Chapter 17
The moment we step through the arched entryway of The Cosmic Cantina—Galaxy Hollow’s premiere (and only) bar and grill—my brain immediately files for sensory overload. It’s like walking into a laser tag arena that binge-watched too much Star Trek and developed a glow stick addiction.
Flashing purple lights. Pulsing blue strobes. Music that sounds like a blender got into a fight with a synthesizer and won. The walls are decked out in phosphorescent murals of constellations that look suspiciously like someone let a kindergartener loose with a glow-in-the-dark sticker set.
And the bartop? It color-changes as if it has commitment issues. I won’t lie. I can relate to that more than anything in here.
The air is thick with the scent of spicy nachos, smoked ribs, mystery cocktails bubbling with dry ice, and just enough cheap cologne to fuel a high school dance. Servers in silver jumpsuits and glitter face paint zigzag through the crowd like overexcited aliens.
I pause at the threshold, momentarily stunned by the sensory overload, wondering if this is what being abducted by aliens would actually feel like—disorienting, vaguely sticky, and with an inexplicable abundance of neon.
“So, this is where our suspect is getting her boogie on?” I shout over the pulsating beat of what sounds like a synthesizer being strangled by a utility chain.
I know, I know. Too soon.
“What did you expect? The public library?” Georgie shouts back, already scanning the room with predatory focus. Her eyes land on a bartender with forearms you could grate cheese on. “If this is alien abduction, I volunteer as tribute.”
Fish and Chip peer out from their tote bags, registering vastly different reactions to our new environment.
This is what happens when science fiction and a hangover collide, Fish says with mild horror.
There are seventeen distinct food profiles in this airspace. Chip counters, whiskers twitching frantically as he catalogs each one. Meat. Cheese. Fried items. And is that chocolate WITH bacon? Hoomans are occasionally brilliant. This place is practically a holy site.
Ree, surprisingly, looks perfectly at home among the flashing lights and pounding music. She catches my questioning glance and shrugs. “I dated a DJ in the ’80s. This is actually tame compared to some of the clubs we went to.”
“You continue to be a box of mysteries wrapped in a cardigan,” I tell her, impressed.
Georgie points past me as if she’s on a mission. “Target acquired. Corner booth. Pink hiking boots. Blue smoke. Drink glowing like radioactive mouthwash.”
Sure enough, Patty Sherwood holds court in a curved booth, surrounded by what appear to be campaign volunteers judging by their identical Sherwood for Success t-shirts and slightly desperate expressions.
Patty herself looks completely at ease, sipping something electric blue that steams like a cauldron.
Fish looks as if she’s about to go full CIA. Note her line of sight to all exits. Strategic. Also, she’s guarding that purse like it contains either nuclear launch codes or emergency snack reserves.
Probably both, Chip mutters. Never trust a politician without snacks.
I second that.
“Let’s grab that table,” I suggest, pointing to an empty high-top with a direct view of Patty’s booth. “We can observe while figuring out a non-stalkerish way to approach her.”
“I’ll handle the drinks,” Ree volunteers. “I speak fluent cocktail menu.” She takes off as Georgie and I settle in.
“And I’ll handle the men. I speak fluent male,” Georgie adds, adjusting her yeti hat to what she clearly believes is its most alluring angle. “Starting with Mr. Saturn over there.” She nods toward a server whose ripped biceps suggest he could, indeed, have his own gravitational pull.
“You do realize we’re here to investigate a suspect in a homicide case, not to speed-date the staff of a theme park bar?” I remind her.
“Multi-tasking is the cornerstone of efficient detective work,” Georgie insists. “Besides, that man’s steel rear end might contain vital clues.”
“To what? The mysteries of tight uniform pants?”
“Exactly.”
While Ree is off at the bar, I watch Patty closely.
“So, what’s our plan?” Georgie asks, temporarily distracted from her celestial body-watching. “Sneak attack? Good cop/bad cop? Georgie cop/boring cop?”
“I’m thinking more along the lines of casual conversation about the upcoming parade then segueing into a subtle interrogation about her past connection to the park,” I reply.
Dull but prudent, Fish sighs. Though I suggest leading with questions about her choice of footwear. Pink hiking boots indoors? Suspicious and perhaps a fashion violation.
Ask about the blue drink first, Chip counters. People love talking about what they’re consuming. Gets them comfortable, their guard goes down and they talk freely. It’s basic interrogation tactics.
