Chapter 16
You know what they say about the best-laid plans of mice and theme park owners? They usually involve finding yourself in a saloon the very next afternoon, getting schooled on gourmet cuisine by a Southern belle with a circus poodle.
It’s barely past two o’clock, and I’m already questioning my life choices. Again.
The Prospector’s Table sits smack in the middle of Gold Rush Hollow, all weathered wood and brass fixtures that gleam in the autumn sunlight streaming through dusty windows.
The scent of barbecue sauce mingles with woodsmoke from the outdoor grills, while a player piano in the corner cranks out what sounds like “Oh! Susanna” played at half-speed.
Maple leaves drift past the windows in lazy spirals, and somewhere nearby a mechanical cowboy keeps shouting, “Yeehaw!” every thirty seconds.
Very atmospheric. Very authentic. Very likely to give me a migraine.
I’m seated at a scarred wooden table that’s probably seen more drama than a high school cafeteria, with Fish and Chip claiming prime real estate on the bench beside me.
The lunch crowd is mostly families with sticky-fingered children and the occasional tourist wearing enough denim to outfit a small ranch.
This place smells like grease and broken dreams, Fish points out, her nose wrinkling with distaste. Also, that mechanical cowboy is deeply offensive to my sensibilities.
I like it, Chip announces with glee. Very authentic frontier spirit. Plus, someone dropped a French fry under that table over there.
Focus, you big orange oaf, Fish sighs. We’re here for a peaceful meal, not scavenging.
“Well, if it isn’t the Empress of Huckleberry Hollow!”
I look up to see Savvy Sparrow approaching with Cupcake prancing beside her, both looking perfectly put together despite the rustic surroundings. Savvy’s platinum hair catches the light, and her smile could probably charm a cat into taking a bath.
“Savvy! What brings you to the Wild West?” I gesture to the empty chair across from me. “Want to join us for some authentic frontier cuisine?”
“Don’t mind if I do, sugar.” She settles into the chair with graceful ease, as if every seat were designed specifically for her comfort. “I was just exploring the park and thought I’d sample the local fare.”
Why, hello there, handsome, Cupcake purrs in Chip’s direction, batting her perfectly groomed eyelashes. Don’t you look dashing in this rustic setting? Very rugged outdoorsman chic.
Chip puffs up with lots of orange fluffy pride. Why, thank you, beautiful. I’ve always thought I had a certain frontier swagger.
I watch this interspecies flirtation unfold while trying not to laugh. Nothing says professional business meeting like your cat hitting on a poodle with better grooming habits than most humans.
“So,” Savvy begins, “I have to say, I’m absolutely loving Maine. Y’all have some seriously attractive men up here.”
“The scenery’s not bad,” I agree, thinking about a certain detective with storm-blue eyes and biceps that could probably bench-press my entire theme park. “Thinking of extending your stay?”
“Maybe permanently.” She grins, and there’s mischief in her eyes. “I mean, what’s Tennessee got that Maine doesn’t? I can’t say I miss the humidity, but I do miss my mama’s unsolicited dating advice.” Her entire countenance falls for a second.
“Well, Maine’s got lobster, blueberries, and apparently a thriving market for Southern charm,” I tell her. “You’d fit right in.”
“Plus, the local law enforcement is particularly... thorough,” she adds with a wink that suggests she’s been paying attention to more than just the symposium schedule.
Before I can figure out how to respond to that without blushing—or threatening her with a fork to steer clear of extremely hot detectives—our waitress approaches, a college-aged girl wearing a fringed vest and the expression of someone who’s heard “Yeehaw!” approximately seventeen thousand times today.
“What can I get y’all?” she asks, slapping down menus with enthusiasm that lets me know she’s counting down the minutes until her shift ends.
I flip open the menu and immediately understand why my daughters have been less than impressed with our culinary offerings.
We’re talking standard theme park fare with a Western twist—chili cheese fries, buffalo burgers, something called a Gold Rush Wrap that probably contains more preservatives than actual gold.
“Actually, can you give us a few minutes?” I tell the waitress. “We need to discuss some... culinary business matters first.”
She shrugs and wanders off to terrorize another table, leaving us alone with our culinary crisis.
“Actually,” I say, closing the menu and looking at Savvy, “can I pick your brain about something? My daughters aren’t exactly thrilled with the food here, and I thought it was fine, but apparently, my dietary standards need recalibrating.”
Savvy’s eyes light up with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for discovering buried treasure. “Oh honey, you want my honest opinion?”
“Hit me. I can take it.”
She picks up my menu and studies it with the intensity of a surgeon examining X-rays. “Well, sugar, this food is... mostly fine. Adequate. The kind of thing that fills you up without making you remember why you bothered eating in the first place.”
“Ouch. But fair.”
“What you need,” she continues, warming to the subject, “is food that stops you dead in your tracks. Food that makes people drive three hours just to get a taste. Food that shows up on social media with captions full of heart-eye emojis.”
She’s making my mouth water, Chip observes. Keep talking, fancy lady.
Everything makes your mouth water, Fish replies dryly. You salivate over dust bunnies if they’re shaped right.
“Take this menu, for example,” Savvy says, spreading it out between us. “Buffalo burger? Boring. But what if it was a grass-fed beef burger with buffalo sauce made from locally sourced peppers, topped with house-made blue cheese and crispy onions, served on a brioche bun baked fresh this morning?”
