Chapter 17
Watching your daughters commandeer an entire Halloween parade while you prepare to interrogate your potential future mother-in-law for murder—just another day in my increasingly surreal life as a theme park owner.
No sooner did Savvy and I part ways than I was summoned by my girls to witness the fruit of their spooky labor.
The early evening air at Huckleberry Lane buzzes with the kind of electric energy that comes from two hundred people lined up ten deep along cobblestone pathways, clutching glow-in-the-dark merchandise and vibrating with anticipation.
The scent of cinnamon sugar pretzels mingles with pumpkin spice churros, while spooky music drifts from hidden speakers with the theatrical timing of a Broadway production.
Orange and purple lights snake through every available surface, transforming the main thoroughfare into something that looks like Halloween showed up early and decided to stay for dinner.
And there, in the center of it all, stand my daughters along with Emma Drake, all of whom are sporting walkie-talkies, clipboards, and the kind of organizational fury that could probably coordinate a small military invasion.
“MOM!” Riley shrieks, spotting me through the crowd. Her red hair is pulled back into a high ponytail, and she’s wearing a black hoodie that reads Parade Commander in glittery orange letters. “Like, oh my goodness, did you see? We literally did it! We actually pulled this off!”
McKenna appears beside her, equally flushed with success and wearing a matching hoodie that reads Operations Manager. “Like, seriously, Mom, look at this crowd! We’ve sold out of three different merchandise stands already!”
“Emma’s, like, basically a business genius,” Riley gushes, bouncing with excitement. “She mapped out optimal crowd flow patterns and other revenue maximization strategies!”
“Stop it.” Emma laughs, her dark hair twisted into a neat bun under her Creative Director hoodie. “You guys did all the heavy lifting. I just, like, made spreadsheets look pretty.”
The young hoomans have exceeded expectations, Fish mewls as I hold her, though her usual regal composure is somewhat undermined by the fact she’s wearing a glittery wizard’s hat that’s been secured with what appears to be industrial-strength Velcro.
However, this headgear is an assault on my dignity.
I look ridiculous, Chip wails as McKenna holds him tight—it requires both arms on her part.
And Chip just so happens to be wearing a pumpkin costume complete with orange felt and a green stem hat.
This is worse than that time you tried to put me in a Christmas sweater.
At least that had strategic food storage pockets.
“You both look adorable,” I tell them, trying not to laugh at their obvious distress. “Very festive. Very marketable.”
Marketable, Fish repeats with icy disdain. I am a dignified feline, not a walking advertisement.
“Josie!” Georgie’s voice cuts through the crowd as she and Ree approach, both loaded down with enough glow-in-the-dark accessories to be visible from space.
Georgie’s wearing a cape that lights up in sequential patterns, while Ree has opted for a more subtle approach involving only seventeen different glowing bracelets.
Madonna, eat your ’80s-loving heart out.
“This is absolutely magnificent, Toots!” Georgie declares, gesturing wildly at the transformed landscape while stealing Chip from McKenna. “Look at all this! It’s like a theme park had a baby with Halloween and raised it on pure Maine stubbornness!”
“The funnel cake stand has caramel sauce now,” Ree adds with the reverence usually reserved for discussing religious miracles. “Actual caramel sauce. Made from scratch. I may need to lie down.”
“And, like, speaking of lying down,” Riley adds with a mischievous grin, “Jack should be here any minute to help with crowd control.”
“Jack, who’s helping ME with crowd control,” McKenna corrects with sisterly venom. “Since I’m literally the one who actually knows how to use the walkie-talkies properly.”
“You know how to turn them on,” Riley retorts. “I know how to make them actually work when there’s interference from all the electrical equipment.”
“Girls,” Emma intervenes diplomatically. “Jack is helping ALL of us. There’s literally plenty of Detective Dreamboat Jr. to go around.”
“There absolutely is not,” both sisters say simultaneously, then glare at each other.
“Oh my,” Georgie whispers to me. “They’re fighting over a boy already. If this goes the way it did with my sis and me, I’ll need popcorn and a scorecard to keep track of the romantic carnage.”
Before the sister war can escalate further, the sound of approaching footsteps announces the arrival of someone who makes both girls immediately check their hair and adjust their hoodies.
“Evening, ladies,” comes a voice that sounds exactly like Dexter’s but about twenty years younger and significantly more amused. “Ready for the chaos?”
Jack Drake appears, and holy mother of genetics, this boy is his father’s son, copy and paste. Same dark hair, same storm-blue eyes, same easy confidence that suggests he could handle whatever life throws at him.
“Jack!” both daughters say in unison, then shoot each other death glares.
