Page 19 of Fish and Chip: Nine Lives One Murder
“Quite the success, isn’t it?”
I turn to find myself face-to-face with Vivian Templeton, hersilver hair still impossibly perfect despite the evening breeze. Her vest with the sparkling park pins. Her silk pantsuit, in a deep burgundy that perfectly complements the fall color scheme, makes my hastily selected outfit feel like something fished from a discount bin.
Come to think of it, I did just that. Let’s just say Clyde’s financial guru days were numbered before they tossed him out on his fiscally challenged yoga pants.
“Yes,” I say. “Things are lively.”
“I was talking about your little mascot stunt,” she says, swigging her champagne. “Clever. Real animals beat foam costumes any day. They offer authenticity.”
Stunt? She so sees right through me.
“Thank you.” I accept the unexpected compliment cautiously, like someone being handed a package that might tick and go boom.
Vivian knocks back the rest of her champagne before nodding to Ned Hollister, who’s currently berating a server about the temperature of his whiskey with the passion most people reserve for their favorite sports teams. “You’ve got the cute mascots,” she muses. “Now you just need a good villain. Some people are innately cast for the role, don’t you think? He’s made more enemies than friends in this industry,” she continues, still watching the argument. “If he disappeared tonight, the travel industry would throw a party, not a funeral.” She turns back my way and her smile returns so quickly it’s as if a switch has been flipped. “Anyway, about those mascot merchandising opportunities?—”
Her tone remains light, but there’s an unmistakable edge beneath the words—like velvet wrapped around a switchblade.
Before I can unpack any of that, Patty Sherwood appears, practically sparkling with campaign energy.
“Vivian! I was hoping to catch you,” shesays, her tone suggesting they’re old friends, though I detect a subtle tightness around Vivian’s eyes. “I wanted to get your thoughts on featuring the park in our upcoming tourism brochure.”
Vivian offers her a smile so frosty it could chill the champagne all on its own. “You never stop working, do you?”
“It’s not work when you love it!” Patty chirps, then suddenly gasps, pointing at Vivian’s tailored vest. “Oh my goodness, are those original Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland collector pins? They’re exquisite!”
I take a better look at the vest adorned with at least a dozen small enamel pins, each depicting different attractions from the park. There’s a detailed miniature of the blue castle, a carousel, and several others I don’t recognize—probably because half the attractions here haven’t worked since the Clinton administration.
Vivian’s demeanor softens slightly as her hand moves to touch a pin shaped like an intricately glittering tree. “Yes, they’re all antiques. I’ve been a fan of the park since I was a little girl. And I’ve been collecting them ever since.”
“The Tree pin from Everwhirl Hollow!” Patty exclaims, leaning closer to examine it with the intensity of an art appraiser. “And is that the original Haunted Gold Mine?” She points to a dark pin depicting a mine entrance with tiny ghostly figures.
“It is,” Vivian confirms, a hint of genuine pride breaking through her cool exterior. “From the 1980s, before they redesigned the ride. That carousel is from the opening year, and this—” she points to a small teacup, “—is from when Galaxy Hollow was still called Future World.”
“I had no idea you were such an enthusiast,” Patty says, her surprise seeming genuine, or at least as genuine as anything a politician says during campaign season.
“There are a lot of things that people don’t know about me,” Vivian replies, the coolness returning to her voice as she glances toward Ned, who’s still holding court across the courtyard like a one-man demonstration of why customer service workersdeserve hazard pay. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to refresh my drink.”
As she walks away, I catch Patty watching her with an unreadable expression.
“Interesting woman,” I comment.
“More than you know,” she says just as Ned shouts something unintelligible. “Don’t mind him.” She nods his way. “He’s nothing but a ball of trouble. Everyone on this planet has a motive to murder the man.”
“Patty!” A balding man in an ill-fitting suit waves urgently from near the buffet.
“Duty calls,” she sighs. “Campaign donors wait for no woman. We’ll continue this conversation soon!” She squeezes my arm and darts off, working the proverbial room with the precision of a person who’s mapped out every strategic conversation in advance.
The evening wears on, the reception gradually winding down as the fairy lights glow brighter against the darkening sky. I circulate, making small talk, accepting congratulations on my new position, and trying not to wonder what I’ve gotten myself into.
The Merryweathers beam proudly every time they catch my eye, as if I’m their long-lost daughter returning in triumph rather than a stranger they hired hours ago in what was probably a moment of senior citizen optimism. Or just a senior moment. My money is on the latter.
I’m contemplating whether it’s too early to make a graceful exit when Fish and Chip suddenly race toward me, fur bristling with alarm. They’re moving with such urgency that several guests leap out of the way.
They’re screaming in the castle!Fish yowls so loud it sears my eardrums.
“It’s a theme park,” I tell her. “Screaming is half the fun.”
Not this kind of screaming,Chip saysgrimly.Follow us.
