Chapter 7
Twilight transforms Magical Marvels Hollow into something that lives up to its name—which is saying something, considering the bar was set pretty low by the creaky carousel and the animatronic tiger that sounds like it’s dying of dysentery. Face it, this entire place reeks of haunted yard sale.
Amber light filters through the crimson and gold leaves, casting a warm glow that softens the edges of everything it touches, including my frayed nerves and the fact that I’m apparently hosting a reception for people who could critique a sunset and find it lacking.
The air grows crisp as the sun dips lower, carrying the mingled scents of pumpkin spice, caramel, and woodsmoke from a distant fire pit.
Somewhere, a carousel plays a tinkling melody that drifts on the evening breeze, hauntingly nostalgic—or maybe that’s just my bank account mourning my recent decision to cut off the one who was feeding it.
The carved pumpkins—dozens of them, scattered throughout the courtyard—begin to glow as staff light the candles inside, transforming ordinary gourds into grinning cutie pies. Which is perfect, because nothing says welcome to your new job like vegetables that look happier than you feel.
Lanterns suspended from tree branches sway gently, casting shadows across the cobblestone paths, while fairy lights wrapped around trunks and railings twinkle to life like tiny stars determined to make this place look magical despite my best efforts to stress-sweat through my clothes.
The blue castle pulses with an inner glow, catching the fading sunlight and shooting rainbow prisms as if it were trying to blind someone with joy.
I find a quiet-ish corner near a sugar maple that’s basically on fire with color, trying to breathe without panicking.
I’m only a few hours into being the new manager of this place.
Less than a day. And already I’ve shaken enough hands to start a cult, lied about knowing what I’m doing at least six times, and watched my cats become local celebrities.
Speaking of royalty, Fish is perched like a diva on a hay bale, posing like she’s in the middle of a Vogue shoot, while Chip has taken up residence under the charcuterie table, accepting meat tributes like the efficient beggar he is as fingers slip him morsels of cheese and prosciutto as if he were a hungry (but slightly sticky) orange god.
That cat eats better than I do.
I make my way toward them, catching snippets of their thoughts as I close in on them.
The lighting here is terrible for photos, Fish mewls, shifting to catch the lantern light more favorably on her fur.
I’ll look washed out in half these pictures.
Don’t these people know anything about proper cat photography?
I’m starting to think we need better PR management and a professional photographer—a royal photographer at that.
You don’t need a royal photographer, Chip counters, accepting a scrap of roast beef with the grace only a newfound aristocrat can bring. Or should I say, aristo-cat. You need a royal food taster. I volunteer. Security purposes only, of course.
Your dedication to the crown is noted, Fish responds dryly. Though I suspect your interest lies more with the salmon puffs than with preventing any assassination attempts.
It can be both, Chip is quick to point out. And you don’t need better lighting, you need a hype team, he says, accepting a prosciutto offering with the grace of a seasoned influencer. Or maybe just more cheese. It’s hard to be fabulous on an empty stomach.
I can’t help but laugh and they both look my way.
Our official spokesperson has arrived, Fish acknowledges me with a slight nod. Go ahead and address the public’s concerns about our administrative plans.
“Having fun in your new roles?” I mutter, giving them both quick chin scratches and getting instant side-eyes from a dozen phone-wielding conference guests desperate to capture the mascots’ majesty.
I’ve already outlined infrastructure upgrades, Fish says, tail flicking with corporate efficiency. We need heated perches, quiet zones, and absolutely no more robotic jungle creatures. That tiger offends me on a spiritual level.
Also, more bacon. For the morale of the staff. Namely, me, Chip adds. I’ve surveyed public opinion and concluded that everyone loves bacon. I’m thinking a food court expansion—with samples! I’ve researched this extensively.
“I’m sure you have,” I murmur, simultaneously amused and slightly concerned by how rapidly they’ve adapted to their roles.
Yesterday, they were ordinary house cats.
Today, they’re planning park renovations like tiny, furry executives with advanced degrees in customer satisfaction and treat acquisition.
Okay, so heavy on the treat acquisition.