“Like, hi, Jack,” McKenna says, immediately moving closer to him. “I coordinated all the vendor schedules and crowd management protocols.”
“I handled literally all the technical equipment and backup systems,” Riley counters, stepping into McKenna’s space with the subtlety of a territorial cat.
“Okay, so like, this is literally going to be a problem,” Emma observes, checking her clipboard. “We have about two minutes before this parade starts, and you two are about to start a sorority-level catfight over a boy.”
“It’s not a catfight,” McKenna protests. “It’s strategic positioning.”
“Same thing.” Riley shrugs. “And I saw him first.”
“You literally met him thirty minutes before I did.”
“And you keep rubbing it in my face! Like I said before, thirty minutes is, like, basically a lifetime in college dating terms.”
As if on cue, spooky music erupts from speakers hidden throughout the lane, and the crowd erupts in cheers. Orange and purple lights begin pulsing in synchronized patterns, while fog machines tucked behind various storefronts start pumping mist across the cobblestones.
“Showtime!” Emma shouts into her walkie-talkie. “All units, this is Creative Command. Begin parade sequence!”
The first float appears at the far end of Huckleberry Lane—a massive haunted castle on wheels, complete with towers that actually sway in the evening breeze and a drawbridge that lowers to reveal costumed villains who wave and cackle at the audience.
“Oh my word,” Ree breathes, clutching a funnel cake that appeared from nowhere. “That’s better than anything I’ve seen at the big parks.”
“Look at those costumes!” Georgie exclaims, pointing at a group of dancers dressed as various fairy-tale villains. “That fairy’s dress is absolutely gorgeous! And those twinkle light effects!”
The parade unfolds like a fever dream of Halloween perfection.
Float after float rolls down the lane, each one more elaborate than the last. There’s a pirate ship with actual cannons that shoot confetti, a haunted carnival with spinning teacups full of costumed performers, and something that appears to be a dragon made entirely of glow-in-the-dark elements that undulates through the crowd like a neon serpent.
Their walkie-talkies start crackling with controlled chaos.
“Creative Command, this is Merchandising Station Seven. We’re completely sold out of glow cats. Repeat, no more glow cats.”
“Station Seven, switch to the backup glowing bats,” Emma responds immediately. “And start pushing the light-up pumpkin buckets.”
“Roger that. Also, we need more caramel sauce at the funnel cake station. There’s apparently a line around the block.”
“You girls handle the caramel situation,” Ree tells the girls, waving them toward the vendor booths. “I need to stay here and make sure Georgie doesn’t accidentally start any international incidents.”
“Hey!” Georgie protests. “I’m perfectly capable of behaving myself.”
“You once started a three-hour argument about churro pricing with a carnival worker,” Ree points out. “I’m not taking any chances.”
As the parade continues its magical procession toward Storybook Hollow, I spot my target standing alone near the three-tiered fountain that some genius has lit up in pulsing purple light.
Delora Drake looks like she’s attending a funeral instead of a celebration, her arms crossed and her expression suggesting she’s mentally composing complaint letters to various consumer protection agencies.
“There she is,” I point her out to my squad. “Our next suspect. Looking absolutely thrilled to be here.”
“Oh, you mean the Ice Queen herself?” Georgie says with a dramatic eye roll. “Detective Dreamboat’s absolutely charming mother, who thinks we’re all beneath her designer heels? The one who basically declared war on your entire existence over cake pops?”
“The very same,” I confirm grimly. “Also known as the woman who had an affair with Dilly’s husband and has been getting blackmailed about it for fifteen years.”
“And who specifically requested those marble rolling pins for the merchandise display,” Ree adds, consulting her murder notebook. “Very convenient that she knew exactly how heavy they were—and she approved.”
Before we can head over for our interrogation, McKenna appears at my elbow, slightly out of breath from coordinating parade chaos.
“Mom, I need to borrow the cutest money-making machines ever,” she announces, reaching for Fish’s and Chip’s totes. “They have their own float in the finale, and we’re already behind schedule.”
I love the float! Fish perks up with interest. It’s my favorite part of the entire parade, the part where I wave at my loyal subjects. It doesn’t hurt that it comes with premium seating.
Please tell me there are snacks involved, Chip adds hopefully. All this costume wearing has worked up my appetite.
“Don’t worry, you two.” McKenna grins, scooping up both totes. “Your float is very regal. Very social media-worthy, per usual.”
She disappears back into the crowd, leaving us free to approach our target without feline commentary on proper interrogation techniques.
“Well,” Georgie adjusts her light-up cape with determination, “no time like the present for a friendly chat. Come on, ladies. Justice waits for no one.”