Page 65 of Fish and Chip: Nine Lives One Murder
“That was—we were—” I stammer, mentally cursing the Cider Cove gossip network, which operates with the efficiency of military intelligence gathering. “That was a working dinner.”
“Working on what, exactly? Testing the structural integrity of the tiramisu?” Georgie wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. “I bet the crime scene wasn’t the only thing sizzling.”
“We discussed murder,” I insist. “The restaurant just happened to be convenient.”
“Murder is her love language,” Bizzy says helpfully.
She’s not wrong. Clyde’s murder would be ideal, but I’ll take what I can get.
Ree sniffs. “All I’m saying is that place sure was convenient for gazing into each other’s eyes by candlelight.”
The distinctive sound of a marching band warming up savesme from further interrogation. The first floats of the parade appear at the far end of Huckleberry Lane, and excited murmurs ripple through the crowd.
“It’s starting!” Bizzy exclaims.
Ree, Georgie, and Bizzy press forward, eager to secure front-row viewing positions, and a hat with its own float on it creates a natural buffer zone as other spectators give it a wide berth.
The crowd is thick and alive with the kind of energy a dozen shots of espresso can bring, the air is thick with the scent of freshly popped popcorn, and the sounds from that disjointed marching band threaten to haunt us for the next hour straight.
The first float rolls our way. A squirrel in a waistcoat waves to the crowd while fall vegetables dance behind him like they’ve trained on Broadway. The carrot really is cute.
Just as I’m about to join my friends, I spot Wallis Fulton looking as if he’s aged five years in five minutes.
“Wallis,” I call, intercepting his path among the maple trees near the castle. “Everything okay? You look like someone just told you pumpkin spice has been permanently discontinued.”
He attempts a smile that doesn’t initiate. “It’s that obvious, huh?”
“Only to someone who’s made a recent study of disappointed facial expressions. My mirror’s been giving me a master class since I found my husband doing intimate things with women who were not me.”
This earns a genuine, if small, chuckle. “I just tried one last time to get Edie and Eddie to sell me this place, and they shut me down for good. I guess it’s just not meant to be.”
“What made you think they would sell it?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“They’ve been talking about it for years,” he sighs, his Southern accent thickening with emotion. “And I thought—well, family should come first, right?”
“So, it’s true?You’re family?”
He hesitates, then his shoulders slump. “I might as well tell you. Eddie is my half-brother—different fathers. I always thought that gave me some claim, you know? Some right to be part of this place.”
The revelation clicks several puzzle pieces into place—his unusual interest in the park’s finances, his hovering around the Merryweathers, his intense reaction to Ned’s death on park grounds. I figured it was personal.
“But don’t you worry about me,” Wallis continues, his sugar sweet smile sliding back into place. “Fulton Travel Guides is going strong and growing. I’ll be fine.”
He glances back into the crowd, where the other travel writers are enjoying the parade with the enthusiasm of people who don’t have complicated family drama involving theme park inheritance.
“I guess I’ll enjoy what’s left of the conference,” he says. “Too bad Ned’s not here to navigate the rest of the journey with us. Hopefully they’ll catch his killer soon enough.”
“I hope so, too,” I say, watching him drift back into the colorful mass of spectators.
The parade continues its meandering path through the park with floats representing each of the ten hollows, costumed staff tossing candy to children, and the distinctive tinkling music of the carousel playing a happy little tune.
I should be basking in the success of an event going exactly as planned—a rarity in my week of park management that ranks somewhere between winning the lottery and finding a unicorn. But something about Wallis’s dejection nags at me like a splinter in my brain.
I’m about to turn my full attention back to the parade when I spot Vivian Templeton at the edge of the crowd, standing apart from the festivities as if she’s attending a different event entirely. Unlike everyone else, whose gazes track the passing floats as if they were hypnotized, hers is fixed elsewhere with laser focus.
She’s not looking at the parade at all. In fact, her gaze is directed at the very last place Ned Hollister was seen alive—the funhouse.
I glance at the parade, where Fish and Chip will soon make their grand appearance on the final float, then back at Vivian’s rigid posture and unwavering focus on the funhouse entrance. I don’t need to get Fish and Chip to their posts just yet. I still have a bit of time.
