Page 53 of Fish and Chip: Nine Lives One Murder
“It’s time to keep digging for some buried secrets—preferably ones that won’t end with me joining Ned in the afterlife.”
CHAPTER 19
The hooman appears to be flunking basic parade-naming again,Fish meows from her velvet throne, watching me cross out yet another clunker in my notebook.Autumn Antics Parade lacks the gravitas required for our royal presence, but it’s marginally less offensive than Gourd Gala. You really can’t slap gala on a squash and call it dignified.
What about something with food in the title?Chip suggests, sprawling dramatically for his next photo op, and judging by guests walking by and snapping candid pictures, he’s onto something.Something like the Magnificent Munchies March or The Scrumptious Snack Strut?
Your one-track mind would be impressive if it weren’t so predictable,Fish sighs.Although I suppose we could compromise with The Royal Feast Procession. It has both dignity AND food.
I glance up from my notebook to watch my unlikely marketing saviors holding court across the way. Both Fish and Chip are set up on the cushy for their tushy thrones I purchased while a teenager mans the fort and makes sure no one cuts in line.
And boy, what a line it is. It stretches halfway to Wild Adventures Hollow, filled with people of all ages clutching plush cats, donning glittery cat ear headbands and buzzing at the chance to get a selfie with two extremely judgmental felines.
But where I’m sitting, Storybook Hollow is bathed in the soft glow of midday sunshine, a pastel wonderland that looks as if it was colored by an enthusiastic five-year-old.
It’s the very next day after shaking down Patty in that cosmic wormhole, and I’m not any closer to tracking down the killer.
I take a deep breath and try to soak in the storybook world around me as cotton candy pinks and baby blues dominate the miniature cottages that line the winding pathways. Everything is frosted in pastel—bubblegum pink cottages, baby blue rooftops, and gingerbread trim that dares gravity to intervene. Oversized open storybooks double as benches, while animatronic frogs leap from lily pad to lily pad croaking what sounds suspiciously like, “Kiss me, you coward.”
I’ve claimed a wrought iron table near the Enchanted Carousel, where gilded unicorns and dragons rise and fall to a tinkling melody. The air carries the sweet aroma of freshly baked gingerbread from the nearby Hansel and Gretel’s Bakery mixed with the cotton candy clouds being spun at Cinderella’s Sweet Dreams.
Children squeal with delight as they spin on Sleeping Beauty’s Spinning Wheel ride, a collection of teacup-like contraptions painted to resemble spindles that rotate at a speed carefully calculated not to disturb recently consumed theme park treats.
My notebook is open before me, filled with increasingly desperate attempts to rename Sunday’s Great Gourd Gala Parade. So far, I’ve crossed out Pumpkin Promenade (after some scant research, I’ve come to find out it’s been blacklisted since the infamous 1994 flaming gourd incident).
Then there’s the Harvest Hullabaloo (sounds like a squaredance gone wrong) and Autumnal Advancement (sounds too much like mandatory HR training).
I tap my pen against the paper, wondering if Fall Festival Procession is too boring or just boring enough to avoid future incidents involving fifteen pumpkins and the town’s only fire truck.
Meanwhile, Fish and Chip are living it up as if they just signed a seven-figure deal with Disney as more employees show up on the scene to tend to them.
One employee is fanning Fish with a feather roughly the size of an ostrich, while another tops off Chip’s water bowl with imported spring water chilled to his exacting standards. A third guard is stationed like a royal bouncer, repeating, “Photos only. Please don’t pet the mascots,” to a sea of pouty toddlers.
Somehow, I turned two sarcastic cats into the park’s financial lifeline.
Cat ear headbands? Sold out. Twice.
Popcorn buckets? Vanished in four hours and already listed on eBay for triple.
I’ve spent half the morning on the phone placing rush orders for fall and Halloween-themed merchandise—cat ears with tiny bats, ghost-shaped buckets with cat faces, and t-shirts withHuckleberry Hollow Howl-o-weenemblazoned across glow-in-the-dark cat silhouettes.
Retail therapy has become revenue therapy.
Who knew that two opinionated pets with attitude problems would be my ticket to saving this financial shipwreck of a theme park? If only murder investigations could be solved with glitter and themed snacks. Actually, maybe they can. I’m new to both careers.
The Autumn Antics Parade has potential,Fish concedes, though her expression says otherwise.Still, The Royal Feline Processional remainsmy top choice.
What about The Great Treat Parade?Chip offers, executing a flawless stretch for the cameras.With edible giveaways. For spectators. And mascots. Especially mascots.
“How about the Fairy Tale Fall Frolic?” I mutter, jotting it down. “Alliteration sells tickets.”
Speaking of sales, let’s talk royalties,Fish adds.My likeness is moving units. Standard influencer rates start at?—
You’re being paid in premium kibbleand unlimited photo ops,Chip interrupts.Plus, all the dropped popcorn you can eat. It’s the ultimate feline compensation package.
A shadow falls across my notebook, momentarily blotting out the page of increasingly desperate parade names.
I glance up, expecting a lost tourist asking for directions to the nearest restroom, and instead find myself looking at a familiar face that makes my stomach twist with emotions that range from irritation to the kind of indigestion that requires prescription antacids.
