Fish and Chip: Nine Lives, One Cheap Thrill

Chapter 1

Seven in the morning should be illegal.

Especially seven in the morning when you’re standing in front of a pink fairy-tale castle while your ex-husband prepares to humiliate himself on live television.

But here I am, watching the October sun paint Storybook Hollow in shades of lavender and orange while the scent of fresh cinnamon churros battles with my mounting sense of doom.

As fate—or my bad luck—would have it, the local morning show, Morning Coffee & Chaos, has chosen to film at the park for the entire week.

That would explain the makeshift set with four tall chairs and a cluster of crew members running to and fro, along with the hordes of fans lining either side of the set, currently being held back by caution tape.

Yeah, that whole caution tape is a little unnerving all on its own, especially considering the park’s history with the Grim Reaper.

The castle that usually sparkles with Disney-wannabe charm now sports enough fake cobwebs to outfit every haunted house in three counties.

Jack-o’-lanterns leer from every surface, purple lights snake around the cone-shaped turrets, and our haunted carousel music wheezes through speakers that predate my marriage.

It’s part Halloween special, part mechanical death rattle.

October has arrived at Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland Theme Park with all the subtlety of a toddler discovering sugar.

We celebrate Halloween all month long at the park, milking every last pumpkin spice latte and haunted house ticket we can.

Then November first hits, and we flip a switch to Christmas—the true cash cow holiday season of any theme park.

“This place looks like October went wild with Halloween decor and never looked back,” I mutter.

Near the castle steps, Fish sits on a makeshift red velvet throne, surveying the Morning Coffee & Chaos crew with a disdain usually reserved for people who steal parking spots. Her black and white fur practically radiates judgment.

My friend, Bizzy Baker Wilder, was more than happy to loan me her feisty feline so she can help rule the roost around here. Both Fish and my orange catastrophe, Chip, are the official mascots of this magical kingdom.

Would you look at this? This is a disaster. There are TV people everywhere, Fish growls at the people in question as if her claws might make their debut soon. Fantastic. You know I had plans today, right? There’s a sunny spot near the churro stand with my name on it, and absolutely zero hoomans.

You do realize hoomans run this place, Chip counters from his position sprawled across a pumpkin display.

His orange bulk makes him look like an adorable furry gourd that’s discovered the breakfast buffet.

Speaking of which, did you see that spread?

Bacon-wrapped everything! This is officially the best disaster we’ve ever hosted.

You think every disaster is the best if it involves food, Fish says, though she sounds more amused than annoyed. You’d think a tornado was fun if it blew snacks around!

Don’t get me craving a good tornado, he shoots back, and I can’t help but roll my eyes at that one. Leave it to my cat to crave a culinary weather catastrophe.

Fish chitters a laugh. Speaking of food and you, remember when you got your head stuck in that popcorn bucket?

That was a strategic food acquisition maneuver, Chip insists. And I got at least three mouthfuls before the fire department showed up.

The fire department, Chip. For a popcorn bucket.

It was worth it, he mewls back. Kettle corn is life.

He’s not wrong. And well, neither is she. But in the fire department’s defense, they just so happened to be touring the park that day when Chip rolled by in a bucket-shaped panic.

My name is Josie Janglewood, and I possess the questionable quirk of hearing what animals think—a talent that’s about as useful as a screen door on a submarine most days, but occasionally provides insights humans would miss entirely unless they suddenly developed the ability to read furry little minds.

This particular party trick arrived courtesy of a tumble down my grandmother’s stairs at the wee age of six, when I traded a mild concussion for a lifetime of unsolicited commentary from every creature with fur, feathers, or scales.

Some days it’s pretty enlightening. Other days, I’m trapped listening to squirrels debate acorn storage strategies while I try to run a hundred-acre theme park.

“Would you look at that director?” Georgie says, fanning herself despite the crisp morning air. “He’s wound tighter than a two-dollar watch.”

Georgie Conner is one of my favorite octogenarians, and she also happens to be one of my new best friends, and one with a unique sense of style.

Let’s just say she has a thing for kaftans.

In fact, she’s wearing one now that appears to be made from autumn leaves and good intentions.

Her gray hair is piled high enough to qualify as a fire hazard, and at eighty-something, she has the energy of a caffeinated teenager and the filter of a woman who stopped pretending to care decades ago.

