Page 45 of Fish and Chip: Nine Lives One Murder
“You do have a dark side, Chip.” And I offer him a scratch behind his ears because of it.
I’m a cat,he mewls back.Revenge is my love language.
And I’m starting to think it’s mine.
I’m still smiling when my phone pings with another notification. An unknown number.
Thanks for the tour today. Let me know if you need help with anything—park-related or otherwise. —Dexter
I gasp hard. Orotherwise?
I stare at the message like it’s a handwritten invitation to something indecent and delicious. Without hesitation, I save his number under Detective Dreamboat—which I’ll change to Dexter Drake, Serious Lawman, or something equally boring before anyone else sees it.
I send back a quick thanks, adding that I might take him up on that offer sooner rather than later. And then immediately relay it all to the big ball of orange fluff shedding in my lap.
And the courtship dance begins,Chip purrs smugly.You’re welcome for my expert matchmaking services. I accepted funnel cake as payment, but future compensation in premium tuna would be appreciated.
I gaze out at the moonlit cove, cider still warm in my hands, the scent of cinnamon clinging to my sweater, and my cat curled up like a purring trophy.
Murder, malfunctioning rides, a sexy detective, and a park with more secrets than storage closets.
Welcome to Huckleberry Hollow, folks. Where the funnel cake is hot, the clues are hotter, and if the rides don’t kill you, someone else just might.
CHAPTER 16
By late afternoon, the leaves on Huckleberry Lane are working overtime—casting shifting shadows and turning the whole street into a live-action pumpkin spice screensaver.
The park is buzzing like a beehive—not a crowd exactly, but definitely more foot traffic than yesterday. The soundtrack is classic theme park—gleeful shrieks from the roller coaster, the whir of machinery just barely holding itself together, and the sugary hum of too many churros and not enough adult supervision.
I stare at my clipboard, blinking away the sandy feeling behind my eyelids.
Sleep is for people who don’t have corpses in their funhouse and rodent infestations in their popcorn stands. Following that logic, I spent the night hunched over my laptop, researching successful theme park marketing strategies and placing enough rush orders to make my credit card company call to verify I hadn’t been kidnapped.Twice.
“Careful with those!” I call to a teenage employee who’s maneuvering a particularly large box with the enthusiasm ofhandling nuclear waste. “Those are the park’s salvation in cardboard form.”
The air smells like caramel apples, roasted peanuts, and mild financial regret. Pumpkin spice clings to everything like gossip in a small town. Fall is officially in full bloom.
Fish and Chip survey their kingdom from atop a stack of boxes, their expressions conveying vastly different opinions of my nocturnal shopping spree.
Look at all these boxes,Chip mewls with his whiskers twitching.It’s like Christmas, but better because none of the presents contain sweaters for a cat. The sweater of shame is my least favorite gift.
It’s utterly ridiculous,Fish counters, tail swishing with disapproval.Josie, this is not an investment—it’s a cry for help. You’ve clearly snapped. This many purchases without a coupon code? Madness. Bankruptcy is imminent.
“It’s called investing in the future,” I inform them both, ticking items off my clipboard. “The internet tells me that exclusive merchandise is how the big parks print money, and we need an actual printing press worth of it to fix the Pirates’ Plunder wardrobe malfunction alone,” I mutter, checking another item off my clipboard. “Theme park merch is where the money lives. Do you think Walt You-Know-Who built a mouse kingdom with coupons? This stuff is just a prelude to our empire.”
A box opens, and Chip gasps.
Is that—oh my tuna—is that ME?!
Chip-shaped popcorn buckets gleam like golden idols.
Fish peers over with her eyes narrowed.This is what we’re doing now? Selling our likenesses like washed-up child stars?
“It’s limited-edition mascot merchandise,” I say, mostly to myself. “Collectors will go feral for these.”
A teen staffer lifts one of the buckets reverently. “Whoa. These are actually awesome. My cousin camped overnight to get a unicorn churro sipper. These?Instant classics.”
I give Fish a smug look. “See? Even Gen Z approves.”
