Chapter 18
The VIP lounge of the Cosmic Cantina turns out to be less “VI” and more “P” than I expected—kind of like calling a gas station hot dog gourmet because it’s under a heat lamp.
As we pass through the shimmering beaded curtain, the pulsing dance music recedes to a dull throb, replaced by ambient electronic tones that sound like what whales might compose if given synthesizers and a serious case of the blues.
The lighting shifts dramatically—still space-themed, but more luxury starship captain’s quarters than alien acid trip designed by someone with a vendetta against eyeballs.
The furniture looks like it actually remembers what comfort feels like—plush velvet couches in purple and midnight blue, sleek chrome tables, and privacy booths with curved high backs.
The air carries subtle hints of something expensive and botanical rather than the nacho-and-sweat cocktail from the main bar.
A small bar in the corner is staffed by a bartender who doesn’t have antenna headbands but does sport an elegant silver vest that would look at home in a high-end Manhattan establishment—or at least what I imagine one would look like based on movies where people order martinis without checking the price first.
“Better, right?” Patty smiles like she didn’t just lead us into the scene of every Bond villains’ after-hours lair. “I can’t handle that noise for more than fifteen minutes without developing a migraine with ambitions of world domination.”
“Much better,” I admit, sliding into a purple couch that swallows me like a judgmental marshmallow. “I didn’t even know this place existed. I thought it might be a myth, like calorie-free fudge.”
“Locals rarely get past the glow-in-the-dark nachos,” she says, settling across from me like she owns both the couch and the galaxy. “VIP in my world is usually code for donated to my campaign. Politics—where the drinks are cold, the secrets are hot, and the bar tab is a write-off.”
We share a quick laugh.
Fish and Chip peek out from their respective tote bags as I set them down next to me, and they take in the surroundings.
It’s a marginal improvement, Fish concedes. Still tacky and sticky. And that constellation mural? It’s entirely inaccurate. Orion is not, in fact, tangoing with Cassiopeia. I’m also forced to watch the Adventures in Space Channel with Jasper and Sherlock once Bizzy nods off in the evening.
They have a bowl of mixed nuts on the bar, Chip meows, zeroing in on the only detail that matters to him with the laser focus of a food critic at a buffet. Fancy nuts. The kind in shells that require actual work to eat. That’s high-class establishment territory.
Focus, Food Brain, Fish chides. We’re here for interrogation, not gastronomy.
Are you saying I have gas? Chip takes a moment to sniff his own rear.
Everyone knows interrogations are more productive with appropriate snacks, he insists.
Even the FBI knows that. Good cop brings donuts, bad cop brings nothing—and that’s how a suspect cracks from hunger-induced anxiety.
Those are basic tactics. Wait…did that make sense?
A server approaches with a tray of drinks—another electric blue cocktail for Patty that is probably illegal in twelve states, and what appears to be sparkling water with mint for me that suggests someone’s been paying attention to my designated driver status.
“I took the liberty,” Patty says, noting my surprise. “I figure you must be on the clock as park manager.”
“Thanks.” I take the drink, impressed by her perceptiveness and slightly worried about what other details she’s cataloged about my life. “So, about the parade—”
“Let’s start with your vision for the park,” Patty interrupts smoothly, like a politician who’s mastered the art of redirecting conversations away from topics she doesn’t want to discuss. “I hear cat ears are the new must-have accessory. You are quite the entrepreneur.”
“Merch helps. Especially when it purrs.” I give her my elevator pitch about increased visitor engagement, themed merchandise, and making the most of social media exposure, trying not to sound like someone who learned everything about business from YouTube videos and panic-induced internet research.
She nods along, occasionally inserting thoughtful questions that reveal she knows more about theme park economics than your average town council member—or your average person who didn’t just inherit a financial disaster disguised as a charming tourist attraction.
“You’ve really done your research,” I tell her, taking another sip of my surprisingly refreshing sparkling water. “Most politicians wouldn’t know the difference between operational overhead and capital investments for attractions.”
Her eye twitches as if she’s running numbers in her head or deciding how much truth she can afford to reveal without damaging her political prospects.
“Well, I’ve always had a soft spot for Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland.” She swirls the ice in her glass. “Like I mentioned, I worked here in high school. Ticket booth, mostly, but they rotated us through different positions.”
Perfect. This is exactly what I was hoping to deep dive into, Fish purrs with delight and I nod her way because I happen to feel the same.
I love that my next suspect is voluntarily revealing her connection.
“That must have been fun for a teenager,” I tell her.
“It had its moments.” Her smile turns nostalgic. “Like I said, it was just mostly ticket booths and concessions. The Merryweathers were more energetic back then, always dreaming up new events and attractions. Of course, safety standards were more flexible in those days.”
“I imagine a lot has changed,” I prompt.
“Everything and nothing.” She gestures at the walls with a hand. “The park still has that same charm, that same slightly outdated quality that makes it endearing rather than cutting-edge. Although I imagine you’re planning to change that.”
She’s revealing just enough, Fish notes. Classic deflection play. Control the narrative, then drop distractions.
Or snacks, Chip adds, watching a waiter walk by with a tray of glowing dumplings.
