Chapter 14
Josie
The next morning finds us in Pawprint Hollow, where the staff didn’t skimp on the Halloween décor, and the cutie pies in the petting zoo look mildly confused why they’re roaming around in a makeshift haunted house.
The October sun struggles through clouds like it’s having second thoughts about witnessing whatever disaster’s about to unfold.
I can’t blame it. The entire hollow has been transformed into what happens when farm animals meet Halloween—goats wearing crooked witch hats, sheep draped in vampire capes that they’re actively trying to eat, and a duck pond dotted with floating plastic pumpkins that the ducks clearly find offensive.
The air smells like hay mixed with animal feed, with notes of fresh funnel cake and apple cider donuts from the nearby stand and the underlying essence of manure that no amount of cinnamon scent can mask.
The happy squeal of children mingles with an entire choir of bleating goats and—heaven help us all—”Monster Mash” is playing from the speakers. I’m starting to think it’s the only Halloween song allowed to play in the great state of Maine.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back to Morning Coffee & Chaos!” Crystal Wigglebottom chirps at the camera, her perkiness cranked to migraine-inducing levels.
Or maybe that’s last night’s whiskey talking?
She nods into the camera. “Today, our famous feline friends Fish and Chip will be demonstrating their agility!”
The so-called agility course looks like someone raided a gym class equipment closet and wrapped everything in orange and black streamers.
There are tiny hoops barely big enough for Chip’s head, let alone his body, tunnels that Fish has been hissing at for the last ten minutes, and platforms that might as well be mountains for how likely the cats are to climb them on command.
By the looks of this circus, they want us to perform like trained seals, Fish yowls, and doesn’t bother hiding her strategic non-compliance.
Seals get snacks. What do we get? Chip asks, eyeing the course with suspicion.
Fish grunts, Humiliation and maybe a viral video.
I should go viral, Chip mewls as he lifts his head with pride. I have the charisma!
You have the diameter, Fish points out. That’s an entirely different thing.
“Please!” Crystal begs both Fish and Chip, her smile starting to crack, or maybe that’s her allergy to cat dander acting up. “It’s live television!”
“Just jump through ONE hoop!” Cooter shouts, his backward baseball cap now at an angle that suggests desperation rather than style. Those tight, ripped jeans he’s wearing aren’t exactly helping his case either.
A vein in Clyde’s temple pulses as if it’s trying to escape. “We should have hired professional felines. These cats are clearly a couple of amateurs.”
Both Fish and Chip take a moment to hiss his way, and the peanut gallery goes wild—with me cheering the loudest.
That’s when Willow Lovejoy reaches into her pocket and pulls out what might be the smartest move anyone’s made all morning—bacon.
“I came prepared,” she announces. “Years of marriage taught me that bribery works better than begging. Works on husbands, works on cats.”
I like her more by the minute. And judging by the way Chip is eyeing her, so does he.
The transformation is instantaneous. The immovable objects, otherwise known as Fish and Chip, suddenly become furry little missiles locked onto pork products. They chase the bacon through the course—not necessarily as intended, but it’s certainly entertaining.
Chip bulldozes through a tunnel sideways. Fish leaps over three hoops at once rather than through them. They create their own course that has nothing to do with the planned routine and everything to do with bacon acquisition. And oddly, it works.
“Do we stop them?” the assistant director asks with a nervous laugh.
“Not unless you hate success,” the cameraman says without looking up from the monitor.
Delora materializes beside me like a well-dressed ghost who smells vaguely of judgment and Earl Grey. “The show is planning a grand finale event tomorrow night. Then they’ll air the highlight reel for the show the next morning.”
“The highlight reel?” A thousand homicidal scenarios run through my mind. “Wonderful. This should run smoothly.”
“Precisely.” She glares at me as she says it. “Try not to let anyone die. Your park’s reputation can’t handle another incident.”
I frown because she has a point. “Where, when, and what’s the body count potential?” I ask.
Her face contorts into an expression that suggests she’s bitten into a lemon while watching me plant a wet one on her son.
“Must you be so morbid?” she snips. “It’s in poor taste.”
“I’m kidding.” I pause. “Mostly. But I need details for Savvy. She’s handling the food, and she’ll need to know if she’s feeding fifty or five hundred. Also, whether to include funeral-themed desserts.” Which she has been doing regularly.
“Your humor is as questionable as your taste in men.” She smooths an imaginary wrinkle from her jacket. “Though I suppose my son is an improvement over your ex-husband. A low bar, but still.”
“Thanks for the ringing endorsement.” And did she just insult her son? Honestly, with Delora, it’s hard to tell.
She nods. “Storybook Hollow. In front of the castle. The theme is Time to Get Spooky.” She says spooky as if it physically pains her. “And the event is called the Nightmare Before Networking.”
“Halloween costumes? At my murder park? During October? Groundbreaking.”
