One
Margaret Welles is going to die tonight. Tomorrow night, she’ll die again. And again and again.
Margaret Welles is going to die in the only theme park in existence with an entire land dedicated to the exploitation of murder victims in Southern California, and I still haven’t memorized my script at my job there.
I set a flash card with HAVE YOU HEARD ABOUT MARGARET WELLES? in front of my sleeping corgi mix, Skittle. I’ve been making my best friend, Grace, test me ever since I got this promotion a couple weeks ago, but she needed the time to put on her best outfit for Murder Land’s preview night.
“You know how these Hollywood types are,” I say, doing my best Old Hollywood accent. “She never hung out here, but she’d come by with a fella from James’s Cleaners. Rob Darling, I believe.”
We have four different murders guests can solve based on clues placed all around Murder Land, and I have exactly one clue to give anyone for each.
Margaret Welles, a.k.a. the Red Aster, is based on the Black Dahlia.
With the other three based on the Manson murders, the Los Feliz murder, and the Bugsy Siegel murders, it’s as close as Californialand could get to not getting sued.
Still, it reminds me of this Los Angeles Magazine travel article that detailed one hundred locations for the city’s “Most Memorable” crimes, separating a century’s worth of the grisliest murders by neighborhood.
The victims’ ends are marked by the violation of their bodies, and then LA does its LA thing and violates their human stories afterward too.
In magazines and now in theme parks. But it’s also a job.
I glance down at my card. “Fuck,” I mutter, sliding it to the back of my pile. It’s Jimmy’s Cleaners, and considering what I already know about the general guest’s cognitive processing abilities, that’s the kind of thing that could get someone walking in circles.
“Language, Billie,” my mom says, suddenly available after I’d been calling for her help for the past hour.
She’s in a floral dress, nearly as overdressed as I know I’ll feel in my new Murder Land uniform (a forties-style A-line dress), still sticking hoop earrings into her ears.
It’s nothing remarkable in general, but given Mom never wears anything but loungewear on weekends, I’m itching to ask.
Or, I would be if I didn’t have Murder Land and preview night on the brain.
“Gotta get it out before I’m surrounded by kids,” I say.
“I cannot believe they’re”—she picks up a flash card, scanning where I wrote BABY STABBING ONE—“having people win candy looking for Sharon Tate’s murderers.”
“They win a Murder Land exclusive GooseBeary and Friends figurine set.” I grab my hoodie and beanie off my bed. Thank god this park is opening in June, when it’s still gloomy every day, delaying the heat of summer. “I’ll study in the car.”
When I look up at my mom, though, she’s got her keys in her hand, but she’s not giving the usual vamoose, Billie look. A moment of silence passes before Mom exhales. “Billie, love, I can’t take you. I’m going to Napa with Aunt Jessica, remember? We talked about it last night?”
My heart drops to my sneakers. “What? You said Aunt Jessica was driving you.”
“Her car got towed yesterday.”
There is literally nothing Aunt Jessica could’ve done to make me not officially declare her Family Enemy Number One.
How is this happening? I need the car, I cannot afford surge pricing Uber or Lyft, and the minutes are rapidly passing by me.
Not now. Not when I just got a promotion to ride operator after two years of working a corn dog cart in Gold Rush Land.
After all this time scrubbing fry oil off my skin and explaining to lifestyle influencers that corn dogs aren’t gluten free, I am free. Aunt Jessica is not ruining my dream.
“That’s not my fault! I—”
“I just wanted to let you know I put Skittle’s food out and to let her out before you leave tonight.
Grace is welcome to stay over after your shift, but not her girlfriend or that boy you work with.
Emergency money’s on the table. I’ll see you Sunday night and”—she kisses my cheek as the panic pulses through my veins, making my face hot—“have a good first shift.”
The moment Mom stops contact with me, I lurch forward. “Mom, wait!”
But Mom bullets her way into the garage and away with my ride. I pick up my phone, not even bothering with my dad, who’s probably getting high before his gig tonight with his shitty Bon Jovi cover band. Livin’ on a fucking prayer, I tap Grace’s contact.
Skittle cocks her head at me. Even petting her with my sweaty hand doesn’t help slow my breathing.
“Hey, ride lady, can you just tell me where the mobster guy is? I really want that GooseBeary figurine,” Grace says by way of greeting.
“Can you come pick me up?” I reply.
There’s shuffling on the other end of the line. “Yeah, sure. Give me ten.”
My heartbeat slows; Grace never needs to ask questions.
Grace, my beautiful, perfect friend, arrives in nine minutes, just after I coax Skittle back into the house to settle down for my six-hour shift.
Pop music floods out of the windows of the cherry-red car her moms gave her once her older brother went to college, sending a pang through my chest. There are so many random reasons that account for how different our lives ended up, but considering how similar we started out when we first met in middle school—nerdy, a streak of rebelliousness—I can’t help sometimes but look at her life and wish we could switch timelines.
I hop into the front seat and all but slam the door behind me.
“It’s not like your mom to flake,” Grace says, adjusting her vintage heart sunglasses on her delicate nose.
