Page 18 of Fish and Chip: Nine Lives One Murder
The blue castle pulses with an inner glow, catching the fading sunlight and shooting rainbow prisms as if it were trying to blind someone with joy.
I find a quiet-ish corner near a sugar maple that’s basically on fire with color, trying to breathe without panicking.
I’m only a few hours into being the new manager of this place.
Less than a day. And already I’ve shaken enough hands to start a cult, lied about knowing what I’m doing at least six times, and watched my cats become local celebrities.
Speaking of royalty, Fish is perched like a diva on a hay bale, posing like she’s in the middle of aVogueshoot, while Chip has taken up residence under the charcuterie table, accepting meat tributes like the efficient beggar he is as fingers slip him morsels of cheese and prosciutto as if he were a hungry (but slightly sticky) orange god.
That cat eats better than I do.
I make my way toward them, catching snippets of their thoughts as I close in on them.
The lighting here is terrible for photos,Fish mewls, shifting to catch the lantern light more favorably on her fur.I’ll look washed out in half these pictures. Don’t these people know anything about proper cat photography? I’m starting to think we need better PR management and a professional photographer—a royal photographer at that.
You don’t need a royal photographer,Chip counters, accepting a scrap of roast beef with the grace only a newfound aristocratcan bring. Or should I say, aristo-cat.You need a royal food taster. I volunteer. Security purposes only, of course.
Your dedication to the crown is noted,Fish responds dryly.Though I suspect your interest lies more with the salmon puffs than with preventing any assassination attempts.
It can be both,Chip is quick to point out.And you don’t need better lighting, you need a hype team,he says, accepting a prosciutto offering with the grace of a seasoned influencer.Or maybe just more cheese. It’s hard to be fabulous on an empty stomach.
I can’t help but laugh and they both look my way.
Our official spokesperson has arrived,Fish acknowledges me with a slight nod.Go ahead and address the public’s concerns about our administrative plans.
“Having fun in your new roles?” I mutter, giving them both quick chin scratches and getting instant side-eyes from a dozen phone-wielding conference guests desperate to capture the mascots’ majesty.
I’ve already outlined infrastructure upgrades,Fish says, tail flicking with corporate efficiency.We need heated perches, quiet zones, and absolutely no more robotic jungle creatures. That tiger offends me on a spiritual level.
Also, more bacon.For the morale of the staff. Namely, me,Chip adds.I’ve surveyed public opinion and concluded that everyone loves bacon. I’m thinking a food court expansion—with samples! I’ve researched this extensively.
“I’m sure you have,” I murmur, simultaneously amused and slightly concerned by how rapidly they’ve adapted to their roles. Yesterday, they were ordinary house cats. Today, they’re planning park renovations like tiny, furry executives with advanced degrees in customer satisfaction and treat acquisition. Okay, so heavy on the treat acquisition.
Before I can respond, a wave of park guests and travel writers swarms this way, all wielding phonesand questions.
“Are they Instagram-famous?”
“Can we book them for our next event?”
“Do they have merch?”
Great. I’m now running a park... and a budding feline empire.
The questions come rapid-fire, and I find myself backed against the hay bale as the crowd presses closer. Chip’s whiskers twitch. Fish looks like she’s considering unleashing her inner tiger.
Thankfully, Ree swoops in like a seasoned cat wrangler and event planner rolled into one. “Let’s form a line, folks! One selfie per person unless you’re offering bribes or baked goods.”
She pulls me aside. “I’ve got the fur babies covered. You go schmooze. This is your night to sparkle like a sugared donut.”
“Are you sure you’ve got them?” I hesitate, glancing at the growing line of cat enthusiasts who look ready to start a bidding war for face time with my furry employees.
“Please.” She already has a clipboard out. “I once managed a wine tasting at the Country Cottage Inn with two drunk Santas and a goat. This is child’s play.”
We’ll be fine,Fish assures me far too quickly.Our public awaits.
Bring me back something from the bacon station,Chip adds as I reluctantly step away.For morale.
I weave through clusters of chatting travel writers, nodding politely at faces I vaguely recall being introduced to earlier—though honestly, after the third wine-scented critic explained why theme parks were cultural wastelands, they all started blurring together. The reception is in full swing now, with the string quartet having switched to more upbeat selections that somehow make the whole scene feel less like a funeral for my career prospects.
