Chapter 10
Bayou Bend Hollow doesn’t just embrace autumn—it puts it in a headlock, force-feeds it pumpkin pie, and dresses it in a seasonally appropriate scarf. And I’m loving every minute of it as Ree and Georgie lead us to our very first suspect.
The cypress trees in this Gothic little area of the theme park are already dripping in Spanish moss, and now flaunt a second layer of amber and russet leaves which creates a double-decker fall fantasy.
It’s gorgeous. It’s moody. It’s basically the cover art for a murder-themed romance novel—possibly starring me at this rate.
Jack-o’-lanterns line the winding paths with their carved faces ranging from cheerful to mildly disturbing as if the design team couldn’t quite decide between family-friendly and nightmare fuel.
Small floating candles drift on the water of the bayou and create mysterious reflections that dance beneath the surface like submerged fireflies—or possibly the ghosts of tourists who got too close to the alligator display.
The air carries a distinctive blend of scents—cinnamon and cloves from the spiced cider stand mix with woodsmoke from the pit barbecue, all undercut by the earthy, slightly mineral smell of the bayou itself.
It’s like someone tried to make a fall-scented candle but couldn’t resist adding authentic swamp to the fragrance profile, which is either charming or a serious marketing miscalculation.
“There she is,” Ree whispers, nodding toward the Haunted House, an antebellum-style mansion with a wraparound porch that looms against the mid-morning sky like something from a Gothic novel where everyone dies tragically but fashionably, of course.
We’re crouched behind a pumpkin display like suburban ninjas, watching Vivian Templeton, editor-in-chief at Elite Escapes, give a press conference on the lawn.
Hay bales have been dragged in for the reporters to sit on, most of whom are juggling notebooks, smartphones, and the growing realization they need hazard pay.
How we got from cozy coffee at the Maple Sugar Café to playing amateur spies in a pumpkin patch is a testament to Georgie and Ree’s persistence—and my total lack of a spine when it comes to resisting a good mystery, even when said mystery involves potentially dangerous people who might have strangled someone with a safety chain.
Just twenty minutes ago, we were huddled around Ree’s phone, scrolling through the park’s social media updates like teenagers checking for drama—and drama we found in the shape of dear old Viv.
“Look!” Georgie jabbed a bejeweled finger at the screen. “Vivian Templeton is holding a press conference about the unfortunate incident at ten o’clock at the Haunted House.”
“Unfortunate incident,” Ree scoffed. “That’s PR speak for brutal murder of an insufferable critic.”
“We should go,” Georgie begged while setting off that coaster on her hat so fast I could practically hear the imaginary people scream. “You know, observe the suspect in her natural habitat.”
“She’s not a jungle cat,” I protested. “And we are not investigators.”
A lot of good that did me.
“Aren’t we though?” Georgie’s eyes sparkled with something far more sinister than glee. “You found the body. You saw the pins. You have motive and opportunity.”
“She has motive and opportunity,” I corrected. “I just have terrible timing and questionable career choices.”
But resistance was futile—like trying to stop a freight train with a feather duster. Five minutes later, we were speed-walking through the park with Fish and Chip riding shotgun in their tote bags. The cats were disturbingly into it.
Finally, a proper pursuit of justice, Fish announced regally from her tote. I’ll document her micro-expressions for signs of duplicity.
I’ll make sure she doesn’t escape, Chip added with uncharacteristic determination. Unless she has treats. Then I might be persuaded to look the other way. I’d do anything for bacon.
True as gospel.
Now, as we watch Vivian wrapping up her statement, I can’t help but admire her composure.
Not a hair out of place in her perfect silver coif, and her designer outfit is immaculate despite the earthy surroundings that would have me looking like I’d been wrestling with Spanish moss within five minutes.
She looks like she’s posing for a fall fashion in the Bayou photo shoot rather than addressing a murder at her conference. Honestly, if she’s guilty, she’s the most stylish strangler this side of the Mississippi.
“And we are committed to ensuring the Hidden Gems Conference continues with the dignity and professionalism that Mr. Hollister would have wanted,” she concludes, her voice carrying with the precision of the seasoned magazine editor she is.
I wouldn’t be surprised if a pro like her is running that magazine in no time.
Unless she goes to prison first. But proving she belongs behind bars is going to be a challenge, considering everything about her is so calm, cool, and collected.
Which is rich, considering Ned Hollister probably would have wanted his death to cause maximum chaos and disruption, based on what I’ve learned about his charming personality.
