Page 8 of Fish and Chip: Nine Lives One Murder
“The difference is the park can be renovated,” Ree deadpans.
“I used to bring my kids here,” I murmur. “Though I don’t remember it looking so... post-apocalyptic.”
Paint peels in friendly little curls from signs, and a broken lightbulb swings above us like it’s waving hello. The whole place feels less run-down and more lovingly overworked—like a childhood stuffed animal that should probably be burned to avoid a hygiene hazard.
I can smell a thousand stories here.Chip’s nose twitches rapidly.Some happy. Some haunted. All of them sticky.
He’s not wrong.
I detect seventeen varieties of bacteria on that bench alone,Fish sniffs.And I think that scary mannequin is watching me.
She’s eyeing a purple-haired mechanical crone trapped in a glass booth, whose animatronic fingers hover over a crystal ball like she’s trying to decide whether to offer a prophecy or a parking ticket. Her painted smile is pure chaos.
“Welcome to your potential new kingdom,” Ree says, arms wide like she’s revealing a treasure trove and not a slightly sad fun park with budget issues and possibly one too many raccoons. “Well? What do you think?”
I pause, taking it all in. The cracked pavers. The air tinged with powdered sugar and regret. The unmistakable sound of something groaning nearby.
“There might be some structural integrity issues, but I think it has good bones,” I say honestly. “Creaky, possibly haunted bones, but still... bones.”
“Speaking of great structural integrity—” Georgie waggles hereyebrows, nodding toward a tall, silver-haired man in khakis selling tickets. “I bet he could renovate my?—”
“The main office should be this way,” I interrupt hastily, checking the email on my phone before Georgie can finish whatever construction innuendo she was about to deploy. “Wish me luck.”
“Good luck!” Ree calls.
“Ask if he’s single!” Georgie whispers loud enough to be heard in Vermont.
I follow a trail of cheerfully cracked pavers to a gingerbread-style cottage tucked under a canopy of pine. A brass plaque readsMerryweather Management: Where Dreams Take Root.
The optimism around here is aggressive.
I give a brisk knock, and Chip shifts in his tote bag as if he’s preparing to attack or eat snacks. Honestly, it could go either way.
The door swings open to reveal a couple who could have stepped straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting, assuming Rockwell had a fondness for quirky eccentrics and people who clearly never met a whimsical decorating choice they didn’t love.
The woman, hardly five feet tall with a shock of white hair styled into what can only be described as a cotton candy swirl, beams at me like I’m the answer to all her prayers. Her companion, a lanky gentleman with the most impressive handlebar mustache I’ve ever seen outside of a barbershop quartet, peers at me over half-moon spectacles with the adorable expression of someone’s favorite grandfather.
“You must be Josie!” The woman clasps her hands together with delight. “I’m Edie Merryweather, and this is my husband, Eddie.”
“Edie and Eddie?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“The universe has a sense of humor,” Eddie explains, his voice surprisingly deep for his willowy frame. “Wemet at a square dance where they paired us by name. Seemed like fate or at least a cosmic comedy. The rest is history.”
“And he does mean history. We’ve been married fifty-three years,” Edie adds. “The name thing was confusing at first, but now we just answer to either. Saves time.”
“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you both,” I say, shifting Chip to extend my hand. “And this is my sweet cat, Chip. I hope it’s okay that I brought him along. He’s my emotional support animal, though mostly he just provides sarcastic commentary.”
We all share a laugh at that one. If only they knew just how true it was.
“Of course!” Eddie says with a cheer. “Animals are always welcome at Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland.” He reaches out to scratch Chip behind the ears. And Chip, who is typically standoffish with strangers, actually leans into the touch.
I like him. He smells like butterscotch and stability.
I nod his way because it’s true. I could smell the butterscotch the second they opened the door.
“My friends are here, too.” I gesture toward Ree and Georgie, who wave enthusiastically from a nearby bench. “The one with the interesting hat is Georgie. And that’s Ree. They brought Fish. She’s also a furry floof and not seafood.”
Who are you calling a floof?Chip looks up at me with his mouth agape.And I’ll have you know my tail has twice the personality as that cat.