Before I can respond, a wave of park guests and travel writers swarms this way, all wielding phones and questions.
“Are they Instagram-famous?”
“Can we book them for our next event?”
“Do they have merch?”
Great. I’m now running a park... and a budding feline empire.
The questions come rapid-fire, and I find myself backed against the hay bale as the crowd presses closer. Chip’s whiskers twitch. Fish looks like she’s considering unleashing her inner tiger.
Thankfully, Ree swoops in like a seasoned cat wrangler and event planner rolled into one. “Let’s form a line, folks! One selfie per person unless you’re offering bribes or baked goods.”
She pulls me aside. “I’ve got the fur babies covered. You go schmooze. This is your night to sparkle like a sugared donut.”
“Are you sure you’ve got them?” I hesitate, glancing at the growing line of cat enthusiasts who look ready to start a bidding war for face time with my furry employees.
“Please.” She already has a clipboard out. “I once managed a wine tasting at the Country Cottage Inn with two drunk Santas and a goat. This is child’s play.”
We’ll be fine, Fish assures me far too quickly. Our public awaits.
Bring me back something from the bacon station, Chip adds as I reluctantly step away. For morale.
I weave through clusters of chatting travel writers, nodding politely at faces I vaguely recall being introduced to earlier—though honestly, after the third wine-scented critic explained why theme parks were cultural wastelands, they all started blurring together.
The reception is in full swing now, with the string quartet having switched to more upbeat selections that somehow make the whole scene feel less like a funeral for my career prospects.
“Quite the success, isn’t it?”
I turn to find myself face-to-face with Vivian Templeton, her silver hair still impossibly perfect despite the evening breeze.
Her vest with the sparkling park pins. Her silk pantsuit, in a deep burgundy that perfectly complements the fall color scheme, makes my hastily selected outfit feel like something fished from a discount bin.
Come to think of it, I did just that. Let’s just say Clyde’s financial guru days were numbered before they tossed him out on his fiscally challenged yoga pants.
“Yes,” I say. “Things are lively.”
“I was talking about your little mascot stunt,” she says, swigging her champagne. “Clever. Real animals beat foam costumes any day. They offer authenticity.”
Stunt? She so sees right through me.
“Thank you.” I accept the unexpected compliment cautiously, like someone being handed a package that might tick and go boom.
Vivian knocks back the rest of her champagne before nodding to Ned Hollister, who’s currently berating a server about the temperature of his whiskey with the passion most people reserve for their favorite sports teams. “You’ve got the cute mascots,” she muses.
“Now you just need a good villain. Some people are innately cast for the role, don’t you think?
He’s made more enemies than friends in this industry,” she continues, still watching the argument.
“If he disappeared tonight, the travel industry would throw a party, not a funeral.” She turns back my way and her smile returns so quickly it’s as if a switch has been flipped.
“Anyway, about those mascot merchandising opportunities—”
Her tone remains light, but there’s an unmistakable edge beneath the words—like velvet wrapped around a switchblade.
Before I can unpack any of that, Patty Sherwood appears, practically sparkling with campaign energy.
“Vivian! I was hoping to catch you,” she says, her tone suggesting they’re old friends, though I detect a subtle tightness around Vivian’s eyes. “I wanted to get your thoughts on featuring the park in our upcoming tourism brochure.”
Vivian offers her a smile so frosty it could chill the champagne all on its own. “You never stop working, do you?”
“It’s not work when you love it!” Patty chirps, then suddenly gasps, pointing at Vivian’s tailored vest. “Oh my goodness, are those original Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland collector pins? They’re exquisite!”
I take a better look at the vest adorned with at least a dozen small enamel pins, each depicting different attractions from the park.
There’s a detailed miniature of the blue castle, a carousel, and several others I don’t recognize—probably because half the attractions here haven’t worked since the Clinton administration.
Vivian’s demeanor softens slightly as her hand moves to touch a pin shaped like an intricately glittering tree. “Yes, they’re all antiques. I’ve been a fan of the park since I was a little girl. And I’ve been collecting them ever since.”
