Fish and Chip: Nine Lives One Dead Body (Huckleberry Hollow Theme Park Cozy Mysteries #2)

Chapter 1

“This was a mistake,” the silver-haired maven glares at my newly acquired theme park.

As the event coordinator for the Sweet Season Spooky Symposium—the week-long baking extravaganza currently taking over Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland—she apparently feels entitled to share every critical thought that crosses her mind.

“Obviously, a mistake I won’t be making again next year.

” She exhales hard enough to rearrange my bangs, looking every bit her age—roughly three hundred, give or take.

Okay, realistically? She’s in her late seventies, but she carries herself like she has cursed a few princesses in her day.

“We need to showcase the baked goods and your, what did you call it? Merch?”

She looks personally offended by the term, as if I just suggested we serve dinner on paper plates at the Met Gala.

“It’s called marketing,” I say with a smile that could ice a cake. “You know, that thing that pays for events like this one?”

“Marketing,” she repeats, making it sound like a communicable disease. “How… commercial.”

“Commercial is what keeps the lights on,” I counter. “Unless you prefer hosting your baking symposiums in the dark. Very atmospheric, I’m sure, but terrible for social media.”

The sun is just setting here at the theme park, a sea of orange and purple twinkle lights sparkle up above us like Halloween-inspired stars, the scent of churros and corn dogs wafts through the chilly fall air, and the sound of spooky music emanates from the haunted house behind us.

Delora I-Don’t-Know-Her-Last-Name-Yet stands with the rigid posture of someone who’s spent decades perfecting the art of looking down on people.

She’s tall and thin with silver hair lacquered into a French twist so perfect it could survive a hurricane.

Her ice-blue eyes seem to catalog every flaw in my theme park, my outfit, and probably my entire existence.

She’s wearing an expensive rust-colored pantsuit, paired with pearls that probably predate the Constitution—much like herself—and heels that somehow don’t sink into the grass—which feels like a personal affront to physics—which confirms my suspicion that she’s the Wicked Witch of the East. The gravity-defying shoes are a dead giveaway.

She smells like roses and judgment, with just a hint of disappointment in all of humanity—especially me.

“Your safety standards appear to be more suggestions than actual rules. How delightfully negligent.” She seems more than happy to point out. “This is less theme park and more insurance claim waiting to happen.”

She’s not entirely wrong.

Before I can respond with something appropriately snarky, Fish and Chip make their grand entrance.

Fish, Bizzy Baker Wilder’s sleek black and white cat whom I’m borrowing for the foreseeable future, descends from a nearby hay bale with all the dignity of a seasoned detective arriving at a crime scene.

Her green eyes survey the scene with the kind of calculating intelligence that makes you wonder if she’s planning world domination or just judging your shoe choices.

Chip, my gloriously fluffy tabby who’s as round as a pumpkin and twice as orange, bounces over with his characteristic enthusiasm, his green eyes bright with curiosity, and his whiskers twitching at all the new scents in the autumn air—but mostly they twitch for the food.

Why is the ruffled stranger glaring at our human? Chip mewls at Fish, his mental voice all indignation and butter.

Because she doesn’t appreciate seasonal majesty, Fish mewls with the weary tone of a cat who’s dealt with difficult humans before. Also, her shoes are offensive. Too shiny for this much dirt.

My name is Josie Janglewood, and I have the dubious gift of reading the minds of animals—which is how I know my rotund orange overlord Chip thinks my life choices deserve their own disaster documentary. And if you’re wondering, yes, animals almost always have better things to say than humans.

It’s been my reality since I was six and fell down my grandmother’s stairs, waking up with a mild concussion and a very specific talent to tap into the gray matter of the furry kind.

Most days it’s a blessing. Other days, it’s like having a constant commentary track running in my head, courtesy of every pigeon, squirrel, and judgmental cat in the vicinity.

But I digress.

I take a look around at the crowd pulsing through the theme park, and I still can’t believe that every inch of what I see is mine, all one hundred acres. I’m not sure if I should be thrilled or terrified that my biggest life decision was made with loose change and a handshake.