I let myself sink into the leather seat. “My aunt’s car broke down or something.”
“Well,”—she reaches across the mid-console and rubs my shoulder— “they’re gone, and you’re gonna be fine. Do you want to practice your lines?”
Ugh. “No. Can you just talk for a bit?”
“What are the chances that you ditch your new job and come join me on the GooseBeary Hunt?” Grace asks as she pops her gloss-covered lips.
Between her red lips and the matching fifties-style swing dress, she looks both on theme and generally incredible.
I can’t help but smile at the thought of this blond gem running around looking for a purple animatronic bear in a bow tie and suspenders.
Grace and I have been friends since middle school, but we became inseparable best friends two years ago, after we learned we were both fools who were excessively invested in the disappearance of GooseBeary, Californialand’s famed fifties-era animatronic mascot, from his ride, GooseBeary’s Sunny Jamboree.
Like we legit got jobs at Californialand just to investigate GooseBeary’s disappearance.
We haven’t found him. Grace also quit working at Californialand a whopping two weeks after starting.
“GooseBeary wasn’t in the space where Murder Land is now,” I say absently, my gaze lingering on her lips. “Can I borrow your lipstick?”
I usually do more grungy eyeliner-heavy looks, but that wasn’t going to fly with Murder Land. Considering I barely put on mascara and blush tonight, I might need the color. She plucks a gold tube from her cupholder and drops it into my hand.
“But the rest of the park will be dead as everyone floods to Murder Land,” she says. “Trust me, I’m on the brink of something great.”
Grace says that a lot, so I just give her a wry smile, now freshly painted. “Just please, for my ailing heart, don’t do anything that’ll get us arrested.”
“No promises.” She punctuates the comment with a wink. “But I have a good feeling about tonight.”
“Just scandalize CEO Jason Mullins by stealing his missing bear on the opening night of his crime-themed park.” It’s supposed to come out as a joke, but my voice is strained with anxiety, my fingers drumming along the mid-console.
We stop at a red light. Grace turns to face me.
“Bill, look at me.” I turn to her, relishing the few seconds she’s got her full attention on me.
“You are a ride operator for the most anticipated new attraction in a brand-new addition to Californialand. You got us exclusive passes to said opening night. The whole squad, including the elusive Leon Devereaux”—she winks; I blush—”is going to be there. ”
Leon, a former-employee-turned-annual-pass-holder, was the first coworker my age I met when I started in Gold Rush Land two years ago. An original member of our little under-twenty queer Californialand group. With Leon in college now, though, he’s become harder to nail down.
Excusing, of course, the Californialand holiday party last year that he and I had sex at and then never spoke about again. Grace and I have been analyzing his ambiguous flirtation-but-never-making-a-move for six months now. I’ve lost hope, but Grace is still optimistic.
“This is going to be so fun,” Grace says as I tune back in. She grabs my hand, yanking me fully back into the moment. “Exhale and let it go. You won’t be late on my watch.”
I do the breathing thing, hoping to shake off the last of my anxiety. We’ve been doing this little exercise for years, breathing and holding each other’s hands through procrastinated school projects, romantic rejections, our respective coming-outs, and parent drama.
By the time she looks back to the road, I’m so calm I barely even register she makes a wrong turn.
“Simi Valley’s left, G.”
Grace sighs. “Yeah, we gotta get Sawyer first.”
I sigh. It’s not that Grace picking up her girlfriend, Sawyer Kang, is really unexpected. But I could’ve really used one car ride without having Sawyer’s energy in the mix.
At least Sawyer is out waiting on the porch when we pull up, thirty minutes before my shift starts, scowling like an impatient adult with the world’s weight on her shoulders.
She’s shrugged into a hoodie/leather jacket/white sneakers getup.
Her eyeliner is perfect and her long black hair is shining.
Sawyer’s pristine in the same way Grace is and has been since she first started working as a ride operator at Californialand a few months after Grace quit.
Sawyer’s a self-proclaimed Canadian exchange student, which really just means her Korean Canadian parents decided to move to LA when she was sixteen and she couldn’t come up with another hook.
I swear, she’s still mad people didn’t fall head over heels because she could speak French.
“Do you have the tickets, Billie?” Sawyer asks.
She shoots me a look through the rearview mirror. I simply smirk back, very aware that she’s now stuck in the back like she’s a little kid. Usually, Sawyer and I exchange backhanded compliments nonstop, but I’m actually feeling pretty secure tonight.
“I have them,” Grace snaps. “Why would Billie have them?”
“Jesus,” Sawyer replies. “Sorry for thinking the person who got us the exclusive tickets had them.”
I raise my brows at Grace. Sawyer having a shitty attitude is normal, but it’s rare to see Grace turn on a dime like that.
The words I want to say taste pretty good on my tongue, a simple you can leave Sawyer at home and we can call any of our other friends to come instead.
All signs point to Sawyer and Grace, notoriously on and off, heading toward another off.
But I don’t end up saying anything as Grace gives me a shrug and races onto the freeway toward Californialand.