Chapter 8
Two cats convinced they’ve already solved a murder before I’ve finished my second cup of coffee—that’s my definition of a productive morning.
The Princess Pavilion in Storybook Hollow sparkles with the kind of fairy-tale magic that makes grown women believe in happy endings and children demand pony rides.
Autumn leaves crunch underfoot like potato chips while the scent of cinnamon sugar and apple cider mingles with the distant sound of Halloween mood music playing something that’s either whimsical or mildly threatening—honestly, it could go either way with this place.
Think lots of creaking stairs and the occasional scream to punctuate the creepy organ music.
A massive glittery sign stretches between two perfectly sculpted unicorn topiaries reading Sweet Season Spooky Symposium in letters that glitter with sinister intent.
The outdoor pavilion buzzes with the energy of bakers who’ve traveled from across the country to argue about frosting techniques and judge each other’s piping skills.
Obviously, the woman with the wicked dog did it, Fish announces, marching alongside me with the confidence of a cute cat who’s cracked the case before the opening credits finished rolling.
I so agree, Chip says, his orange head bobbing with conviction. The victim was found face-first in HER coffin cake. Case closed. We should probably start charging consulting fees.
I won’t point out the obvious—that Delora, AKA Detective Dreamboat’s incubation station, was standing over poor Dilly with a bloody rolling pin when we found her. Clearly, she’s the wicked witch in question here, not our Southern charmer with the circus poodle.
No one called Savvy a wicked witch, Fish mewls, shooting me a look that suggests I’m missing something fundamental about cat logic.
I gasp. “You cannot read my mind!”
Both cats dissolve into chittering laughter that sounds suspiciously like they’re mocking my intelligence.
No, but we can read your face better than a weather report, Chip explains between giggles. You’ve got all the subtlety of a neon sign in a blackout.
Your expressions are practically subtitled, Fish adds. Right now, you’re thinking about Detective Dreamboat’s mother and that rolling pin—and calling her a wicked witch is exactly something you would do.
“Apparently, I need to work on my poker face,” I admit, because arguing with cats who can read me like a picture book seems pointless. “Good thing I chose theme park management over professional gambling.”
The pavilion spreads before us in princess-themed glory—rows of white ladder-back chairs arranged in perfect formation, each adorned with autumn-colored ribbon that matches the maple leaves scattered artfully across the cobblestone floor.
A refreshment table groans under the weight of Halloween-themed desserts that look too good to eat and too spooky to ignore, laden with cupcake cake pops shaped like tiny ghosts.
Orange and black macarons arranged in perfect spirals.
A towering display of petit fours decorated with edible spiders that look disturbingly realistic.
And front and center, a banner reading Sweet Dreams & Sugar Schemes—Savvy Sparrow, Proprietor in elegant script.
Fish and Chip get whisked away to their plush thrones. Today’s models feature autumn-colored velvet with tiny crowns as a line forms instantly, and I watch three staff members scramble to manage the mascot chaos with the efficiency of roadies handling a rock concert.
The peasants are particularly devoted today, Fish observes, settling onto her throne with the dignity of a true queen. I approve of their increased reverence.
Is that bacon I smell? Chip asks, nose twitching as he surveys his adoring public. Someone in line definitely has bacon. This is the best murder investigation ever.
I navigate through the crowd toward Nadine, who stands near the refreshment table looking as if she’s aged five years overnight.
What was a perfectly braided crown on her head yesterday sits slightly askew, and her trademark flour-dusted apron hangs a little looser than usual.
Nadine is short and round, and I’ve often heard her refer to herself as a cinnamon roll with sass.
“Nadine,” I approach with the careful tone of someone offering condolences at a funeral. “Once again, I’m so sorry for your loss. Dilly was—”
“A pain in my rear end for thirty years,” Nadine interrupts with the kind of brutal honesty that makes me like her even more.
“But she was my pain in the rear end. Thanks for the sympathy, sugar. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need coffee strong enough to raise the dead. Too bad it won’t actually work.”
She shuffles off toward the coffee station, leaving me standing there wondering if that was grief or relief talking.
“Ms. Janglewood.”
