Fish and Chip: Nine Lives One Murder (Huckleberry Hollow Theme Park Cozy Mysteries #1)

Chapter 1

Sunlight filters through crimson and gold leaves, throwing autumn confetti all over my windshield like nature’s way of saying, Congratulations, you wrecked your life!

In this case, nature wouldn’t be wrong.

I’ve been on the road for six hours with nothing but my regrets, a cat who judges my life choices—AKA my feline therapist who moonlights as a judgy roommate—and a playlist so drenched in heartbreak it might qualify as emotional waterboarding.

The soft strumming of acoustic guitars fades as I turn down the volume, letting in a rush of crisp September air that smells like turning leaves and fresh starts I didn’t ask for.

“Almost there, Chip,” I lie to the orange fluffy feline next to me for the seventeenth time, and he flicks one ear without turning his head.

Translation: liar, liar, leggings on fire.

He stretches dramatically, like he just survived a treacherous journey instead of napping through rural Maine.

Then he shoots me a look that could curdle oat milk.

His green eyes gleam with the judgment usually reserved for baristas when you mispronounce macchiato.

You’re fooling no one, lady, he meows loud and clear.

To say Chip is hard to please is like saying gas station sushi is a gamble. Unless food is involved, he thinks most things—and most people—are beneath him. And most of the time, he’s right.

It’s about time you left that cheating hairball of a husband, Chip mewls my way. I never did care for him. His cologne made my whiskers itch, and he always claimed to be allergic to cats when we both knew he was just jealous I got more of your attention than he did.

“Is that so?” I say, giving him a hearty scratch behind the ears. “And here I thought you two had a beautiful bromance going.”

Please. The man wore sandals with socks. I have standards.

“Your standards involve licking your rear end and eating off the floor.”

Both are still more dignified than Clyde’s yoga pants. Those things were a crime against spandex. They left nothing to the imagination, and believe me, my imagination was perfectly content without the visual.

“Touché.”

When I was six, I fell down the stairs at Grandma’s and walked away with a mild concussion and a highly specific side effect—I can hear what animals are thinking.

Some days it’s a blessing. Other times it’s like tuning into a late-night talk show where all the guests are unfiltered and covered in fur. But today it’s exactly the emotional support I need.

I turn onto a long, winding driveway and the Country Cottage Inn materializes before me like something from a storybook with its ivy-draped white walls, bright blue shutters, and a wraparound porch that looks like it belongs in a coffee commercial.

And how I hope they have lots and lots of complimentary coffee.

And I mean the good stuff. Although right about now, the not-so-good stuff doesn’t sound so bad either.

It’s disgustingly perfect. And I’m a little mad about it.

The cobblestones crunch under my tires as I park, and once I swing open my door, the breeze brings the scent of apple orchards and sea salt. The place radiates autumn charm so hard I’m surprised there aren’t pumpkin spice lattes growing on trees.

It doesn’t hurt that the place sits right up against the cove as well, and I take a moment to soak in the sparkling waters of the Atlantic. In the distance, seagulls call to each other—probably gossiping about the new redhead pulling up with a disgruntled orange cat.

“Home sweet temporary home,” I mutter, resisting the urge to sob into the steering wheel.

Fun fact: the inn is a whopping eighteen minutes from the house I’ve called home for twenty-five years back in Huckleberry Hollow.

I just took a scenic six-hour route of aimless driving, hoping the extra mileage would come with an epiphany and help me figure out the rest of my life.

Spoiler alert: it didn’t. All I got was a check engine light, questionable gas station sushi, and the realization that even my GPS thinks I’m making poor life decisions. Recalculating, indeed.”

Chip grunts as he surveys the inn. It looks less like home and more like a luxury time-out. With tuna, I hope.

“Yes, there will be tuna,” I promise. “And if not, we’ll circle back to the gas station of regret.”

With what’s left of my dignity and an overpacked suitcase, I scoop Chip into my arms, and, of course, he endures it with the put-upon expression of a monarch forced to fly coach.

The massive wooden doors to the inn swing open with surprising ease, unleashing a wave of warm, cinnamon-laced air that hits me like a hug from a seasonal overachiever.

It smells like someone tried to bake their way out of an emotional breakdown, and I respect that since I’m having an emotional breakdown myself.

The tension in my shoulders begins to uncoil as I take in the distressed gray wooden floors, rich mahogany wainscoting, and grand staircase winding up to the second level that looks straight out of Gone with the Wind.