“I’d climb him like a tree if my knees weren’t already threatening mutiny,” she continues.

“Nobody here doubts that,” Ree says, adjusting her sensible cardigan while shooting Georgie a look that could wilt plastic flowers.

Ree is Georgie’s best friend, and one of my oldest friends, too.

And for as outrageous as Georgie is, Ree is twice as conservative, from her wardrobe that would thrill a librarian to her red feathered locks that she hasn’t altered since the ’80s.

“Georgie, you have prescriptions older than him.”

“Age is just a number, Toots. And mine is unlisted.” Georgie waves at the director a little too cheerfully. “Besides, math never stopped true love.”

“You mean true lust,” Ree is quick to correct.

The director in question, Duffy Banks, strides toward us with the confidence of a man who’s never been told his ideas stink. His suit was probably constructed in Italy by monks, and his bleached blond hair is teased to heaven.

He looks at me as if I’m a prop that needs adjusting.

“We’re live in five minutes, theme park lady,” he calls out, not bothering with my actual name even though I’ve informed him of it no less than sixty-two thousand times. “Try not to look directly at the cameras,” he barks. “It confuses the viewers.”

I’m about to respond with something that would require bleeping, just as Savvy Sparrow materializes like a platinum blonde caffeine fairy, bearing a tray of pumpkin spice lattes that smell like autumn and good decisions had a baby.

“Breakfast delivery for the soon-to-be television stars!” she sings, and her Southern accent is thick enough to spread on toast. Everything about Savvy screams expensive trouble, from her sleek bob to the perfume that announces her arrival three minutes before she shows up.

Savvy is not only my brand-new bestie, but she’s the park’s newly minted culinary manager. I snapped her up because she can make a corn dog taste like a religious experience and because I’m apparently collecting colorful characters like trading cards.

“Just look at this spread,” she coos with pride, gesturing to the breakfast table she’s orchestrated herself.

“Maple bacon donuts that’ll ruin your diet plans, apple cider fritters worth every last calorie, and hand-crafted specialty lattes that will make you want to take a hayride through an apple orchard posthaste. ”

She leans my way. “Oh honey, would you get a load of that director? He’s hotter than a cast-iron skillet in July. I’d let him film in my kitchen any day of the week and twice on Sunday.”

Savvy has a way of turning everything into an innuendo, even innocent kitchens.

“Speaking of hot stuff on a skillet, where’s Detective Dreamboat?” Georgie asks, waggling her eyebrows suggestively while craning her neck past me, hoping for a glimpse of the hottie himself. “Shouldn’t he be here protecting you from your ex-husband’s ego?”

“Dexter is around,” I say, trying not to smile at the thought of Detective Dexter Drake and his storm blue eyes that make rational thought optional. The man is lethally hot and knows exactly what he’s doing with those eyes.

“So are the two of you official?” Savvy winks when she says it.

“I’d say we’re almost official. We’re two kisses in, and our kids go to Brambleberry Bay University. At this rate, we’ll be holding hands by Christmas.”

“Scandalous.” Ree gurgles with a laugh.

“Speaking of scandals,” I continue, “I hired his mother as the event coordinator for this circus.”

All three women stare at me as if I’ve just announced I’m taking up professional alligator wrestling. And honestly, I bet I could sell a decent amount of tickets if I did.

“The ice queen who thinks you’re trailer trash with delusions of adequacy?” Georgie asks while pulling no punches.

“That’s the one,” I tell her. “It turns out, accusing someone of murder creates awkward family dynamics. Who knew?” I shrug. “This is pretty much my way of making it up to her.”

Delora Drake chooses that moment to sweep past us with her silver hair twisted into a helmet that could survive nuclear winter and her pearls arranged in prime strangulation mode.

And don’t think for a second she wouldn’t use those as a weapon.

She looks at me with the warmth of a January morning and the charm of a parking ticket.

“The talent should be in their positions,” she announces, because calling us people would imply we deserve basic dignity.

That woman needs a hug, Chip observes. Or bacon. Bacon fixes everything.

Not everyone’s problems can be solved with pork products, Fish shoots back, despite the fact she’s watching Delora like a hawk. Though in her case, it might help. Must she always look constipated?

Emotionally constipated, Chip agrees sagely. The worst kind.