Chapter 9
The Maple Sugar Café on Huckleberry Lane exists in a permanent state of fall—like it signed a lease with autumn and stubbornly refuses to vacate the premises.
Today, Mother Nature decided to match the mood. Crisp air flutters through the door every time it opens, bringing with it the scent of decaying leaves, woodsmoke, and the vague promise of seasonal depression.
Inside, cinnamon-scented warmth wraps around patrons like a weighted blanket in latte form.
Edison bulbs dangle from copper fixtures, casting a buttery glow over reclaimed wood tables.
Every flat surface brims with fall décor—burlap pumpkins, ceramic squirrels, and maple leaf garlands that look like a craft store exploded with joy.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the vintage mirror hanging beside our table.
Crimson hair—shoulder length, wavy, with just enough stubborn gray to scream wise but whisper stressed.
My blue-gray eyes are ringed with exhaustion, my laugh lines have become commitment lines, and my dimples—usually charming—now read more like emotional war wounds.
The face staring back at me belongs to someone who found a corpse in a funhouse yesterday and still got out of bed this morning. Possibly a mistake.
“More coffee, Josie?” The barista—Mara, per her name tag and perfectly winged eyeliner—smiles as she approaches with a carafe.
“I’d mainline it if you had the equipment,” I reply, nudging my mug her way.
She gives a quick laugh while topping off my cup. “I’m working on a special latte for you, hon. Just putting the finishing touches on it.”
Fish sits regally on a plush purple cushion that one of the waitresses provided specially for the distinguished park mascots, which Fish accepted as her birthright. She surveys the room with the dignified air of royalty tolerating the presence of commoners.
The peasants are certainly attentive today, she mewls as yet another family approaches, smartphones at the ready. I’ve counted seventeen requests for photographs already. Honestly, I should start charging.
I’m more interested in the seventeen bacon bits that waitress slipped me, Chip counters from his matching cushion, looking like he’s already halfway into a post-snack nap. Being famous is delicious.
Bizzy was kind enough to send Fish off to work with me this morning, insisting that the newly appointed mascots should stay together for brand consistency.
I suspect it was also so she could have her breakfast uninterrupted by royal squabbling.
Either way, the cats are soaking up the fame like its sun through a bay window.
Outside, the entrance to Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland is buzzing. The fog has lifted, the day is peak autumn, and the crowd is surprisingly robust. Especially considering, you know, the whole murder thing. Come to think of it, that might be the draw.
The Merryweathers called earlier, sounding almost giddy about the unexpected spike in attendance.
“It’s those cats of yours,” Eddie had explained. “Someone posted videos of them at the reception last night, and they’ve gone viral. Check the park’s social media accounts!”
Sure enough, #FishandChip is trending locally, with photos of my reluctant feline employees generating thousands of likes. Apparently, a dead body is bad for business, but cats in bowties are great PR and even better damage control.
Tragedy plus tabby equals clickbait.
I can understand why. Cats and booze are basically the internet’s favorite emotional cocktail.
Mara returns, placing a pumpkin spice latte in front of me with foam art so detailed I immediately recognize Fish’s signature glare and Chip’s eternal snack-seeking optimism.
“This is amazing,” I tell her, genuinely touched by the gesture. “Your talents are wasted here. You should be selling these for triple the price in some hipster café in Portland.”
“Then I’d miss all the gossip.” She winks, tapping my notebook. “Making progress on your park plans?”
I glance down at the chaos in front of me—grand ideas, half-baked repair estimates, and one highly satisfying doodle of Clyde being mauled by a feral raccoon.
“Rome wasn’t built in a day,” I sigh. “But it probably had fewer safety violations than the Gold Rush Hollow roller coaster and zero squirrel infestations.”
I sip and confirm this is heaven in a cup. And for one brief moment, all is right in the world.
Then reality slaps me upside the head with a blood-stained chain.
I found a body yesterday.
On my first day.
In a funhouse.
This was definitely not in the job description.
Is this some kind of omen? Is this fate? A cursed park? A sign that I should become a coconut barista in Bali?
Should I be updating my résumé already? I can just imagine that cover letter. Managed theme park for one day. Discovered corpse. Excellent at crisis management.