My mouth actually starts watering. “That does sound better than ‘burger with stuff on it.’”
“And these chili cheese fries? Please. How about loaded potato wedges with three-bean chili made from scratch, topped with aged Vermont cheddar and scallions grown in your own garden?”
Now I’m definitely interested, Chip says, eyes glazing over with foodie lust.
“You’re making me hungry, and I just ate,” I tell her. “What about the other vendors? The outdoor stuff?”
“Oh honey.” Savvy leans forward with the expression of someone about to deliver a sermon on the Mount of Culinary Excellence. “Where do I even start? Your corn dog stand is serving frozen corn dogs that taste like cardboard wrapped in sadness.”
Harsh but accurate, Fish observes.
Yeah, but even sadness tastes pretty good if you put enough mustard on it.
“What you need is hand-dipped corn dogs made with house-made batter and locally sourced sausages. Or better yet, Korean-style corn dogs with potato chunks and sriracha aioli. Make people travel for your corn dogs, not just tolerate them because they’re there. Heck, you should do both!”
“Korean corn dogs in a Western-themed hollow?” I ask, intrigued despite myself.
“Fusion is where it’s at, sugar. Unexpected combinations that make people talk. Your funnel cake stand? Fine. But what about funnel cake with bourbon caramel sauce? Or topped with local blueberries and mascarpone?”
I may need to lie down, Chip says weakly. This conversation is overwhelming my delicate constitution.
Your constitution is about as delicate as a garbage disposal, Fish retorts, but even she looks interested in the gourmet descriptions.
These sound like the kind of treats worthy of my refined palate, Cupcake adds with Southern sophistication. A lady appreciates quality ingredients and thoughtful presentation.
I bet you eat the same kibble every day, Fish points out.
Premium kibble, Cupcake corrects with dignity. There’s a difference.
“And don’t get me started on your bakery,” Savvy continues, clearly hitting her stride. “Sugar Moon Bakehouse is cute, but it’s playing it safe. Chocolate chip cookies and blueberry muffins? That’s cafeteria food, not destination dining.”
“What would you suggest?” I ask, genuinely curious now.
“Seasonal specialties that change monthly. Right now, you should have maple bourbon bread pudding with cinnamon ice cream. Pumpkin cheesecake bars with gingersnap crusts. Apple cider donuts made fresh every hour, not sitting under heat lamps until they turn into hockey pucks.”
“You’re making me want to fire my entire food service staff and start over,” I admit.
“Don’t fire them, train them. Good staff is hard to find, but great recipes can be learned.
What you need is someone to come in and overhaul your entire food program from the ground up.
” She pauses, studying my face with the calculating look of someone who’s about to make a proposal.
“Someone with experience in elevated comfort food and a talent for turning ordinary ingredients into extraordinary experiences.”
I blink at her. “Are you offering?”
“I might be. Though I’ve really got to get home as soon as possible after the symposium,” she says, clearing her throat and looking suddenly guilty. “Help with the bakery and all.”
Plot twist, Fish muses. The suspect and her dog want to join the team.
She’s not a suspect anymore, Chip protests. She’s a culinary genius, and her dog just so happens to have excellent taste in romantic partners.
One flirtation does not make her your romantic partner, Fish corrects. Though I admit, her food descriptions are impressive.
I like Savvy, Cupcake announces. She appreciates quality and has vision. Plus, she’s not threatened by my natural beauty and charm.
Your natural beauty and charm, Fish repeats with the tone of someone who’s just heard the most ridiculous thing imaginable.
I am a premium poodle with impeccable breeding, Cupcake sniffs. Beauty and charm are part of my genetic makeup.
“You know,” I say slowly, “renovating the menus around here might be the craziest idea I’ve had all week. And considering I’ve been investigating a murder while running a theme park and flirting with a detective whose mother might be a killer, that’s saying something.”
“The best ideas usually are a little crazy.” Savvy grins. “Besides, what’s life without a little risk?”
“True. And heaven knows this place could use some excitement that doesn’t involve dead bodies.”
“Though I have to say,” she adds with a wicked smile. “Finding corpses in cake does add a certain... delicious drama to the dining experience.”
“Please don’t give me any ideas. I’m already worried about health code violations.”
Our waitress returns with the enthusiasm of someone who’s been standing in the same spot for ten minutes waiting for us to actually order something.
“Y’all ready?” she asks, pen poised over her notepad.
I look at the menu one more time, then at Savvy’s expectant face. “You know what? I think we need to table this food discussion until we can do something about it. But for now, I’ll take the buffalo burger. And a side of optimism about the future of theme park cuisine.”
“Make that two buffalo burgers,” Savvy adds. “And, sugar? I think this is the beginning of a beautiful partnership. I’d be glad to write down all of those suggestions for you and go over them with your staff while I’m still in town.”
As our waitress walks away, probably wondering why we spent twenty minutes dissecting the menu only to order the most basic items available, I can’t help but grin.
Between solving murders, dodging romantic complications, and now potentially revolutionizing my entire food program, I’m starting to think normal is highly overrated.
Plus, hanging out with Savvy feels like catching up with the best friend I never knew I needed.
Let’s just hope she’s not planning to poison me with her gourmet upgrades.