But I’ll say this for Vivian—if confidence were currency, she’d own half of Wall Street.
Journalists start packing up like they’ve got better murders to attend. It’s our cue to approach, but first, I need to coach my amateur detective squad before they get us all arrested.
“Remember, we’re just expressing condolences, not conducting an interrogation,” I warn.
“Of course,” Georgie says with all the innocent conviction of a gray-headed granny about to do the opposite.
Fish and Chip perk up in their totes as we draw closer to Vivian.
She reeks of motive and overpriced fragrance, Fish mewls. I say we cuff her.
I volunteer for ankle takedown, Chip offers. Position me by the exit and I’ll implement ankle-level takedown procedures! I’m fast, and very low to the ground. And if we act quickly, we can be the first in line for the smoked turkey legs. I’ve got my eye on those.
Fish snorts at the thought. You’ve got your eyes on everything.
I bite my lip to keep from laughing at the image of Chip performing a kittyzen’s arrest with his fuzzy orange body.
“Vivian?” I approach with my most sympathetic expression, the one I perfected during twenty-five years of marriage when I had to pretend Clyde’s ideas weren’t completely ridiculous.
“I just wanted to say how sorry I am about what happened. It must be so difficult trying to manage the conference under these circumstances.”
She turns with the kind of smile that could slice through any alloy—smooth, practiced, terrifyingly polite.
“Josie, thank you for your concern. It’s been challenging, to say the least.” Her gaze flicks to Ree and Georgie, and gives what looks like a quick but thorough assessment, as if she’s calculating whether they’re friend, foe, or people who might’ve wandered in from a nearby bingo hall. “Friends of yours?”
“Yes. This is Ree and Georgie,” I’m quick to introduce them. “They’re helping me get acquainted with the park.”
“Nice to meet you, Toots. Just charmed,” Georgie says in a tone that suggests anything but charm—more like a shark sizing up its next meal.
“We’re so sorry about your loss,” Ree adds gently. “It’s awful, really.”
“Yes. We’re all devastated about Ned, of course,” Vivian continues with such smoothness, you’d think she’s delivered this exact statement approximately fifty times in the last twelve hours.
“But the conference must go on. People have flown in from all over the world to attend. We’ll still be hosting our meet-and-greets throughout the week, culminating in our participation in the Great Gourd Gala Parade on Sunday. ”
The Great Gourd Gala Parade? I mentally add rename terrible parade to my to-do list, right between fix haunted mine ride and avoid additional corpses.
Vivian’s gaze drops to our tote bags, suddenly lighting up once she spots them. “Oh! Are these the famous park mascots I’ve been hearing about? They’ve completely taken over social media!”
Before I can intervene, she scoops them up like she’s collecting limited-edition Beanie Babies at a yard sale.
Both cats immediately short-circuit.
Help! A killer has got me! She’s got me! SHE’S GOT ME! Fish wails at a frequency only dogs and desperate women can hear. I knew this was how I’d go—death by over-affectionate murderer in sensible heels!
Chip yowls twice as loud. The funhouse killer is about to strike again! She smells like guilt and lavender. Save the mascots! Think of the merchandise sales! he adds with equal panic.
“Oh, they’re absolutely adorable,” Vivian coos, seemingly oblivious to the fact that her pupils are dangerously close to being removed by way of a paw and a claw. “So on-brand for the park’s new image.”
Both Ree and Georgie cringe as Vivian squeezes those poor cats until their eyeballs bulge.
“Well”—Ree jumps in, possibly fearing for Vivian’s eyesight—“sorry to break up the love-fest, but these furry cuties need their morning constitutional.” She does her best to reclaim the cats, but Vivian turns it into a game of furry tug-of-war.
“It’s a part of their mascot training regime.
” Ree grunts as she struggles to gain control.
Meanwhile, Chip in particular is being stretched like an orange accordion.
“Constitutional?” Vivian hesitates, clearly skeptical, but finally hands over the cats like she’s surrendering hostages. Chip flops back into his tote like he’s seen the other side. Fish glares at her as if she’s already filing a lawsuit.
“Cats need regular walking schedules just like dogs,” Ree continues with impressive conviction. “It helps with their... uh, mascot energy levels.”
“I see,” Vivian responds, clearly not seeing at all but too polite to say so.
With the cats safely returned to their totes, Ree steps back and leaves Georgie to move in for what I can already tell will be a disastrous attempt at a not-so-subtle interrogation.