It’s fall, the air is crisp, the scent of popcorn, corn dogs, and funnel cakes is thick in the air, and the sound of people screaming their heads off ensures the promise of a migraine later and possibly a lawsuit.

It turns out, that a couple of weeks ago, I caught my husband practicing yoga positions with his very flexible, very blonde, very perky instructor in ways that would justify a divorce lawyer, so I took a job managing Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland Theme Park, where the elderly owners promptly sold me the entire place for a dollar, which should have been my first clue that it might be cursed.

The park has ten different “Hollows” and right now we’ve got our feet and paws firmly planted in the one where Southern charm meets spooky atmosphere, complete with paddleboat rides and our genuinely terrifying Haunted House that’s not for the faint of heart.

Bayou Bend Hollow is the kind of place that makes fall grab you by the shoulders and shake you senseless with seasonal joy.

Wrought iron fences wrapped in garlands of gold and burnt orange leaves sweep through the area like brushstrokes in an autumn painting.

Jack-o’-lanterns grin from every railing with the manic enthusiasm of people who’ve had too much pumpkin spice.

Fog machines set to a low simmer waft mist across cobblestone paths, creating the kind of atmospheric drama that makes everything look like a Victorian ghost story come to life.

If autumn were a person, this part of Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland Theme Park would be her perfectly curated Pinterest board come to life.

It’s the opening evening of the Sweet Season Spooky Symposium, a week-long baking and decorating bonanza starring sugar, sass, and more ghoulish cupcakes than should be legally allowed.

This isn’t just any baking event—it’s being filmed for a national television special, which means exposure for the park that money can’t buy.

The exposure alone could fund our safety upgrades for the next decade—assuming no one actually dies during filming.

The merch tie-in isn’t such a bad deal either.

And seeing that safety wasn’t a big priority with the previous owners, the cash could stave off a few impending lawsuits as well.

Vendors are arriving like a well-rehearsed parade, dessert stations are in full assembly mode, and the staff is sporting limited edition Fish and Chip Halloween cat ears—black velvet headbands with either plush orange triangles or little monochrome tufts for maximum feline flair.

And yes, they’re already sold out, which makes my bank account do a happy dance.

“I don’t believe animals should roam free at events,” Delora says, eyeing Fish and Chip with the kind of disdain usually reserved for people who put pineapple on pizza. “It’s a health code violation, or at least it must be.”

“That’s adorable,” I say. “You think you’re in charge.

” Did I just say that out loud? Oh, heck.

I might as well run with it. “Fish and Chip are the mascots around here,” I continue, gesturing to my feline companions.

“These cats are practically celebrities. You insult them, and you insult all of Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland.” Or at least me.

And maybe Bizzy Baker Wilder. She would be Fish’s human counterpart.

You’re not wrong; we are practically celebrities, Chip chimes in with a mewl. Also, is that frosting on her sleeve? I require an inspection. I could lick it off if you want.

I give him a look for even going there. This woman would have us both arrested for assault with a furry weapon. Although with the way she’s acting, it might be worth the trouble.

Georgie and Ree arrive just in time—my chaos cavalry in the flesh, my newfound besties, and my senior sleuthing squad all rolled into two delightfully nosy packages.

“Well, hello there, fancy pants,” Georgie booms at Delora with her churro-print caftan billowing in the breeze like a sugar-dusted flag of war.

The woman has a kaftan game that I deeply respect and secretly covet.

Georgie is an eighty-something hippy with a stack of gray hair that wobbles on her head, a wandering eye for men of all ages, and a propensity for trouble.

“You must be the event coordinator we’ve heard so much about. ”

I may have vented to them yesterday that the event coordinator was about as friendly as a cactus.

“I brought backup snacks,” Ree adds helpfully, holding up a tray of maple bacon cookies as if she’s presenting evidence in court.

Ree is my old friend from way back when we both had littles.

She has red hair like me, a penchant for ’80s fashion, and feathered hair that makes birds everywhere jealous.

“And possibly a cinnamon emergency kit.”

Delora scoffs at the sight. “This is a professional baking event, not a bake sale for the PTA.”

I’m sensing she’s been blacklisted from every potluck in Maine.

