Page 51 of Fish and Chip: Nine Lives One Murder
Fish and Chip peek out from their respective tote bags as I set them down next to me, and they take in the surroundings.
It’s a marginal improvement,Fish concedes.Still tacky and sticky. And that constellation mural? It’s entirely inaccurate. Orion is not, in fact, tangoing with Cassiopeia. I’m also forced to watch the Adventures in Space Channel with Jasper and Sherlock once Bizzy nods off in the evening.
They have a bowl of mixed nuts on the bar,Chip meows, zeroing in on the only detail that matters to him with the laser focus of a food critic at a buffet.Fancy nuts.The kind in shells that require actual work to eat. That’s high-class establishment territory.
Focus, Food Brain,Fish chides.We’re here for interrogation, not gastronomy.
Are you saying I have gas?Chip takes a moment to sniff his own rear.Everyone knows interrogations are more productive with appropriate snacks,he insists.Even the FBI knows that. Good cop brings donuts, bad cop brings nothing—and that’s how a suspect cracks from hunger-induced anxiety. Those are basic tactics. Wait…did that make sense?
A server approaches with a tray of drinks—another electric blue cocktail for Patty that is probably illegal in twelve states, and what appears to be sparkling water with mint for me that suggests someone’s been paying attention to my designated driver status.
“I took the liberty,” Patty says, noting my surprise. “I figure you must be on the clock as park manager.”
“Thanks.” I take the drink, impressed by her perceptiveness and slightly worried about what other details she’s cataloged about my life. “So, about the parade?—”
“Let’s start with your vision for the park,” Patty interrupts smoothly, like a politician who’s mastered the art of redirecting conversations away from topics she doesn’t want to discuss. “I hear cat ears are the new must-have accessory. You are quite the entrepreneur.”
“Merch helps. Especially when it purrs.” I give her my elevator pitch about increased visitor engagement, themed merchandise, and making the most of social media exposure, trying not to sound like someone who learned everything about business from YouTube videos and panic-induced internet research.
She nods along, occasionally inserting thoughtful questions that reveal she knows more about theme park economics than your average town council member—or your average person who didn’t just inherit a financial disaster disguised as a charming tourist attraction.
“You’ve really done your research,” I tell her, taking another sip of my surprisingly refreshing sparkling water. “Most politicians wouldn’t know the difference between operational overhead and capital investments for attractions.”
Her eye twitches as if she’s running numbers in her head or deciding how much truth she can afford to reveal without damaging her political prospects.
“Well, I’ve always had a soft spot for Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland.” She swirls the ice in her glass. “Like I mentioned, I worked here in high school. Ticket booth, mostly, but they rotated us through different positions.”
Perfect. This is exactly what I was hoping to deep dive into,Fish purrs with delight and I nod her way because I happen to feel the same.
I love that my next suspect is voluntarily revealing her connection.
“That must have been fun for a teenager,” I tell her.
“It had its moments.” Her smile turns nostalgic. “Like I said, it was just mostly ticket booths and concessions. The Merryweathers were more energetic back then, always dreaming up new events and attractions. Of course, safety standards were more flexible in those days.”
“I imagine a lot has changed,” I prompt.
“Everything and nothing.” She gestures at the walls with a hand. “The park still has that same charm, that same slightly outdated quality that makes it endearing rather than cutting-edge. Although I imagine you’re planning to change that.”
She’s revealing just enough,Fish notes.Classic deflection play. Control the narrative, then drop distractions.
Or snacks,Chip adds, watching a waiter walk by with a tray of glowing dumplings.
“I’m not planning to change too much. Evolution, not revolution,” I assure Patty. “Preserve the charm while making sure the pirate wenches keep their mechanical bodices intact.”
She laughs, a surprisingly genuine sound. “Yes, I heard about that particular malfunction. Some things never change—like the people circling the park.”
“What do you mean?”
Patty leans forward conspiratorially, her voice dropping. “Take Vivian Templeton, for instance. Did you know she and Ned wereonce engaged?”
“I’d heard rumors,” I admit, not revealing my sources.
“More than rumors. She was his co-worker atTaste Quarterlybefore she became his fiancée, then his biggest professional rival after he left her for another writer.” Patty’s tone suggests a delicious scandal. I thought it was Vivian’s secretary? Or was it her assistant? But then, this is secondhand information and my brain has been short-circuiting. “But here’s what most people don’t know—they were still business partners.”
My eyebrows rise a notch. “Still business partners? After all that history?”
“The dirtiest kind,” Patty confirms with a tip of her head. “They ran a little blackmail scheme targeting restaurants and resorts. She’d feed him inside information from luxury properties that advertised in her magazine, and he’d threaten negative reviews unless they paid up.”
