Chapter 8
My scream ricochets through the mirrored walls like a horror remix no one asked for.
Every reflection in this twisted funhouse echoes back at me with shock, disbelief, and a very real sense that the caramel apple I wolfed down earlier might be making a return appearance.
Ned Hollister stares at the ceiling with glassy, vacant eyes that will never again narrow in criticism.
His face is frozen in surprise, mouth slightly open as if preparing to deliver one final cutting review.
The safety chain—the kind used throughout the park to block off closed attractions—is wrapped so tightly around his neck that it’s created an angry red groove in his skin.
A small pool of amber liquid spreads from a shattered whiskey glass, the expensive spirits mingling with what is unmistakably something dark and sticky coming from Ned himself.
“Josie!” Ree’s voice bounces in from the entrance, followed by the sound of heels against old wood and both Ree and Georgie burst around the corner in a flurry of chaos and feathers.
I’m not even going to ask.
“We saw you dart in here and didn’t want you to have all the fun with the handsome men hiding in this funhouse of iniquity!
” Georgie announces, adjusting her Ferris wheel hat which has tilted precariously during her pursuit, making her look like a very confused theme park ride. And it is so on brand for this place.
Words fail me. I simply point toward the floor where Ned lies sprawled looking considerably less intimidating than he did when he was terrorizing waitstaff.
“I don’t think he’s having any fun,” I finally manage with my voice squeaky and barely functional.
Ree gasps, and Georgie lets out a shriek that could crack glass.
“Is that—” Ree begins.
“The rude whiskey critic?” Georgie finishes, clutching at her chest.
Fish sits a safe distance away, glaring at the man as if he personally offended her. This is highly inconvenient, she deadpans. Murder on my first day as mascot? Such bad optics. Think of the awful press.
Chip edges closer to him and his whiskers twitch with interest. At least he dropped his whiskey. Seems a waste to let it...
Do NOT even think about lapping up evidence, you walking, talking ham! Fish yowls with such force that Chip actually backs up a step as if he’s been slapped by bacon.
I drop to my knees, channeling my inner crime drama detective, and press two fingers to Ned’s neck, more for show than for science, and sure enough, he’s colder than my ex’s heart.
“He’s dead,” I say, because apparently, I’m the kind of person who states the obvious in a crisis.
Georgie grunts, eyeing the chain around his neck. “Now that’s a fashion choice even I wouldn’t attempt.”
“Georgie!” Ree gasps, but there’s a slightly hysterical edge to her response—because let’s face it, humor as a defense mechanism against horror is the only way to go.
I pull out my phone and call 911, my voice steadier than I feel. “Yes, there’s been a... situation. At Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland. In the funhouse. It’s...uh, sort of murdery.”
As I give the operator the rundown, I wave Fish and Chip toward the entrance. They slink off like furry nightclub bouncers, blocking the curious crowd starting to gather.
With Ree and Georgie’s help, I grab another length of safety chain—because irony is having a moment—and block off the entrance just as the guests start trickling closer.
“What’s going on?” someone yells.
“Is this part of the show?” another guest asks.
“Sure, lady,” Georgie muses. “This is the immersive CSI: Huckleberry Hollow experience. Comes with a free churro if you ID the body.”
I leave Ree to field the growing crowd’s curiosity and drag Georgie with me to find the Merryweathers. And find them we do, still chatting by the caramel apples as if nothing is wrong, which honestly, feels a tad criminal.
“Ned Hollister is dead,” I whisper. “Murdered,” I clarify when they don’t react fast enough. “In the funhouse.”
Eddie’s mouth falls open. Edie sways.
“Oh no,” Eddie says. “Not again.”
“Again?” I blink. “Please tell me that’s not a pattern.”
They slump onto a nearby bench like a couple of synchronized fainting goats.
“Don’t worry, I called the police,” I’m quick to assure them. “They’re on their way.” I hope.
“Ned Hollister is... dead?” Eddie repeats, his face draining of color so rapidly I worry he might pass out. “This is terrible,” Eddie murmurs. “Just terrible.”
“And you say the police are coming?” Edie asks, her voice small.
“Yes, they should be here soon. I’ve cordoned off the area, but—”
The crowd at the funhouse surges with curiosity and smartphones so I trot back that way. Phones are raised, capturing the scene for social media posts that will undoubtedly tank our already struggling attendance numbers faster than you can say viral video of theme park tragedy.
