Chapter 16
By late afternoon, the leaves on Huckleberry Lane are working overtime—casting shifting shadows and turning the whole street into a live-action pumpkin spice screensaver.
The park is buzzing like a beehive—not a crowd exactly, but definitely more foot traffic than yesterday.
The soundtrack is classic theme park—gleeful shrieks from the roller coaster, the whir of machinery just barely holding itself together, and the sugary hum of too many churros and not enough adult supervision.
I stare at my clipboard, blinking away the sandy feeling behind my eyelids.
Sleep is for people who don’t have corpses in their funhouse and rodent infestations in their popcorn stands.
Following that logic, I spent the night hunched over my laptop, researching successful theme park marketing strategies and placing enough rush orders to make my credit card company call to verify I hadn’t been kidnapped. Twice.
“Careful with those!” I call to a teenage employee who’s maneuvering a particularly large box with the enthusiasm of handling nuclear waste. “Those are the park’s salvation in cardboard form.”
The air smells like caramel apples, roasted peanuts, and mild financial regret. Pumpkin spice clings to everything like gossip in a small town. Fall is officially in full bloom.
Fish and Chip survey their kingdom from atop a stack of boxes, their expressions conveying vastly different opinions of my nocturnal shopping spree.
Look at all these boxes, Chip mewls with his whiskers twitching. It’s like Christmas, but better because none of the presents contain sweaters for a cat. The sweater of shame is my least favorite gift.
It’s utterly ridiculous, Fish counters, tail swishing with disapproval. Josie, this is not an investment—it’s a cry for help. You’ve clearly snapped. This many purchases without a coupon code? Madness. Bankruptcy is imminent.
“It’s called investing in the future,” I inform them both, ticking items off my clipboard.
“The internet tells me that exclusive merchandise is how the big parks print money, and we need an actual printing press worth of it to fix the Pirates’ Plunder wardrobe malfunction alone,” I mutter, checking another item off my clipboard.
“Theme park merch is where the money lives. Do you think Walt You-Know-Who built a mouse kingdom with coupons? This stuff is just a prelude to our empire.”
A box opens, and Chip gasps.
Is that—oh my tuna—is that ME?!
Chip-shaped popcorn buckets gleam like golden idols.
Fish peers over with her eyes narrowed. This is what we’re doing now? Selling our likenesses like washed-up child stars?
“It’s limited-edition mascot merchandise,” I say, mostly to myself. “Collectors will go feral for these.”
A teen staffer lifts one of the buckets reverently. “Whoa. These are actually awesome. My cousin camped overnight to get a unicorn churro sipper. These? Instant classics.”
I give Fish a smug look. “See? Even Gen Z approves.”
Mine needs to be larger, Fish mewls. And more majestic. Possibly covered in rhinestones and LED accents.
Mine is cuter, Chip beams. More cuddly. More snack-adjacent. I radiate popcorn energy.
No lies detected.
I suppose they’re somewhat presentable, Fish concedes with reluctance. Though my frown should be more pronounced. And twice as large. For an accurate scale.
If we’re going for accuracy, hers would be twice as small. She’s cute and petite and she knows it. It’s her ego that’s big.
Mine has a happier expression, Chip notes smugly. More marketable. More approachable. More likely to sell salt-laden snacks to unsuspecting hoomans.
Your expression says I might have accidentally ingested a minivan, while mine conveys dignified authority. Fish sniffs. I’m clearly the superior merchandising choice.
“Both designs test equally well with focus groups,” I lie smoothly. The focus group was me at 3 A.M., bleary-eyed and caffeinated beyond medical recommendations.
Then I unleash the pièce de résistance—glittery cat-ear headbands. Sparkly. Striped. Jingly.
Fish recoils. What fresh humiliation is this?! Fish yowls as I slip a black and white glittery pair onto my head. Have you no shame?!
IT’S GENIUS, Chip yells. Mandatory headwear for entering the kingdom! ALL SHALL WEAR EARS!
“It’s fashion,” I tell them. “It’s branding.
It’s...paying off our haunted mine ride repair bill,” I say, slipping another headband on, orange ears this time, and check my reflection in a nearby window.
The effect is surprisingly cute, even with the dark circles under my eyes and hair that’s seen better decades.
“And it’s how we’re going to pay for those safety upgrades and anti-flashing mechanisms for the pirate ride.
Those wenches need clothes. Lots of them. ” Maybe a few bras, too.
A family walking past spots my ears and immediately veers in our direction like moths to a flame, the youngest child pointing excitedly and probably planning to add cat ears to his Christmas list. And then, just like that, I’m mobbed.
“Are those the new cat ears? For the mascots? We saw them online!” The mother beams, already opening her purse with the enthusiasm of a woman who’s found exactly what she didn’t know she needed.
“Liam has been talking about nothing else but these cats since he saw that video of them on Rickety Tok.”
I blink, processing this information like a computer trying to download too much data at once.