There’s a polished marble counter with a black and white tabby contentedly perched upon it, and behind the gleaming marble reception counter, three familiar faces freeze once they spot me, and suddenly I’m remembering why I loved this place before my life became a country song.

The three women all gasp in unison as if I just walked in wearing a wedding dress and wielding a chainsaw.

“Josie? Josie Janglewood?” Ree Baker’s feathered red hair bounces as her head snaps up. She’s about my age, somewhere in her fifties, and our kids all went to the same schools while they were growing up, albeit hers were a touch older than mine. “Is that really you?”

“Well, I’ll be,” Georgie Conner gasps, her silver hair pulled into a haphazard bun and secured with what looks like a crochet hook pressed into emergency hair duty, and sure enough, she’s wearing one of her signature kaftans.

This one happens to be brown with bright orange pumpkins printed all over it.

If anything, she likes to keep her fashion sense relegated to a seasonal theme.

“If it isn’t the little Janglewood girl herself.

However, I suppose not so little anymore.

Look at you, Toots, with your fiery red hair and hot-to-trot body, you look like you’re living the dream. ”

“Eh.” I shrug.

I’d be living the dream if the dream included a newly cheating spouse and nowhere to call home.

And rounding out the trio behind the counter is the owner of this place, Bizzy Baker Wilder, with her dark hair pulled into a messy bun in a way that somehow looks effortlessly chic rather than like she stuck her finger into an electrical socket.

Meanwhile, her big blue eyes can’t seem to stop widening in surprise.

“Josie!” Bizzy rushes around the counter. “What on earth are you doing here? With luggage and—” her eyes drop to the orange fluffball in my arms “—a very handsome cat?”

I draw a deep breath, rehearsing the speech I’ve recited in my head a hundred times. “So. Clyde—my husband Clyde—”

“The financial advisor turned podcast guru?” Georgie interjects. Suffice it to say, Georgie has always had a pulse on the men in the area.

“Yep. That’s the one,” I confirm. “Let’s just say I caught him in a rather compromising position with his yoga instructor. A cute blonde who weighs less than a candy cane and is twice as bendy.”

“Not downward dog?” Ree gasps.

“More like the human pretzel with a side of betrayal. But downward dog, too,” I say, doing my best to sound breezy and not like someone who just dry-heaved in her mouth at the mental image. “Turns out, yoga wasn’t just about flexibility—it was training for infidelity.”

“That slimeball,” Georgie huffs. “I never liked him. His bicuspids were too symmetrical. Can’t trust a man with teeth that perfect. I just knew he was compensating for something.”

“Yeah,” Ree agrees. “Compensating for good judgment.”

“Sounds like the idiot was bending more than just his ethics.” Georgie shakes her head. “So, what happened? You kicked the cheating cad out, I hope?”

Chip flicks his tail. I warned you. Anyone who uses the phrase crypto cleanse can’t be trusted.

I shift Chip in my arms, who seems to be growing impatient with being the center of attention without receiving any actual attention.

Put me down. I need to sniff the black and white striped cat. My immediate assessment is required. Plus, she might know where the snacks are around here.

“Actually, the cheating cad refused to leave,” I go on.

“He said since he’s the primary breadwinner, he has more right to the house than I do,” I explain, absently scratching Chip’s ears in an effort to placate him.

“So, I grabbed Chip, packed my things, and embarked on a six-hour self-discovery journey that mostly led to road rage and bad sushi.”

“You’ve been driving in circles for six hours?” Bizzy asks, her eyes sympathetic.

I give a little shrug. “I was hoping to figure out my life. So far I’ve come up with—one, my marriage is over.

Two, I have a couple of daughters in college who are more or less devastated.

And three, I probably shouldn’t have eaten gas station sushi at hour four of my emotional breakdown road trip.

Let’s just say that caused a lot of unexpected bathroom breaks.

And now I regret that sushi on a cellular level. And my marriage to Clyde.”

“Oh, honey.” Ree’s maternal instincts kick in as she comes around the counter. “You’ll stay here at the inn, of course. For as long as you need. On the house.”

“I don’t want to impose—”

“Impose?” Bizzy cuts me off. “You’re family, Josie.

Of course, you’re staying here. All pets are welcome, too.

And I’m not taking a dime from you.” She smiles down at the fifty-pound feline in my arms. All right, so he just feels like fifty pounds, but believe me, he’s well on his way.

“Who is this little orange cutie? Did you say Chip?”