The strange pins I’d noticed near Ned’s body—the Tree and the Haunted Gold Mine—flash in my mind. The same pins I’d seen on Vivian Templeton’s vest earlier that evening. And those triangular marks on the floor... what were they? Footprints? Hieroglyphics? Illuminati breadcrumbs?
And then there’s Detective Dexter Drake.
The man’s eyes could slice glass and set it on fire simultaneously. He walked into the funhouse like he owned the air we breathe. I really don’t need to be noticing his forearms this early in my post-divorce glow-up. But he smells like coffee and determination. And face it, I am tragically weak.
Nope. Shut it down. I need a stiffer drink to cope with that train of thought. It’s far too soon to be mentally undressing anyone. I just left a husband who couldn’t keep it zipped during yoga class.
Although technically, Clyde didn’t think it was too soon to find someone new. He didn’t even wait for a separation to do that. He just dove straight into the shallow end of the yoga instructor pool.
I pull out my phone and open the family group chat. Time to check in with my girls.
Josie: Good morning, girls! How are classes going?
McKenna: Mom! OMG, I was just about to text you! How are you? Did you find a place to stay?
Riley: Morning! Are you living with a serial killer? Is Dad being awful?
My heart squeezes.
God, I love them. McKenna is all feelings and freckles. Riley could run a tech startup in her sleep. They’re both sophomores, polar opposites, and miraculously still speaking after living together.
They’re both at Brambleberry Bay University, sharing a dorm room despite running on wildly different operating systems. Somehow, it works.
Josie: I’m good! Staying at the Country Cottage Inn for now.
Clyde: INN? I’m not paying for that. When are you coming home?
And there he is. Like a bad rash in text form.
Josie: Don’t worry, I got a job. I’m covering my own expenses.
Clyde: Ha! Who would hire you?
Twenty-five years of marriage, and that’s his opener.
My fingers freeze over the screen in lieu of his neck. But I’ll get to that soon enough. After all, I’m in my homicide era.
Riley: DAD. Stop!
McKenna: So not cool.
I take a deep breath. The girls don’t need to be caught in our crossfire.
Josie: I’m the new manager at Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland Theme Park.
McKenna: WHAT??? The theme park??? That’s so cool!!!
Riley: OMG MOM! Free tickets??? Can we bring friends? Do we get season passes?
Typical. Riley goes straight for the perks while McKenna sends heart emojis and congratulations.
Clyde: That dump? Guess you’ll be running it all the way into the grave.
Unfortunate phrasing, considering the recent corpse.
Josie: The park has potential. I’ve got to run—busy day ahead! Love you both.
Josie: Goodbye to you too, Clyde.
I add that last part for the girls’ sake, though I’m tempted to tell him exactly where he can stick his opinion—and it’s probably where he’s sticking his yoga instructor.
I set the phone down and rub my temples.
We should establish a systematic approach to solving this crime, Fish announces with her tail wrapped around her paws as if she were trying to handcuff herself.
Or we could just follow our noses to the nearest person who smells like murder and guilt—and maybe old bacon, Chip suggests, sniffing the air as if another felony were afoot.
We need a system, Fish says, pulling herself into a more upright pose. Timeline. Motive. Witnesses. Josie, you found the body—you lead the investigation.
Or like I said, we sniff people until someone smells like guilt and guilt jerky, Chip adds. You know, detective stuff.
“You’re theme park mascots,” I mutter. “Not feline forensic experts.”
I’m about to expand on the fact they’re not feline Sherlocks, when the bell above the café door jingles merrily.
Ree and Georgie burst in with the energy of two women on a mission.
Georgie sports a hat that makes yesterday’s carousel monstrosity look subdued.
This one appears to be a miniature roller coaster with actual moving parts, complete with tiny LED lights.
And, of course, the requisite kaftan. This one is powder blue with hot dogs printed all over it. It’s a disconcerting look.
Ree, normally the practical counterpoint to Georgie’s quasi-psychotic flamboyance, clutches a composition notebook labeled “Murder Investigation: Suspects & Clues” in thick red marker. It’s like an episode of Law & Order: The Early Bird Special.