“I’m not planning to change too much. Evolution, not revolution,” I assure Patty. “Preserve the charm while making sure the pirate wenches keep their mechanical bodices intact.”
She laughs, a surprisingly genuine sound. “Yes, I heard about that particular malfunction. Some things never change—like the people circling the park.”
“What do you mean?”
Patty leans forward conspiratorially, her voice dropping. “Take Vivian Templeton, for instance. Did you know she and Ned were once engaged?”
“I’d heard rumors,” I admit, not revealing my sources.
“More than rumors. She was his co-worker at Taste Quarterly before she became his fiancée, then his biggest professional rival after he left her for another writer.” Patty’s tone suggests a delicious scandal.
I thought it was Vivian’s secretary? Or was it her assistant?
But then, this is secondhand information and my brain has been short-circuiting.
“But here’s what most people don’t know—they were still business partners. ”
My eyebrows rise a notch. “Still business partners? After all that history?”
“The dirtiest kind,” Patty confirms with a tip of her head. “They ran a little blackmail scheme targeting restaurants and resorts. She’d feed him inside information from luxury properties that advertised in her magazine, and he’d threaten negative reviews unless they paid up.”
She’s throwing Vivian directly under the bus, Fish notes. Classic misdirection. Though I must admit, blackmail is a sufficiently feline approach to conflict. It’s almost admirable.
It could also be true, Chip points out. The most effective lies contain a chewy center of truth. Like those treats with medicine inside.
Fish grunts, You would fall for that.
“And then there’s Wallis Fulton.” Patty continues her gossip spillage without prompting, like a broken dam of small-town secrets. “Did the Merryweathers mention his obsession with owning the park?”
“No,” I admit, genuinely surprised by this new information and wondering what other crucial details the Merryweathers forgot to mention during my crash course in running a theme park.
“He’s been trying to buy them out for years.
He claims he has some familial connection, though no one’s ever seen proof.
” She sips her drink with the satisfaction of a politician dropping bombshells over cocktails.
“Between you and me, I’ve heard he’s heavily leveraged.
His publishing empire isn’t the gold mine it used to be before digital media turned everyone into their own travel critic.
Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland represents his last chance at a stable investment. ”
My mind races, connecting dots I didn’t know existed. Both Vivian and Wallis now have stronger motives than I’d imagined.
“That’s... illuminating,” I manage.
“Politics teaches you to keep tabs on the players in your orbit,” Patty says with false modesty that wouldn’t fool a mouse. “Information is currency in my world.”
“And what information do you have on me?” I ask, half-joking.
Her smile shifts as she casually recites my life story like she read my diary during lunch.
Yoga-cheating husband. Two daughters in college.
Zero formal theme park experience. Hired just before a homicide.
“In fact, you appeared at the park the day before Ned Hollister’s murder and was hired on the spot by the Merryweathers, who have always been.
.. let’s say impulsive in their business decisions. ”
A chill runs down my spine despite the perfectly controlled temperature in the VIP lounge. “You’ve been thorough.”
“As I said, information is currency.” She leans back, perfectly at ease. “I’m sure you’re doing similar research. Like looking into the dirt Ned was digging up?”
My pulse jumps. How does she know about Ned’s investigation?
Tread carefully, Fish warns. She’s leading you somewhere.
And not toward the nut bowl, Chip adds unhelpfully.
“I’m still learning the park’s history,” I say with a sigh. “There seems to be quite a bit the Merryweathers didn’t cover in my onboarding.”
“Eddie and Edie prefer to look forward, not back,” Patty says. “Sometimes to their detriment. Ned wasn’t one to let sleeping dogs lie—or past incidents stay buried.”
Before I can ask what she means, her phone buzzes. She checks it.
“I’m so sorry, but duty calls. Campaign drama. I have to go.” She stands and gives me a look that’s half-warning, half-dare. “Friendly advice? Be careful what you unearth. Ned dug too deep, and look where he ended up.”
She floats out through the beads like a pastel ghost.
That woman is all smoke and distraction, Fish mutters. But she knows more than she said.
And possibly keeps premium jerky in that purse, Chip adds.
I’m still processing our conversation when Ree and Georgie burst through the beaded curtain like they’re making an entrance at a Broadway show. Ree is right. Subtlety is so last season.
“There you are!” Georgie exclaims, the yeti on her hat now wearing what appears to be a plastic alien antenna stolen from one of the servers. “We were about to send a search party! Did she confess? Are we making a citizen’s arrest? I brought zipties!” She pats her purse ominously.
“Inside voices, Georgie,” Ree admonishes, looking around the upscale lounge with appreciation. “Ooh, it’s much better in here. My eardrums were filing for divorce out there.”
“She didn’t confess,” I inform them, “but she did fill me in about her former position at the park. And she threw our other suspects directly under the suspicion bus.”
I fill them in on Patty’s revelations about Vivian and Wallis, and her warning about Ned’s curiosity.
“So, what’s our next move?” Ree asks, slipping into the booth beside me.
I take one last look at where Patty had been sitting and make my decision.
“It’s time to keep digging for some buried secrets—preferably ones that won’t end with me joining Ned in the afterlife.”