Rickety Tok? Before I can fully comprehend the implications of my cats’ apparently exploding social media presence—and whether I should be proud or terrified—I’ve sold four pairs of ears and two popcorn buckets.
I told you. Chip preens as the family walks away, all sporting cat ears. We’re trendsetters. Influencers. Purveyors of fine feline fashion. Prepare for a lifestyle brand.
At least the glitter complements my bone structure, Fish mutters.
By noon, the gift shop looks like the result of a glitter storm colliding with capitalism.
I’m mid-mug-arrangement when the Merryweathers arrive, dressed like they just escaped from the Easter section of Liberace’s closet—lavender rhinestone pantsuits, matching pearls, and smiles that could light up the Haunted Mine Ride.
“Josie, my dear!” Edie beams. “What’s all this delightful hullabaloo?”
“Popcorn-powered progress,” I say, bracing for budget judgment.
Instead, Eddie claps me on the back so hard I nearly face-plant into the Chip mugs.
“Marvelous!” he says. “People spending money is always a wonderful thing!”
“And the ears are darling,” Edie says, donning a glittery pair. “I haven’t seen the park this full since the bingo bus got lost in ’98.”
I blink. “So you’re not mad?”
“We gave you control.” Eddie shrugs. “If cat merch works, we say run with it. Maybe gallop.”
Edie leans in. “Speaking of galloping, the Great Gourd Gala Parade is Sunday. It’s the biggest event of our fall season. Feel free to spice it up. Maybe rename it. A gourd isn’t exactly a sexy vegetable.”
“Says you,” Eddie adds with a demented chuckle.
I do not want to know.
“Feel free to change the name,” Edie continues. “I always thought it was a bit of a mouthful myself.”
“Change anything you like!” Eddie enthuses. “The uniforms, the parade, the whole works! Build a cat-themed roller coaster if you want! We’ve seen more life in this park in the past day than we have in years, all thanks to you and these marvelous felines.”
I’ll rename the parade for you. How about The Majestic March of Fish and Companions? Fish suggests with a twitch of her whiskers. A procession fit for feline royalty.
I vote for The Great Snack Parade! Chip counters. Featuring actual snacks. Like, built into the parade. Edible floats. Treat-dispensing costumes. And tuna. Lots and lots of TUNA! Possibly cannons.
“Noted,” I say.
“Well, Florida awaits!” Eddie says cheerfully, tapping his watch. “Our retirement seminars start next week. Gators and How to Outrun Them. Very educational.”
“Stay safe,” I call as they wave goodbye, feeling both touched by their confidence and slightly terrified by the responsibility.
The Merryweathers depart in a cloud of lavender rhinestones and Florida dreams—and apparently, gator-dodging classes. I stare after them wondering how I ended up here—in charge of a park, a murder investigation, and two egomaniacal mascots, and far too undercaffeinated for my own good.
Then it hits me.
“The uniforms!” I exclaim, startling a nearby teenager who’s restocking cat ear headbands.
A uniform should reflect nobility, Fish says. Mine would include a cape.
Mine needs snack pockets, Chip adds. This is non-negotiable.
“Costumes...” I mutter, furiously sketching. “Not just uniforms,” I clarify with excitement building.
I’m scribbling uniform concepts—storybook gowns for Storybook Hollow, space suits for Galaxy, safari gear for Wild Adventures—when I hear the distant sound of sandals slapping pavement.
“JOSIE!”
I look up to see Ree and Georgie racing toward me, both slightly out of breath and wearing expressions that suggest either incredible news or an imminent disaster. With those women, it’s often a razor-thin line between the two.
“Hold your uniformed horses,” Georgie pants, wearing a green kaftan with cotton candy printed all over it.
A different day a different kaftan. At least she’s run out of hats to wear.
“We tracked down your second suspect.” She plucks a wicker hat out of her tote bag and it has what looks like a yeti standing on top of it holding a glitter wand. I’m not even going to ask.
“Did you say second suspect?” I immediately snap to attention. “As in Patty Sherwood? Where is she?”
Georgie’s face splits into a grin wide enough to rival the entrance to Magical Marvels Hollow. “Right here on the grounds. And she’s getting her out-of-this-world boogie on.”
“Her what?”
“Come on,” Ree urges, tugging my arm. “You have to see this to believe it.”
As we rush toward Galaxy Hollow with Fish and Chip hot on our heels, I can’t help but wonder what twist this murder investigation is about to take.
First, a corpse in my funhouse; now a suspect dancing in a different galaxy right there in my theme park.
At this rate, the killer will be serving cotton candy by dinner time and probably asking me for a Yelp review.
The killer dances while justice approaches, Fish bellows in a sharp meow. How poetic. How tragic. Murder! Music! Scandalous fashion! This story really does have everything.
Or maybe she just likes the music, Chip suggests. That Space Invaders remix they play at the UFO Spin is surprisingly catchy. Do they sell nachos in Galaxy Hollow?
Whatever awaits us in Galaxy Hollow, one thing is certain—in Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland, even the murder suspects come for the entertainment and stay for the cat ears.