“You will not believe what we’ve learned!
” Georgie announces, sliding into the seat across from me.
The roller coaster on her head takes off as if it were excited, too.
“Mara, the barista, gave us the scoop on the Hidden Gems Conference,” she continues.
“Apparently, Vivian Templeton has a history of professional sabotage. And a peppermint schnapps problem.”
Ree nods. “And I’ve made a timeline of everyone’s movements last night,” she adds, flipping open her notebook to reveal a color-coded chart that looks like it belongs in an FBI investigation room. “Red is shady. Yellow is alibi-adjacent. Green is for people we like.”
I blink. “Wait,” I interrupt, holding up a hand. “What exactly do you two think you’re doing? And why is my name highlighted in Red?”
“We’re solving a murder,” they say in unison.
Ree shrugs over at Georgie. “We can’t blame her. She’s new around here.”
“What she said.” Georgie nods, the movement sending her roller coaster into another rotation. “Although I’m also evaluating Detective Dreamboat for possible husband material. For you, obviously. I’ve already got my sights set on that silver fox from the popcorn stand.”
“There’s an actual detective assigned to this case,” I point out.
“Oh honey.” Georgie pats my hand. “That man’s cheekbones are a public hazard.
He should be modeling cashmere sweaters, not analyzing crime scenes.
” She shakes her head. “And when is the last time the Seaview Sheriff’s Department solved anything more complicated than a parking dispute?
Poor Bizzy has been having to pick up the slack for her husband and he’s the lead homicide detective at the office.
And seeing that Bizzy’s got her hands full at the inn at the moment, it’s your turn now. ”
“Besides,” Ree picks up without missing a beat, “you’re the one who found the body. You’re practically obligated to solve the crime. It’s like Murder Discovery Etiquette 101.”
“That’s not a thing,” I protest, though with less conviction than I’d like.
“Is now,” Georgie says cheerfully.
“Okay, fine,” I cave. “I did see something weird. Those pins next to Ned? Vivian was wearing the exact ones earlier in the evening.”
The roller coaster on Georgie’s head pauses mid-spin. Ree’s pen hovers.
“Then she’s suspect number one.” Georgie slams her hand down onto the table and it nearly wakes Chip. Nearly. What can I say? He’s gone pro in the napping arena.
“But why would she leave her own pins at the crime scene?” I reason. “That’s practically gift-wrapping evidence for the police.”
“Or someone planted them,” Ree offers. “Or she dropped them. Or—”
“Or she’s just incredibly careless,” Georgie adds.
“Or she’s not the killer at all,” I suggest, the voice of reason rapidly losing ground.
“It’s classic misdirection.” Ree nods. “We need to interrogate her. And possibly her schnapps.”
“We need to investigate all possibilities,” Georgie says with newfound authority. “Operation Theme Park Murder is officially underway.”
“We are not calling it—”
The ping of my phone interrupts my protest. I glance down to see a text from a number I don’t recognize.
Detective Drake here. Need you at the station at 5:00. Bring the cats.
“Who’s that?” Georgie cranes her neck, trying to get a better look at my screen. “You’re blushing!”
“I am not,” I lie, feeling the heat in my cheeks intensify.
Georgie gasps. “Did Detective Dreamboat just ask you out?”
“It is the detective.” I wrinkle my nose. “He wants me at the station at five. And apparently, he wants the cats, too.”
“The cats?” Ree and Georgie echo in unison.
Fish lifts her chin. Naturally. Our insight is invaluable.
And I bet there will be treats. Chip’s ears begin to twitch. Like DONUTS!
Georgie’s face lights up with delight. “Oh my goodness, he thinks the cats are witnesses! This is the best murder ever!”
“There’s no such thing as a best murder, Georgie,” I sigh, gathering my things. “And the cats aren’t witnesses, they’re...” Witnesses.
Ree taps her murder notebook. “That still gives us the whole day. We’ll investigate. You’ll meet Detective Dreamboat. We’ll crack this case wide open.”
“Please don’t call him Detective Dreamboat.”
But even as I say it, I feel it in my bones. This isn’t just a murder. It’s the beginning of something for me.
Hopefully, not a prison sentence.