Page 7 of Fish and Chip: Nine Lives One Murder
Twenty minutes later, I’m heading out to my car with Chip tucked under one arm like a judgmental handbag, Ree and Georgie flanking me like theme park bodyguards, and Fish reluctantly contained in a quilted tote bag that somehow screams both fashion statement and hostage situation.
The quilt pattern goes every which way and Georgie quickly explains it’s part of the wonky quilt collection that she and Ree sell at the shop they own and run on Main Street called Two Old Broads.
I like them better already.
“Huckleberry Theme Park, here we come!” Georgie announces, settling into my backseat with Fish in tow. “I hear they have the best cotton candy in three counties.”
“And a haunted house that actually made someone wet their pants last Halloween,” Ree adds. “Although I suspect alcohol was involved.”
Chip and Fish exchange a look—part solidarity, partwe should unionize.
The things we endure for our hoomans,Chip sighs, slumping against the car seat with resignation.
Mine has lost what little mind she had left,Fish replies.
I start the engine, feeling an unexpected flutter of excitement. Sure, my life has fallen apart like a cheap umbrella in a windstorm. My husband is a cheating podcast guru who thinks enlightenment comes with a side of yoga instructor. I’m temporarily homeless and about to interview for a job I’mcompletely unqualified for. But I also have a name for my lifelong affliction, a potential new job on the horizon, and a car full of eccentric supporters who think I’m worth cheering for (some more enthusiastic than others).
I have a feeling whatever lies ahead will be better than what I left behind.
As we pull out of the Country Cottage Inn’s cobblestone drive, I catch sight of Bizzy waving from the front porch. She taps her temple and gives me a look that saysyou’ve got this.
And for the first time in a long time, I think maybe I do.
Even if I don’t, at least I’ve got backup. Four-legged, chaos-loving, sassy backup.
And let’s be honest, it’s only a matter of time before someone turns up dead.
CHAPTER 3
Is this what hoomans call entertainment? A dilapidated collection of rusty metal contraptions designed to separate people from their money and common sense?Fish mewls from her quilted tote, her nose crinkled like she just smelled cheap perfume and bad decisions.
Oh, lighten up, Fish Stick,Chip snorts, nose twitching as he stands on my lap like a furry orange hood ornament.I smell fried dough. I smell funnel cake. This might be the best decision my hooman has made in years. I smell SNACKS!
“Everybody ready?” I ask, pulling into a parking lot that’s seen better days—probably sometime during the Reagan administration when shoulder pads were considered fashionable and people thought New Coke was a good idea.
A faded sign welcomes us toHuckleberry Hollow Wonderland: Where Magic Still Grows!The exclamation point feels like a lie. So does the magic. Especially when a raccoon near the trash can appears to be bartering with a squirrel for half a corn dog.
“Honey, we were born ready!” Georgie caws from the backseat, slapping the brim of her light-up carousel hat. Yes, it spins. Yes, it glows. And yes, it’s exactly the kind of fashion statementthat gets you escorted out of upscale establishments. “Do you think there are eligible bachelors running the funnel cake booth? Men who know their way around hot oil are usually handy in the kitchen and elsewhere.”
“Georgie, please,” Ree sighs. “We’re here to support Josie’s job interview, not to audition forSenior Citizens Gone Wild: The Theme Park Edition.”
“Age is but a number, Red. And mine is still unlisted.”
The park sprawls before us like a fairy tale that took a dark turn—part magic, part midlife crisis.
A towering wooden arch frames the entrance—its trunks twisted together like they were locked in a slow-motion wrestling match—and it’s covered in carved woodland creatures that look like they’ve seen things, who have definitely seen better decades, and a few rough winters. Not to mention those tiny little critters eye us with permanent, and yet slightly demented smiles.
A smattering of people plod about, and in the distance I can hear what might qualify as the park’s Main Street with a somewhat sorrowful looking castle just beyond that.
The air smells like caramel apples, cinnamon, and pine trees—or in other words, a sugar-drenched forest ready to steal your wallet.
I corral Chip into his tote—a sturdy canvas number with reinforced bottom, AKA a deluxe cat chariot—and he immediately pops his head out, blinking like royalty inspecting his peasantry. Fish, meanwhile, glares from Georgie’s quilt bag like she’s plotting a coup.
As we pass through the gates, distorted carousel music floats through the air. It’s charming in a circus-meets-haunted-house kind of way, and somewhere in the distance, a roller coaster creaks ominously to life, accompanied by the distant screams of either thrill-seekers or people realizing their impending doom.
“This place is…” I search for the right word, staring at a sagging cotton candy cart with a painted clown face that might haunt my dreams. “…intentionally nostalgic. Like someone bottled 1985, shook it up with glitter, and dumped it across one hundred acres.”
“Sort of like me,” Georgie beams.