“The Tree pin from Everwhirl Hollow!” Patty exclaims, leaning closer to examine it with the intensity of an art appraiser. “And is that the original Haunted Gold Mine?” She points to a dark pin depicting a mine entrance with tiny ghostly figures.
“It is,” Vivian confirms, a hint of genuine pride breaking through her cool exterior. “From the 1980s, before they redesigned the ride. That carousel is from the opening year, and this—” she points to a small teacup, “—is from when Galaxy Hollow was still called Future World.”
“I had no idea you were such an enthusiast,” Patty says, her surprise seeming genuine, or at least as genuine as anything a politician says during campaign season.
“There are a lot of things that people don’t know about me,” Vivian replies, the coolness returning to her voice as she glances toward Ned, who’s still holding court across the courtyard like a one-man demonstration of why customer service workers deserve hazard pay.
“If you’ll excuse me, I need to refresh my drink. ”
As she walks away, I catch Patty watching her with an unreadable expression.
“Interesting woman,” I comment.
“More than you know,” she says just as Ned shouts something unintelligible. “Don’t mind him.” She nods his way. “He’s nothing but a ball of trouble. Everyone on this planet has a motive to murder the man.”
“Patty!” A balding man in an ill-fitting suit waves urgently from near the buffet.
“Duty calls,” she sighs. “Campaign donors wait for no woman. We’ll continue this conversation soon!” She squeezes my arm and darts off, working the proverbial room with the precision of a person who’s mapped out every strategic conversation in advance.
The evening wears on, the reception gradually winding down as the fairy lights glow brighter against the darkening sky. I circulate, making small talk, accepting congratulations on my new position, and trying not to wonder what I’ve gotten myself into.
The Merryweathers beam proudly every time they catch my eye, as if I’m their long-lost daughter returning in triumph rather than a stranger they hired hours ago in what was probably a moment of senior citizen optimism. Or just a senior moment. My money is on the latter.
I’m contemplating whether it’s too early to make a graceful exit when Fish and Chip suddenly race toward me, fur bristling with alarm. They’re moving with such urgency that several guests leap out of the way.
They’re screaming in the castle! Fish yowls so loud it sears my eardrums.
“It’s a theme park,” I tell her. “Screaming is half the fun.”
Not this kind of screaming, Chip says grimly. Follow us.
They bolt, and I follow, past confused guests and into the mouth of the funhouse—a literal clown mouth that feels creepier now than it did during daylight that connects to the back of the castle.
I’m about to take another step when I encounter a group of conference attendees running in the opposite direction. Their faces show genuine terror, not the amused fear of people enjoying a scare, and definitely not the look of people who just discovered the restrooms are out of toilet paper.
“It’s not part of the attraction!” a woman in a floral dress gasps, grabbing my arm as she passes. “Someone call security!”
But I don’t call security. I follow in the footsteps of every teenager in a horror flick and decide to move toward danger.
The entrance to the funhouse is dimly lit, with surreal carnival music playing at half-speed—a design choice that suddenly seems less whimsical and more like the soundtrack to my nightmares.
I hesitate, then step inside, following the orange flash of Chip’s tail as he disappears around a corner like a furry beacon leading me toward what I’m increasingly certain is a very bad idea.
Inside, everything is colder. Quieter. Carnival music plays at funeral speed. Mirrors distort reality. Animatronic clowns leer as if they know too much.
Over here! Fish yowls just as I round a corner and stop cold.
And that’s when my first day as theme park manager officially graduates from challenging to requires hazard pay and possibly witness protection.
Ned Hollister is sprawled on the floor with vacant eyes and a ride safety chain looped around his neck like a tragic prop in a murder mystery dinner theater.
His whiskey glass lies shattered beside him, and the spill is mingling with something far darker, and far more crimson.
And beside him sit two vintage park pins right next to his hand.
Patty’s words from earlier echo in my mind with chilling clarity. Everyone on this planet has a motive to murder the man.
Everyone might have had a motive, but someone in this theme park has turned that motive into murder.
My first day as manager has just taken a fatal turn. Ned Hollister is dead.