Georgie excuses herself for a moment and disappears into the purple fog now being pumped in through the vents.
Ree returns with a tray of drinks that look like they were mixed by a mad scientist with a color wheel and a vendetta against sobriety.
They’re so neon they could double as signal flares.
Mine has edible glitter and something floating that looks like a fruit or possibly an alien egg.
“What in the name of NASA’s budget cuts is this?” I ask, poking cautiously at a floating star-shaped garnish. “This is either going to taste amazing or unlock a new level of consciousness,” I say, taking a sip. Not bad. Like pineapple candy with an anger issue.
“It’s called a Galactic Sunrise,” Ree informs me. “Vodka, blue curacao, grenadine, pineapple juice, and edible shimmer. The menu said it would transport your taste buds to another dimension. Knowing this place, that dimension is probably a hangover, but when in Rome...”
“Or when in questionably themed bars with potential murderers,” I agree, cautiously taking another sip as my tongue takes a magic carpet ride on the Scoville scale of heat.
Georgie returns from what was apparently a reconnaissance mission to the bar, looking supremely satisfied with herself. “That bartender—his name is Orion, by the way—tells me our mayor-to-be comes here every Wednesday officially for strategy meetings, but unofficially for cheese fries.”
“Not exactly cloak-and-dagger,” I mutter. “But valuable intelligence gathering nonetheless.” I nod approvingly.
“I also learned he’s single, works out five times a week, and has a pet iguana named Nebula.” Georgie sips her drink, which appears to have actual stars floating in it and possibly a small galaxy. “You know, for the case file.”
“Of course,” I say. “Because the iguana could be a material witness.”
“Never underestimate reptiles. They see everything and tell nothing.” She taps the side of her nose knowingly. “They’re silent observers, like tiny dinosaur spies who were much better at surviving a planet-destroying asteroid.”
Our strategic planning is interrupted when a waiter arrives with a platter we definitely didn’t order—a mountain of glowing blue nachos covered in multiple cheeses and what looks like iridescent salsa that violates several laws of nature.
“Compliments of the mayoral candidate,” he says, nodding toward Patty’s table, where she raises her steaming blue drink in a toast that could be friendly or could be a declaration of war.
She’s spotted us, Fish hisses. Our cover is blown. Retreat and regroup!
Are those nachos? Chip interrupts, his focus narrowing to laser precision. With actual cheese? Is that jalapeno? And is that... bacon? On nachos? This establishment clearly employs culinary geniuses.
“Cover blown but nachos acquired,” I mutter. “I’d call that a tactical draw.”
I wave back at Patty, who beckons us over with a practiced politician’s gesture—welcoming yet somehow imperious. Before I can coordinate our approach, Georgie is already halfway to the table as that yeti on her head bobs and weaves at the crowd like a one-foot threat.
“Subtlety,” Ree mutters. “It’s so last season.”
“On the bright side, we got free nachos out of it,” I observe, gathering my drink and my dignity—and, of course, the nachos. I’m not a monster. “Come on, let’s go chat with our hiking boot enthusiast with the dicey grin and potential murder motive.”
Operation Pink Boots is a go, Fish meows from my tote. Remember, maintain eye contact and look for micro-expressions indicating her affinity for strangulation.
And if she could provide another tray of nachos, Chip adds. For investigative purposes.
We make our way through the crowded bar, arriving at Patty’s table just as Georgie is finishing what appears to be a detailed compliment about Patty’s campaign button design.
The volunteers scoot over, making room with the reluctance of people who’ve been directed to share oxygen with potential vote-stealers.
We join the table and Patty flashes that politician smile—warm, practiced, and entirely insincere.
“Josie Janglewood!” Patty calls out as if I just won a prize. “Our new park manager! I’ve been hearing all about your innovative changes.” She gestures to the cat ear headbands that, I now notice, several of her staff members are wearing. “Quite the entrepreneurial spirit!”
“Just trying to keep the lights on,” I say, sliding into the booth with Ree beside me as the rest of Patty’s employees begin to chat among themselves.
Fish and Chip poke their heads out of their totes, studying Patty with unnerving intensity.
She pets Chip, who sniffs her fingers like they might be hiding tuna.
“These must be the famous mascots,” Patty coos, leaning forward to get a better look. “My social media team tells me they’re absolutely crushing it online. It was wise of you to jump on the merchandising opportunities.”
“We’re planning stuffed animals,” I say. “Possibly animated.”