Security finally arrives—two retirees who look like they just wandered off a golf course. Not exactly SWAT.
“I need everyone to stand back!” I shout.
The guards look relieved that someone is taking control. I’m halfway through fantasizing about hiring actual ninjas when a voice cuts through the crowd.
“Seaview Sheriff’s Department,” a deep voice bellows. “Who’s in charge here?”
A man parts the sea of reporters and rubberneckers, and oh dear sweet kettle corn, he’s tall, has dark hair with broad shoulders, he’s wearing that intense cop-face like he invented it, and he’s built like trouble.
“She’s the manager!” Edie chirps. The Merryweathers immediately throw me under the bus.
“That would be... me?” I squeak.
“She was just promoted!” Eddie adds. “We’re retiring now. Immediately.”
They disappear faster than a cat near a vacuum. And I can’t blame them.
“Homicide Detective Dexter Drake,” Hot Stuff introduces himself, flashing his badge with a flip of the wrist. His expression is a carefully constructed blend of authority and impatience—and those eyes? Blue. Cold. Like winter. Or judgment. Or the ocean when it wants to kill you.
And he is decidedly too hot for his detective britches.
Dexter pins his steel-blue eyes on me, and suddenly I forget every human word I’ve ever known. Have I mentioned how unfairly handsome he is? And that his eyes are the color of a cloudless sky?
“You’re the manager?” he asks, the scowl on his face making him all that much hotter.
“For the last eight hours,” I say. “In that time, I’ve organized a reception, wrangled two cats, and found a corpse. I think I’m due for a raise.”
His mouth twitches with a frown. “Show me.”
I guide him through the funhouse entrance as Fish and Chip slink behind us like backup dancers in a true crime musical.
The mechanical laughter seems to have stopped, creating an eerie silence broken only by our footsteps on the creaking wooden floor.
“The victim is Ned Hollister, food critic, travel blogger, and professional jerk,” I explain as we navigate the mirrored passageway. “Not the most beloved man in the travel industry, from what I gathered. Came for the conference. Stayed for the murder.”
“You gathered that in eight hours?” Dexter asks.
“I’m a fast learner. Also, people really didn’t like him.”
We round the final corner, and there’s Ned, exactly as we left him.
Dexter’s demeanor shifts from suspicious hot guy to serious hot guy. He crouches beside the body, careful not to disturb anything, his eyes cataloging details with methodical precision.
I like this one, Chip muses from a few feet away. He smells like coffee and determination—and more importantly, donuts.
You would think about donuts at a time like this. Fish swishes her tail with mild annoyance. And you’re right. I can smell the apple fritter on him a mile away.
My stomach rumbles at the thought of a decent apple fritter. If you get them just right, they’re nice and doughy on the inside.
I give a few sniffs in his direction and the hot detective shoots me a look that threatens both arrest and the electric chair.
Chip nods my way. We’ll pick up a box on the way back to the inn.
I couldn’t think of a better way to end this night. Although if this hot-to-trot detective has his way, judging by that look on his face I might be spending the night in a prison cell.
While Dexter examines the scene, my gaze shifts to those two small enamel pins near Ned’s outstretched hand—collector’s items from the park no less.
One depicts an intricately rendered tree (the Everwhirl Hollow pin), and the other shows the entrance to the Haunted Gold Mine with tiny ghostly figures (from Gold Rush Hollow).
My mind flashes to earlier in the evening with Vivian Templeton’s vest adorned with vintage park pins, including those exact two. She’d mentioned being a collector since childhood. I wonder if she’s been a killer since this afternoon?
Who am I kidding, Ned clearly bit the big one in the evening. This is a novice adventure for her at best.
I know for a fact Vivian had both of those pins on earlier tonight.
Coincidence? Maybe.
Murder couture? Possibly.
I pull out my phone and snap several quick yet highly discreet photos of the pins and their position.
As I angle for a better shot, I notice something else—strange triangular white dust marks on the floor near the body.
Three perfect triangles in a pattern that seems deliberately placed rather than accidental.
I snap a few of those too when Dexter clears his throat.