“Your sarcasm is why we can’t have nice things. That and your apparent ability to attract corpses like a magnet attracts iron filings.”
“We can’t have nice things because people keep dying at them.”
“That, too.” She actually almost smiles.
Almost. It’s more like her face briefly considers being less disapproving.
“All the hosts will be in costume, and knowing your regulars, the entire crowd will treat it like Broadway opening night. If Broadway had safety code violations and a concerning death rate.”
“You know, Delora, you’re taking this all remarkably well for someone whose son is dating the owner of Murder Park USA.”
“I’m practicing acceptance. My therapist says it’s good for my blood pressure.” She eyes Fish and Chip, who are now fighting over the last piece of bacon. “However, watching your cats perform on television might undo months of progress.”
“They’re artists. You can’t rush art.”
“Is that what we’re calling it? I thought it was more like watching two furry disasters pretending to have dignity while selling out for pork products.”
I nod. “That’s basically show business in a nutshell. And more than a few men I know.”
She actually snorts. “At least they’re more professional than your ex-husband. The cats, I mean. The bar is underground at this point, but they clear it.”
“Did you just make a joke?”
“Don’t get used to it. I’m having an off day. Tomorrow I’ll go back to disapproving of everything you do, wear, and say.”
“Looking forward to it.” And there’s that.
“Someone has to maintain standards around here,” she quips. “Heaven knows you’re not going to do it.”
The bacon was a trap, but worth it, Chip pants, having finally caught and consumed his prize.
Trading pride for bacon. Classic move, Fish observes, delicately cleaning her whiskers. Pride doesn’t taste like bacon.
Nothing tastes like bacon except bacon, he counters.
She nods. And your philosophy is why you’re shaped like a pumpkin.
A seasonal reference! Chip lifts his head. That means I’m festive!
It means you fell for a bacon-shaped trap, Fish mewls.
The bacon was absolutely a trap, Chip pants. I saw it. I understood it. I still went for it.
You say that like you hesitated, Fish chitters out a laugh. You committed immediately.
And you were right behind me.
I was correcting your approach. Fish defends her moves.
You tackled a chair! Now it’s Chip who’s laughing.
That’s because it was in the way! Fish insists.
“What did we miss?” Georgie’s voice booms as she and Ree run this way. Georgie is wearing a kaftan that seems to be made entirely of bats and candy corn, while Ree’s rebellion against the season consists of a single Halloween pin on her otherwise sensible cardigan.
“Just Clyde being upstaged by superior beings,” I tell them.
“So the cats were on again?” Ree asks dryly, and I’m quick to nod.
On the makeshift set, the hosts are trying to salvage the segment.
Willow suggests, “Maybe if we got them those little costumes?”
“I have cat ears in my purse!” Crystal volunteers, because who doesn’t?
“Of course, you do,” Cooter mutters, basically echoing my thoughts.
“This is ridiculous,” Clyde gruffs, as if he’s just now realizing he’s trying to direct cats on live television.
The assistant director looks like he’s questioning every decision that led him to this moment. “Can someone wrangle those cats?”
Fish responds by sitting perfectly still, just out of reach, like a furry statue dedicated to civil disobedience.
Chip rolls onto his back, showing his considerable belly to the camera in what he thinks is his good angle.
“The ratings are through the roof,” someone whispers, and suddenly everyone is fine with the chaos.
“That Willow knows her way around animals,” Georgie observes, watching as Willow produces more bacon to lure the cats back.
“Strategic bacon deployment works every time,” Ree agrees. “She’s either innocent or really good at looking innocent.”
“Those are the dangerous ones,” I mutter.
“AND CUT!” The assistant director’s voice cracks with relief.
The hosts deflate like punctured balloons.
Clyde storms off—his signature move at this point—while Crystal immediately checks her reflection in her phone.
Cooter edges away from Willow as if she might be contagious, and Willow continues feeding bacon to my cats as if she’s their new favorite person. Newsflash: she is.
“Well,” I say to Ree and Georgie, “you didn’t miss my chance to speak with our very last suspect.”
Crystal is heading toward the makeup trailer with her ponytail bouncing with each perky step.
“The cheerful one?” Georgie asks. “She couldn’t murder anyone. She probably apologizes to her vegetables before eating them.”
“The perky ones are always guilty in the books I read,” Ree points out.
“This isn’t a book,” Georgie tells her.
“No,” Ree agrees, watching Crystal navigate the crowd with practiced ease. “It’s messier. Books have editors. Life just has chaos and occasionally corpses.”
I watch Crystal disappear into the makeup trailer, my mind already forming questions.
Tomorrow night’s party looms like a storm-cloud shaped like a potential homicide. Another event, another chance for someone to die mysteriously at my park.
Or maybe, just maybe, we’ll get through one event without a corpse.
But looking at the assembled cast of suspects, the elaborate preparations, and my park’s track record, I wouldn’t bet on it.
Not even with bacon as a bribe.