Page 41 of Fish and Chip: Nine Lives One Murder
“You know Detective Wilder?” He inches back.
“I not only know him, I live with him. At least on the same grounds. I’m staying at the Country Cottage Inn, and I’ve gotten in the habit of kidnapping his cat for long spates of time.”
Dexter looks both amused and terrified.
For the next hour, I guide Dexter through the theme park’s questionable attractions. He takes each mechanical failure and design flaw in stride, laughing at the Galactic Cruiser with itsChristmas light stars and even helps push our Pioneer Express train when it stalls mid-track.
By the time we’ve survived three rides, the sun has fully set, and the park’s lights cast a warm glow that somehow makes even the run-down attractions seem charming—like viewing them through the world’s most effective rose-colored glasses.
The scent of fried dough draws us to a food stand where a teenager with braces and the thousand-yard stare of someone who’s seen too many entitled customers hands us an impressive array of carnival treats that could probably feed a small army or one very hungry detective.
We settle on a bench with corn dogs, funnel cake topped with fresh strawberries and a mountain of whipped cream, and two massive cups of hot chocolate that probably contain more sugar than the FDA would approve of in a month.
“This,” Dexter announces, taking a bite of funnel cake, “is why I became a cop. For the high-stakes funnel cake investigations.”
“Is that what this is? Am I under suspicion for powdered sugar trafficking? I swear, Officer, I’m just holding it for a friend who has a serious baking problem and possibly an addiction to carnival food.”
His comeback is cut short by the sudden appearance of Fish and Chip, who trot toward us with the regal bearing of conquerors returning from battle. Their fur is slightly mussed, suggesting either intense negotiations or an equally intense nap. My guess is both.
Mission complete,Fish declares.The feline troops have been briefed. Battle of Rodent Hill begins at closing.
We promised them the premium scraps from the food court,Chip adds, eyeing our funnel cake with the naked desire of an addict spotting their next fix.And possibly your firstborn. The negotiations got a little heated, but I talked them down from two firstborns to just one. You’re welcome.
At least Ican keep Riley.
Dexter arches a brow. “I swear, it almost seems as if they’re talking to you. Do they always meow this much?”
“Only when they think I’m not listening.”
Tell the armed hooman to step away from the funnel cake,Fish demands, eyeing Dexter suspiciously.He looks like the type to arrest innocent cats for merely existing in proximity to crime scenes. The strawberry sauce slathered all over that thing looks guilty, not us. We’re simply disposing of rodents.
Chip eyes the funnel cake.He looks like a snack thief.
I shoot him a look that saysit takes one to know one.
Dexter tears a piece off his funnel cake and offers it to both of them. Fish takes it delicately. And Chip inhales his like a furry Dyson.
I guess he can stick around,Fish mewls.But only if he offers whipped cream next time.
“So why did youreallywant to see the cats?”I scoop both cats into my lap, where they immediately arrange themselves for optimal funnel cake access with the precision of NASA engineers calculating a moon landing. “Don’t mind them. They’re just performing their mascot duties with excessive enthusiasm. The park’s marketing department might call it interactive character immersion. I call it being held hostage by fur balls with attitude.”
He hesitates. “My kids wanted selfies with them. We spent half their childhood here.”
Something in my chest softens at this confession, like butter forgotten in the sun. He’s not just hot. He’s...wholesome.
“That’s sweet. How about we take a couple of group shots?” I pull out my phone. “For the official mascot social media accounts, of course. Purely professional documentation.”
We take a few photos—with Fish looking regal and Chip mid-chew. Dexter’s shoulder brushes mine and the carousel music shifts to a love song.
Okay, so it’s still screeching out the same broken tune, but inmy mind hearts and confetti are exploding all over the place. I may never wash my shoulder again.
As the evening winds down, we walk along the now-empty midway, our footsteps echoing against the cobblestones. The autumn air has grown chilly, and I pull my cardigan tighter, wishing I’d worn something more substantial than my first day of work outfit, which was designed for making impressions, not for warmth.
“This place is going to be a big undertaking,” I admit, glancing around at the darkened rides and shuttered kiosks. “It needs a lot of work, and I really don’t know what I’m up against financially. My business plan currently consists of fix everything and hope for money, which is slightly less detailed than I’d prefer.”
“I’d be glad to help you brainstorm,” he offers. “I’ve watched this place change over the years. It would be a shame to see it close. Plus, my kids would never forgive me if their favorite mechanical malfunction destination disappeared.”
“I’d like that,” I say, meaning it. “I could use all the help I can get. Currently, my crisis management team consists of two cats and a haunted Dutch doll.”
