Page 9 of Fish and Chip: Nine Lives One Murder
I shoot him a look for even thinking it.
“The more, the merrier!” Edie claps her hands. “We just love animals, especially the feline variety. Now, shall we all take a tour while we talk? It’s the best way to get a feel for the place, and honestly, we love showing it off.”
For the next twenty minutes, the Merryweathers guide our motley group through what has to be the most whimsical, charming, and occasionally bewildering theme park I’ve everseen. Suffice it to say, a lot has fallen into disrepair since I’ve been here.
“And we’re just getting started,” Eddie says.
The property spans over a hundred acres, divided into ten distinctHollows, each with its own theme, a concerning level of mechanical reliability, erratic animatronics, and enough glitter to make a unicorn sneeze.
Georgie’s carousel hat bobs enthusiastically as she peppers the owners with questions about eligible bachelors on staff, while Ree takes notes on her phone, muttering about untapped revenue streams and liability concerns with some serious focus as if she’s already mentally redesigning the entire operation. And let’s be honest, so am I.
“This is Huckleberry Lane,” Eddie explains as we stroll down a cobblestone street lined with quaint shops that sits right at the beginning of the park. Old-fashioned lampposts twist upward like wrought-iron beanstalks, and storefronts display everything from hand-pulled taffy to vintage-style photo booths. “It’s the heart of the park, connecting all the other Hollows through a roundabout just in front of the castle.”
“Many of our visitors just come for this,” Edie adds, pointing to a particularly inviting taffy shop that’s practically glowing with sugar-scented warmth. “And we make our own donuts fresh every morning.”
Chip lifts his chin.Did someone say donuts? I love donuts!
You look like one, too,Fish sniffs his way.
“You got any crullers in there?” Georgie makes a beeline for the bakery window. “I haven’t had a proper cruller since 1987 in Atlantic City with that saxophone player with the big?—”
“Let’s stay focused.” Ree gently steers Georgie back to our group with the efficiency of a woman who’s herded cats both literal and metaphorical. “We can explore the shops after Josie’s interview.”
Fish pokes her head out of Georgie’s wonkyquilt tote, nose wrinkling at the sugary scents like someone who’s just discovered evidence of poor nutritional choices.
This place is suspiciously cheerful but downright dangerous,Fish mutters.I bet someone dies here at least once a season.
Let’s hope it’s not the one making the donuts,Chip replies.I’ll be needing more than one cruller. And I can’t wait to see the rest of the menu, too. Cream-filled are my favorite.
Let’s hope it’s not one of us either. Although I can’t seem to shake the feeling death is most certainly the menu at Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland.
And I wonder who will be served up next.
CHAPTER 4
Edie and Eddie continue the tour as we move on to Wild Adventures Hollow, with its earthy scents and lush foliage.
A blast of earthy air hits me as we step into the section of the park that clearly wanted to be jungle-themed but lost funding halfway through and settled for botanical chaos with rope bridges. The scent is a mix of damp mulch, questionable moss, and possibly the ghost of a long-expired churro.
A series of rope bridges stretch across artificial ravines painted to look like bottomless chasms. I’m guessing they were more convincing back when the paint wasn’t peeling off like a bad sunburn. Nearby, faux temples lean against backdrops of hand-painted mountains that look suspiciously like they were created during a wine-fueled craft night.
An animatronic tiger lurches out from behind a plastic fern with all the menace of a malfunctioning Roomba. It emits a roar that’s less ferocious predator and more like someone stepped on a whoopee cushion.
“That’s Rajah,” Eddie says fondly, like he’s introducing a beloved family pet. “He’s been terrifying children since 1986.”
That’s not a cat. That’s an insult to cats.Chip sniffs indignantly from my tote, clearly offended by the mechanical impostor.
Fish turns her nose up at the rusty puppet, too.If that thing had nine lives, it wasted eight trying to roar.
“The hydraulics need some...encouragement,” I mutter, already calculating what it’s going to cost to fix the poor tiger’s spinal issues. Spoiler alert: it’s probably more than this park makes in a month.
“And the color is all wrong,” Georgie whispers my way while giving the plastic tiger the stink eye. “Real tigers don’t have that orange popsicle tone. More of a burnt sienna.”
“Oh, so you’re an expert on tiger coloration now?” Ree asks, one eyebrow raised.
“I dated a wildlife photographer in the ’70s,” Georgie shrugs. “You pick things up.”
“Yeah, then you ride them,” Ree mutters, side-eyeing her.
