’s Platter is a wooden board laden with perfectly roasted meats and vegetables. My Rapunzel’s Tower rises eight inches from its base plate—a precarious stack of grilled vegetables and chicken held together by architectural-grade skewers.
Just as we’re settling in to eat, a commotion at the entrance announces the arrival of our feline entourage. Fish and Chip make their entrance with the kind of fanfare usually reserved for visiting dignitaries.
Fish surveys the room.Acceptable theme. Poor execution. The dragons are clearly recycled animatronics from Galaxy Hollow.
Chip inhales deeply.Meat. Sugar. Gravy. I would like to live here permanently.