I turn to find silver-haired Delora approaching with a clipboard clutched in her manicured hands and an expression that could frost glass. Today she’s traded her usual pearls for a simple gold chain, but the ice-blue eyes and general aura of disapproval remain unchanged.
“Delora,” I manage, reminding myself that this is Detective Dreamboat’s mother and I should probably refrain from saying anything that might complicate my non-relationship with her son. “How are you holding up?”
“As well as can be expected when one’s professional reputation is being destroyed by incompetent theme park management,” she replies with the warmth of a January morning. “I trust you understand the gravity of the situation.”
“Of course,” I say, because agreeing seems safer than pointing out that her reputation concerns rank somewhere below my concern for the actual dead person.
“Good. Because we need to discuss the closing party for the symposium.” Her grip on the clipboard tightens. “I’ll need suggestions immediately, now that Dilly is no longer here to ride me like a rented mule.”
The image of Dilly riding anyone anywhere makes me bite the inside of my cheek to keep from giving a mournful smile.
“I’m sure we can work something out,” I offer. I’d mention that Fish and Chip should definitely be a part of it, if not the center of the hoopla, but knowing her, she’d just recommend I keep them in cages.
“See that you do,” she snaps, already turning away. “This entire event is becoming a disaster, and I refuse to let it tarnish my professional standing any further.”
I’m pretty sure the fact she was found holding the murder weapon will tarnish far more than she could ever imagine.
She stalks off toward a group of bakers who immediately scatter like pigeons, leaving me wondering how someone so unpleasant managed to raise someone as decent as Dexter.
“Josie!”
I turn to see Ree and Georgie approaching, and my mood immediately skyrockets.
Ree looks polished in a rust-colored blazer that coordinates perfectly with her auburn hair, while Georgie sports a green kaftan printed with pink Ferris wheels that somehow manages to be both ridiculous and oddly charming.
But it’s what they’re carrying that stops me cold.
“Are those bouquets completely comprised of churros?” I ask, staring at the carefully arranged bundles of fried dough they’re wielding as if they were expensive floral arrangements.
“Breakfast of champions,” Georgie declares, offering me a cinnamon and sugar dusted stick. “Ree’s idea. She said we needed to blend in with the food crowd.”
“I said we needed to look professional,” Ree corrects, settling into a chair with her churro bouquet balanced across her lap. “Georgie interpreted that as bring pastries that can double as weapons.”
“Multi-purpose snacks,” Georgie defends. “Very practical for surveillance work.”
Before I can agree or respond, or nosh on a churro or two, Savvy’s voice cuts through the chatter from the small stage at the front of the pavilion.
“Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention, please!”
The crowd settles into their seats with the discipline of people who’ve attended enough conferences to know the delicious drill.
Savvy stands center stage, looking every inch the successful businesswoman, her smile bright enough to power the entire pavilion.
Her blonde bob reflects the sun like a high beam.
“First, I want to thank everyone for coming out this morning despite yesterday’s tragedy,” she begins, her Southern accent lending gravity to the words. “I know Dilly would have wanted this conference to continue. That woman never met a show she didn’t think should go on.”
Murmurs of agreement ripple through the crowd.
“For those who don’t know me, I’m Savvy Sparrow, owner and head baker at Sweet Dreams & Sugar Schemes back in Tennessee. We specialize in desserts that are almost too pretty to eat—emphasis on almost, because life’s too short for cake you can’t devour.”
Light laughter bubbles through the audience. And after hearing her motto, I like her twice as much.
“Now, before we dive into the technical aspects of advanced cake construction, I’d like to introduce someone special. Josie Janglewood, owner of Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland, would you join me on stage?”
Oh geez. Public speaking ranks somewhere between standing in line at the DMV and untangling Christmas lights on my list of preferred activities, but I paste on a smile and make my way to the stage.
“Tell everyone a little about your beautiful park,” Savvy encourages, handing me a microphone that feels just as heavy as that marble rolling pin Delora clobbered poor Dilly with.
“Well,” I begin, scanning the sea of expectant faces, “Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland features ten themed areas we call Hollows, each with its own unique attractions and charm. And, of course, we have our mascots, Fish and Chip, who, as you can see, have completely stolen the show.”
The crowd turns to look at the cats, who wave with their paws regally from their thrones. Applause erupts, and I can practically see the dollar signs floating over their furry little heads.
