Page 10 of Fish and Chip: Nine Lives One Murder
“Facts,” Georgie says, unapologetic.
Ree shakes her head my way. “I don’t want to know any more than I already do.”
I nod over at her, but secretly I’m making a mental note to shake Georgie down for all the dirty deets later. I can’t help it. Inquiring minds want to know.
Fish peers suspiciously once more at the robotic beast, ducking back into Georgie’s tote with a soft hiss that suggests she’s not fooled by the mechanical deception.
But the Merryweathers beam at us like proud parents on a preschool field trip. I guess our cat-fueled sarcasm reads as enthusiasm.
From there, we mosey into Bayou Bend, where fake moss drapes from fake trees and jazzy New Orleans brass floats from hidden speakers. A pirate ship bobs gently in a shallow pool, looking like it was once majestic but now mostly just tired. Animatronic sailors and wenches stand frozen mid-shanty,mouths agape like they’re locked in a scream that’s been buffering since 2003.
“Is this attraction operational?” I ask, noting the slightly rusty chains and wondering when the last safety inspection happened. Or if one ever did.
“Only on weekends now,” Edie sighs with the resignation of a park owner who’s had to cut one too many corners. “We’ve got a few financial constraints.”
“Ooh, pirates!” Georgie makes a beeline for the ship, Fish’s tote bag swinging precariously as Georgie navigates the gangplank with surprising agility for someone wearing a carousel hat. “I’ve always had a thing for men with eye patches and swords. It adds a little danger.”
“Because what you need in your life is less visibility and more sharp objects.” Ree follows her onto the gangplank and carefully tries to extricate her.
“My third husband was a sailor,” Georgie informs Eddie, who looks both alarmed and intrigued by the revelation. “Not officially a pirate, but he did once liberate a neighbor’s flamingo lawn ornament after too much rum.”
“Some heroes wear capes,” Ree groans. “Some liberate plastic birds.”
“That’s right,” Georgie shouts, nearly toppling into questionable algae-riddled waters. “They wear eyepatches!”
Way to bring it full circle,Fish mewls from the tote back while eyeing the frozen animatronic parrot like it owes her some cold hard cash.
This whole ride needs an exorcism,Chip mutters.And possibly a tetanus shot.
I have a feeling both the exorcism and the tetanus shot will be a recurring theme at the park.
“The animatronics could use some updating,” I note, examining a wench with a permanently stuck wink. “But the concept is solid. I mean, what kid doesn’t love a pirate?”
“Apparently, Georgie does,” Ree mutters as her bestie attempts to pose the rigid mechanical captain into more of a suggestive stance, and now it actually looks as if he’s about to pull something out of his pants.
Well, there’s that.
Gold Rush Hollow comes next, a dusty replica of an Old West town complete with saloons and gold-panning stations—which is really just children dunking their arms into cold water to fish out gold-painted pebbles like feral raccoons.
A rickety mine shaft looms nearby, roped off with yellow caution tape like it’s hiding either a mechanical problem—or a body. Judging by the trail of suspicious red stains on the ground, I’m betting it’s not just a cherry slushie gone rogue.
“Oh, it’s just a temporary closure,” Eddie explains, though his expression suggests it might be more permanent than temporary, possibly involving structural issues and insurance claims. My money is on the latter.
“What happened?” Ree asks, instantly alert to potential safety concerns with the instincts of a woman who’s prevented more disasters than she’s caused. “Mechanical failure? Structural collapse? Rabid squirrel infestation?”
“It’s just routine maintenance,” Edie assures her a bit too quickly. And I get the feeling she’s had to give this explanation before.
“Mmm-hmm,” Georgie whispers my way, loud enough to wake the dead. “That’s what they said about that roller coaster in New Jersey right before they discovered it was haunted by the ghost of an angry accountant.”
Is there another kind of accountant?
Fish sticks her head out of the tote, staring intently at the sealed mine entrance with the focus of a tiny detective.I think something died in there. Recently.
Chip’s ears perk up, and by the looks of it, his nose is working overtime.It’s dead, all right. I bet it’s a mouse. Or a rat. Don’tworry, Josie. It’s nothing hooman-sized. Or Clyde-sized for that matter. Although just say the word and that can be arranged. And I know how to make it look like an accident.
One dead soon-to-be ex-husband might stir up more trouble for me than he’s worth. I shake my head at my surprisingly resourceful cat.
So no to the murder, but yes to the funnel cake,he says.Got it.
