Page 35 of Fish and Chip: Nine Lives One Murder
“I think,” I say with grim determination and the kind of clarity that only comes from surviving multiple near-death experiences in the span of two hours, “that I’m going to need a bigger toolbox—and possibly an exorcist for whatever unholy spirit is possessing that Dutch doll in Everwhirl Hollow.”
We make our way back to Huckleberry Lane, each of us walking with the slight limp of people who’ve survived ten too many rickety rides and lived to tell the tale. My hair is half-matted with cotton candy, Georgie’s hat still has a lobster clinging to it, and Ree has that glassy-eyed look of someone who just realized that adulthood is a scam.
As we pass the park’s central office, I notice a sleek black car parked out front that wasn’t there this morning—which either means important visitors or someone’s here to arrest me for the safety violations I’ve just documented.
Standing beside it, looking crisp and official in a perfectly pressed suit that somehow manages to make even a theme park parking lot look professional, is none other than Detective Dexter Drake.
Our eyes meet across the cobblestones, and I feel that same ridiculous flutter in my stomach—which is probably just residual motion sickness from the rides, but feels suspiciously like attraction.
He motions for me to come over, his expression unreadable but his gaze is intense enough to melt the chocolate on a caramel appleat twenty paces.
“I think the real ride just pulled up, and he’s wearing a badge and smolder,” Georgie points out.
Ree nods. “Cue the brooding detective and potential felony charges.”
“Brace yourselves, ladies,” I say. “Dreamboat Detective just entered the chat.”
CHAPTER 13
Chip
Like I said, we need to assemble an army,Fish declares as we trot along the perimeter of the park, her black-and-white tail stabbing the air like a tiny flag of feline doom.A tactical force with specialized rodent elimination skills.
I bounce beside her, my orange fluff floofing in the wind.Right! An army! But do armies get snacks? Because I feel like armies should definitely get snacks. You can’t conquer mice on an empty stomach—that’s just poor strategic planning.
Focus, Orange One,Fish sighs like she’s carrying the weight of the world and also me, which, by the way, isrude.We’re about to recruit the finest feline operatives in all of Maine. This requires dignity, authority, and?—
OOOOH! Is that a hot dog wrapper?I lurch sideways like a furry shopping cart with a busted wheel. My nose is twitching. It smells like hope and pickles. The possibility of mustard residue makes my whiskers dance with anticipation.
CHIP!Fish yowls loud enough to make a car alarm go off three counties over and shatter glass. And trust me, a few morebroken windows is the last thing Josie needs around here.We are on a MISSION! You cannot stop to investigate every piece of garbage you encounter!
I wasn’t investigating, I was sniffing! And you and I both know it might have mustard residue,I protest, reluctantly abandoning my treasure hunt.Mustard is very important for morale. Napoleon probably ate mustard.
Napoleon was hooman, you furry disaster. And by the way, he LOST. You can thank my hooman’s husband Jasper for relaying that little tidbit. He always watches the boringest things on TV. As soon as he gets home from work, he steals the remote from Bizzy.
Well, maybe he would have WON if he’d had better snacks,I counter with logic that makes perfect sense to me—and probably Jasper, too.
You’re quoting history incorrectlyanddisrespecting mustard. Stay with me, Lieutenant Fluff-for-Brains.Fish stops walking and sits down with all the drama of a cute kitty who’s reached the end of her rope.Listen carefully. We need these stray cats to respect us. We need them to see us as leaders, as generals in the coming war against rodent-kind. We cannot accomplish this if you’re sniffing garbage like a common... like a...
Like a dog?I suggest helpfully.
EXACTLY!Fish’s whiskers twitch with indignation.
I mean, some of my best friends are dogs.Not exactly the truth, but a cat’s got to reach to be right sometimes.
This isn’t a social mixer, Chip! We must project authority! Competence! Feline superiority!
I nod so hard my ears actually wobble.Got it. No garbage sniffing during recruitment. What about after recruitment? Can I sniff garbage then?
We’ll discuss your garbage privileges later.She lifts her tail at me.Right now, focus.
She motions with her tail toward a picnic table where a gray tabby lounges like a mafia boss in retirement beneath a picnictable, eyeing us with the kind of suspicion that suggests he’s seen some things and survived to tell the tale.
Do you see that tabby over there?she mewls in that direction.I think we should call him Whiskerface. I can tell he’s seen things. Done things. We need him.
I grunt at the fat cat.He looks like he could take down an opossum with one eye closed.
He’s perfect,she mewls.Follow my lead. And try not to bounce.
