Page 20 of Fish and Chip: Nine Lives One Murder
They bolt, and I follow, past confused guests and into the mouth of the funhouse—a literal clown mouth that feels creepier now than it did during daylight that connects to the back of the castle.
I’m about to take another step when I encounter a group of conference attendees running in the opposite direction. Their faces show genuine terror, not the amused fear of people enjoying a scare, and definitely not the look of people who just discovered the restrooms are out of toilet paper.
“It’s not part of the attraction!” a woman in a floral dress gasps, grabbing my arm as she passes. “Someone call security!”
But I don’t call security. I follow in the footsteps of every teenager in a horror flick and decide to move toward danger.
The entrance to the funhouse is dimly lit, with surreal carnival music playing at half-speed—a design choice that suddenly seems less whimsical and more like the soundtrack to my nightmares. I hesitate, then step inside, following the orange flash of Chip’s tail as he disappears around a corner like a furry beacon leading me toward what I’m increasingly certain is a very bad idea.
Inside, everything is colder. Quieter. Carnival music plays at funeral speed. Mirrors distort reality. Animatronic clowns leer as if they know too much.
Over here!Fish yowls just as I round a corner and stop cold.
And that’s when my first day as theme park manager officially graduates fromchallengingtorequires hazard payand possibly witness protection.
Ned Hollister is sprawled on the floor with vacant eyes and a ride safety chain looped around his neck like a tragic prop in a murder mystery dinner theater. His whiskey glass lies shattered beside him, and the spill is mingling with something far darker, and far more crimson. And beside him sit two vintage park pins right next to his hand.
Patty’s words from earlier echo in my mind with chilling clarity.Everyone on this planet has a motive to murder the man.
Everyone might have had a motive, but someone in this theme park has turned that motive into murder.
My first day as manager has just taken a fatal turn. Ned Hollister is dead.
CHAPTER 8
My scream ricochets through the mirrored walls like a horror remix no one asked for.
Every reflection in this twisted funhouse echoes back at me with shock, disbelief, and a very real sense that the caramel apple I wolfed down earlier might be making a return appearance.
Ned Hollister stares at the ceiling with glassy, vacant eyes that will never again narrow in criticism. His face is frozen in surprise, mouth slightly open as if preparing to deliver one final cutting review. The safety chain—the kind used throughout the park to block off closed attractions—is wrapped so tightly around his neck that it’s created an angry red groove in his skin. A small pool of amber liquid spreads from a shattered whiskey glass, the expensive spirits mingling with what is unmistakably something dark and sticky coming from Ned himself.
“Josie!” Ree’s voice bounces in from the entrance, followed by the sound of heels against old wood and both Ree and Georgie burst around the corner in a flurry of chaos and feathers.
I’m not even going to ask.
“We saw you dart in here and didn’t want you to have all the fun with the handsome men hiding in this funhouse of iniquity!”Georgie announces, adjusting her Ferris wheel hat which has tilted precariously during her pursuit, making her look like a very confused theme park ride. And it is so on brand for this place.
Words fail me. I simply point toward the floor where Ned lies sprawled looking considerably less intimidating than he did when he was terrorizing waitstaff.
“I don’t think he’s having any fun,” I finally manage with my voice squeaky and barely functional.
Ree gasps, and Georgie lets out a shriek that could crack glass.
“Is that—” Ree begins.
“The rude whiskey critic?” Georgie finishes, clutching at her chest.
Fish sits a safe distance away, glaring at the man as if he personally offended her.This is highly inconvenient,she deadpans.Murder on my first day as mascot? Such bad optics. Think of the awful press.
Chip edges closer to him and his whiskers twitch with interest.At least he dropped his whiskey. Seems a waste to let it...
Do NOT even think about lapping up evidence, you walking, talking ham!Fish yowls with such force that Chip actually backs up a step as if he’s been slapped by bacon.
I drop to my knees, channeling my inner crime drama detective, and press two fingers to Ned’s neck, more for show than for science, and sure enough, he’s colder than my ex’s heart.
“He’s dead,” I say, because apparently, I’m the kind of person who states the obvious in a crisis.
Georgie grunts, eyeing the chain around his neck. “Now that’s a fashion choice even I wouldn’t attempt.”