“Thank you, Josie!” Savvy reclaims the microphone as I retreat to safety. “Now, let me tell you about my sweet mama and how she taught me everything I know about baking and life.”
She launches into a presentation that’s equal parts cooking demonstration and stand-up comedy. Her accent thickens as she talks about her mama’s bakery back in Tennessee, and her analogies comparing men to various baked goods have the audience in stitches.
“Now, my mama always said that men are like sourdough starter,” Savvy continues, gesturing with a whisk. “They need constant attention, they smell funny if you neglect them, and if you mess up the recipe, you’ve got to throw the whole thing out and start over.”
The crowd erupts in laughter.
“But a good man,” she adds with a wink, “is like a perfect buttercream frosting. Sweet, smooth, and makes everything better. Of course, finding one of those is about as rare as finding a unicorn in your backyard.”
“Amen, sister!” Georgie shouts from the audience, raising her churro bouquet in salute. “Though I’d settle for one who can make decent coffee at this point!”
“Honey, at our age, we’d settle for one who can still make coffee without instructions,” Savvy shoots back, earning another round of laughter.
My phone buzzes against my hip with the persistence of a small earthquake. The family group chat has exploded with messages, and I can already feel the migraine forming.
McKenna: Mom! We’ve been thinking about the park improvements!
Riley: We need daily parades, not just Sunday! More merch stations! And no offense, but the food needs a major upgrade.
I frown at the screen. What’s wrong with corn dogs, churros, popcorn, and cotton candy? We’ve got a few bakeries, a zillion restaurants, and enough sugar to fuel a small army.
Josie: The food is fine. We have variety.
McKenna: Mom, it’s all just medium. So-so. People expect better now.
Riley: Even the restaurants serve food that’s just... okay. We need signature dishes! Insta Pictures-worthy plates!
Before I can defend my perfectly adequate food empire, Clyde’s name appears on the screen with a message that makes my blood pressure spike.
Clyde: I knew you’d botch this, Josie. You should have stuck to PTA bake sales.
The response is immediate and fierce.
McKenna: DAD. NOT HELPING.
Riley: Seriously? She’s been running this place for like five minutes, and she’s already tripled attendance!
McKenna: Mom is doing amazing. Maybe focus on your own life choices.
Riley: Yeah, like your yoga instructor girlfriend who’s probably half your age.
Another message from Clyde pops up.
Clyde: At least I’m not stumbling into dead bodies every other day. Maybe stick to what you know, Jo—organizing charity drives and making mediocre brownies.
I stare at the screen, torn between pride in my daughters’ defense and horror at the family drama playing out in digital form. Nothing says successful business owner like having your personal life dissected via group text during a professional conference.
Savvy’s voice pulls me back to the present as she wraps up her presentation with a finale that would make a Vegas showgirl proud.
“And remember, ladies,” she concludes. “Life is like baking a cake. Sometimes you follow the recipe perfectly and it still falls flat. But sometimes you wing it, throw in whatever you’ve got, and create something beautiful.”
The applause is thunderous, and I realize I’ve just witnessed a master class in Southern charm and business acumen.
McKenna: Seriously, the food needs to go.
Riley: Yeah, even the corn dogs, popcorn, and cotton candy need some serious game. Step it up.
Clyde: Ha! Knew you’d bungle this.
McKenna: YOU TAKE THAT BACK!
Riley: Dad, I will fight you with a churro.
I sigh, stare at my phone, then glance out at the crowd, the cats, the chaos.
If I make it through the week without being smothered in fondant or tripping over a killer, I’m buying myself a throne. Preferably one that comes with a panic button and heated seat.
“All right, everyone,” Savvy announces, her smile bright under the stage lights.
“Let’s take a quick break. Please help yourselves to some of the gorgeous desserts on display.
I promise they taste even better than they look.
Mingle, network, and don’t forget to try those ghost cake pops. They’re to die for!”
The crowd disperses toward the refreshment table with the enthusiasm of people who’ve been promised free sugar, and I spot my opportunity. Savvy stands alone on the stage, gathering her notes and props with the efficient movements of someone who’s done this dance before.
Time to have a little chat with suspect number one.