“What is it that you think you’re doing?” he grouses and I’d be affronted if he weren’t so darn handsome while chastising me. I’ve never wanted to be chastised again so badly in my entire life.
He glares. I grin.
Clearly, I’ve been caught red-handed. “Documenting my first day on the job,” I say. “It’s for my scrapbook of professional traumas. This trumps yesterday’s personal trauma but not by a lack of trying on my ex’s part.”
I clamp my lips shut in the event I feel the need to tell him my locker combination from middle school and the reason my father made me wear my brother’s boxers under my prom dress senior year.
It was basically a safeguard to keep my chastity intact, but really no one noticed when I slipped them off in the limo on the ride over.
And that right there is how I accidentally went commando on prom night.
I’ve never been happier that the internet wasn’t even a gleam in technology’s eye way back when. Stay golden, Gen X.
His eyes narrow. “This is my investigation. I do the picture taking. And do I have to remind you that this is a crime scene?”
“Have I mentioned that I’m really passionate about true crime? It’s basically a job requirement around here.”
Dexter takes a moment to glare at me before pulling out his own phone and following my lead, occasionally giving me sideways glances, as if expecting me to start snapping pics again the moment he turns away.
He’s so onto me.
Twenty minutes later, the funhouse is swarming with uniforms and techs. The coroner, a chipper woman in purple glasses, confirms strangulation.
She’s good, I’ll give her that.
As they prepare to move the body, Dexter and I step outside to find an even larger crowd has gathered. The body bag emerges on a gurney, wheeled by two somber-faced attendants, and a hush falls over the onlookers as they take poor Ned away.
Vivian and Patty stand together, clutching each other’s arms with expressions of appropriate horror plastered across their faces. Wallis looks pale and sick, his usual Southern charm nowhere to be seen.
Other conference attendees murmur to each other, some discreetly taking photos despite the security guards’ best efforts to prevent it, because apparently, even murder can’t stop people from updating their social media.
I study their reactions, mentally cataloging who seems genuinely upset versus performatively shocked, because if crime shows have taught me anything, it’s that the killer is usually standing right there looking innocent.
Dexter does the same, his gaze methodically sweeping the crowd with the intensity of a detective reading a book written in a language only he understands.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announces, his voice carrying effortlessly over the crowd like he’s got a built-in megaphone.
“I’m Detective Drake. I understand this is inconvenient, but I’ll need statements from everyone who attended the reception tonight.
No one leaves until they’ve spoken with an officer. ”
A collective groan rises from the crowd, the sound of people realizing their evening plans have just been officially ruined by homicide.
“We have rooms available in the castle,” I offer quickly, trying to be helpful while also wondering if offering space for a police investigation counts as good customer service. “The main hall could serve as an interview space.”
“Perfect.” Dexter gives me an appreciative nod, although he still looks pretty irritated by me. “One of my officers will coordinate. Please proceed in an orderly fashion.”
As the crowd begins to file toward the castle like reluctant participants in the world’s most morbid field trip, Ree and Georgie materialize at my side.
“Well,” Georgie sighs, adjusting that Ferris wheel sitting on her head, “this puts a damper on my flirting plans for the evening. Although how about that detective?” She fans herself dramatically and I practically lean in because, let’s face it, I need the air, too.
There’s nothing hotter than a handsome grump packing heat while the siren song of corn dogs vies for my attention.
“There’s only one thing left to do,” Ree declares with grim determination.
“Let the police handle it?” I suggest hopefully.
“No way, Big Red Number Two.” Georgie swats my arm as if I just suggested we launch the cats out of a cannon. “We track down the killer!”
I give a curt nod. “That’s what I was afraid you were going to say.”
Across the courtyard, Detective Drake organizes witness interviews with brisk efficiency, occasionally catching my eye with an unreadable expression. Oh heck, I can read that expression. Everyone here knows exactly what he’s saying.
He’s not looking at me with those smoldering blue eyes in an effort to land me horizontal—but if it moves the case along, who am I to object? He’s looking at me that way because I’m his number one suspect.
My first day as manager may have started with caramel apples and mascots, but it’s ending with a dead critic, a hot detective, and my friends forming a geriatric Scooby gang.
There’s only one way to get myself out from under a murder wrap, and maybe under a hot detective—and that’s by tracking down a killer.
Because Chip might look good in orange, but I certainly don’t.