But she’s not wrong. This is definitely a baking event for the professionals.

The Sugar Crypt tent stretches behind us like a delicious fever dream.

Tables draped in black velvet showcase an army of spooky treats—ghost-shaped macarons with edible glitter, pumpkin whoopie pies the size of dinner plates, and cupcakes decorated with tiny fondant tombstones.

Fog rolls lazily from dry ice bowls tucked under the tables, while flickering black candelabras cast spooky shadows across the treats.

The whole look is Halloween meets high-end bakery, and it’s magnificent.

“Wow, would you look at all this?” Georgie gasps.

Ree nods with a sigh. “It looks like you won’t be needing my desserts after all. Josie, this setup looks fantastic.”

“Thank you,” I’m quick to tell them. “But I had very little to do with it. My staff handled all the spooky bells and whistles, the symposium bakers brought their amazing treats, and our own Sugar Moon Bakehouse contributed a few specialties.” I leave out the part about Delora looking to oust Fish and Chip.

Georgie and Ree will suffer a lot of things, but not people foolish enough to say a bad word about our favorite felines.

The baking celebrities are starting to arrive, their devoted fans clustering around like groupies at a rock concert.

I spot the Sugar & Sass sisters—Dilly and Nadine—holding court near the entrance, their trademark banter already drawing crowds.

These women have turned sassy baking commentary into an art form, dishing out savage truths about love with the same precision they pipe buttercream, and their legion of followers hangs on every witty quip and relationship zinger.

Delora eyes Georgie and Ree like they’re stray animals who wandered in from the wrong side of a country club. I’m about to do the intros when Delora stretches out her hand.

“Delora,” she says, offering the kind of tight smile that suggests she’s already planning her escape. She doesn’t give her last name yet again, which feels deliberate at this point. Something tells me she’s been embroiled in a lawsuit before.

“Georgie Conner. Life coordinator and professional chaos coordinator,” Georgie replies with a grin that could power the fog machines before giving the woman a quick shake. Chaos coordinator is an understatement.

“Ree Baker,” Ree adds, holding out her hand. “Community relations and pastry sampling expert.”

“Charmed,” Delora says, looking anything but.

Someone must stop this woman before she bans candy corn, Fish declares, leaping onto a nearby barrel as if ready to pounce.

Or worse, Chip adds, before she discovers the bacon-wrapped pumpkin bites.

I, too, share his fear that those might disappear before I can properly shove a dozen into my purse.

“I see you have flexible standards here,” Delora says, her lips twitching in disapproval as she surveys the controlled chaos around us. “I’ve worked events at the Biltmore. The Ritz. The Louvre.”

“That explains it!” Georgie claps. “No wonder you look like your panties are caught in your crack. You’re overdue for something fun. Welcome to the whimsical underbelly of Maine, where the coffee is strong and the standards are... creatively interpreted.”

“You think this is creative?” Delora stalks past a display of caramel apple cake pops and ghosts made from meringue, her heels clicking against the cobblestones like a disapproving metronome. “These decorations look like someone raided every yard sale in Maine.”

“That was the goal,” I say, flanked by my two feline defenders. “It’s festive. Nostalgic. Slightly unhinged. Just like us.”

“Don’t knock it till you taste the merch,” Ree says, already nibbling a maple bacon cookie. “These cat ears are selling like witchy hotcakes, and they’re limited edition.”

“Someone already offered me sixty bucks for mine,” Georgie adds, patting her glittering Fish headband. “And that was before I told him they were lightly infused with wisdom and churro magic.”

The atmosphere shifts as more baking stars arrive, their entourages trailing behind them like sweetly scented storm clouds. The energy is electric, charged with the kind of anticipation that comes with sugar, competition, and the promise of nationally televised drama.

Delora stops cold, her eyes narrowing as she spots something—or someone—across the tent. The temperature seems to drop ten degrees as her composure cracks just enough to reveal something dangerous underneath.

“Excuse me,” she says with a sharp edge to her voice. “I’m going to kill that woman.”

“Well then,” I mutter. “You know what they say—there’s nothing like a little homicide to make things interesting.”