Page 16 of Fish and Chip: Nine Lives One Murder
“As of today, I am the manager,” I tell her with forced confidence. You know what they say,fake it till you make it at the run-down theme park.
“Bold choice,” she shoots back. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”
Before I can respond to this charming vote of confidence, my attention is captured by the loudest voice in the courtyard. A man with silvery hair and a face reddened by what I suspect is decades of imported tequila holds court near the castle entrance. He’s gesturing wildly with one hand while holding what is clearly not one of the specialty cocktails being served.
“That’s Ned Hollister,” Eddie explains in a low voice. “Food critic and travel blogger. Very influential.”
“Very opinionated,” Edie is quick to add.
I watch as Ned flicks away a tray of hors d’oeuvres like he’s warding off flies.
“Quaintdecay,” he shouts with a laugh. “Charming, if your idea of charm is your grandmother’s attic—and tastes like it, too.”
That man has the exact chaos of a raccoon in a trash bin,Fish deadpans.
And his voice carries the distinctive resonance of someone who loves to hear himself speak,Chip adds.Hey? He reminds me a lot of Clyde.
I nod at the mention of my narcissistic ex. Come to think of it, this looks like typical Clyde behavior.
“His reviews matter,” Eddie whispers my way. “Unfortunately.”
Ned trips over his own feet and showers himself with his drink before righting himself with a bellowing hoot. “The drinks are on me! Literally! I’m hot stuff and I can afford it, too!”
Oh, good grief.Fish rolls her eyes.That man’s ego is larger than a sumo wrestler in a tutu.
“Ned’s reviews can make or break a destination,” Eddie continues, worry creasing his brow. “Let’s just say he’s been less than impressed so far.”
My introduction to the third notable guest comes with a burst of enthusiasm that nearly knocks me backward like an overly caffeinated cheerleader. A woman with a perfect camera-ready smile and dark hair that somehow remainsimmaculate despite the evening breeze approaches with the determined cheer of a woman who’s never met a room she couldn’t work or a hand she couldn’t shake.
“You must be Josie! I’m Patty Sherwood, town council and hopefully the next mayor of Huckleberry Hollow!” She pumps my hand with the exact pressure to appear both strong and approachable. She’s dressed in what I can only describe as casual campaign chic—a tailored blazer, perfectly fitted jeans, and pink nubuck hiking boots that manage to look both practical and fashionable as if they could handle both a mountain trail and a corporate boardroom without breaking a sweat.
“Nice to meet you,” I say, mentally noting how her smile remains fixed while her eyes continually scan the crowd like a Secret Service agent looking for threats to her polling numbers.
“This park is such a treasure,” Patty gushes with enough enthusiasm to assure me she’s rehearsed this line in front of a mirror. “A cornerstone of my revitalization platform, you know. Tourism is the future of Huckleberry Hollow!” She leans in close enough that I can smell her minty breath and expensive perfume. “So tell me, what’s the park’s mascot? Every successful theme park these days needs a recognizable character.”
“Actually—” I begin, having absolutely no idea what the answer is and wondering if this is some kind of trick question designed to expose my complete lack of theme park knowledge.
“Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland is the only major theme park in America without a mascot,” interrupts a booming voice with a distinct Southern drawl that could charm honey from a beehive. I turn to find myself face-to-face with a tall, dark-haired, impeccably dressed man whose broad smile contrasts with his calculating gaze. “A distinction that’s either charmingly quaint or woefully behind the times, depending on who you ask.” He winks my way. “Wallis Fulton,” he introduces himself with a slight bow that belongs in a period drama. “Fulton Travel Guides. And you must be the new manager Eddie’s been bragging about.”
“I—” I begin again, but Patty cuts me off with the precision of a mayoral candidate who never lets anyone finish a sentence that might steal her spotlight.
“No mascot yet? That’s a missed marketing opportunity!” She looks at me expectantly, like I’m personally responsible for decades of mascot-less park operations. “Surely you plan to remedy that?”
Everyone stares at me, awaiting what is apparently a crucial decision about a job I’ve held for approximately forty-five minutes—roughly the same amount of time it takes to bake a potato or watch half a rom-com. My mind goes blank. The pressure builds until I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.
“Fish and Chip!” I gesture to the cats who are currently wrapping themselves around my ankles. “They’re our new mascots.”
There’s a moment of stunned silence during which I contemplate the nearest exit.
EXCUSE ME?Fish’s outrage practically explodes in my head.I am not some common carnival attraction!I have a lineage that dates back to Egyptian cat worship!
Does this mean more food?Chip wonders, considerably less horrified.I never refuse snacks or the opportunity to be adored by the masses. I accept the position if treats are included. And a dental plan. These teeth don’t maintain themselves.
“They’re perfect!” Patty exclaims, reaching to pet Fish, who somehow manages to look both regal and offended at the same time, like a queen being asked to pump her own gas.
Unhand me, commoner,Fish bristles, but then pauses as Patty scratches exactly the right spot behind her ears.Although your technique is surprisingly adequate. Youmay continue your service.
See? It’s not so bad being adored,Chip purrs as an elderly gentleman offers him a morsel of smoked salmon.The perks are excellent.
