Chapter 19
The hooman appears to be flunking basic parade-naming again, Fish meows from her velvet throne, watching me cross out yet another clunker in my notebook.
Autumn Antics Parade lacks the gravitas required for our royal presence, but it’s marginally less offensive than Gourd Gala.
You really can’t slap gala on a squash and call it dignified.
What about something with food in the title? Chip suggests, sprawling dramatically for his next photo op, and judging by guests walking by and snapping candid pictures, he’s onto something. Something like the Magnificent Munchies March or The Scrumptious Snack Strut?
Your one-track mind would be impressive if it weren’t so predictable, Fish sighs. Although I suppose we could compromise with The Royal Feast Procession. It has both dignity AND food.
I glance up from my notebook to watch my unlikely marketing saviors holding court across the way. Both Fish and Chip are set up on the cushy for their tushy thrones I purchased while a teenager mans the fort and makes sure no one cuts in line.
And boy, what a line it is. It stretches halfway to Wild Adventures Hollow, filled with people of all ages clutching plush cats, donning glittery cat ear headbands and buzzing at the chance to get a selfie with two extremely judgmental felines.
But where I’m sitting, Storybook Hollow is bathed in the soft glow of midday sunshine, a pastel wonderland that looks as if it was colored by an enthusiastic five-year-old.
It’s the very next day after shaking down Patty in that cosmic wormhole, and I’m not any closer to tracking down the killer.
I take a deep breath and try to soak in the storybook world around me as cotton candy pinks and baby blues dominate the miniature cottages that line the winding pathways.
Everything is frosted in pastel—bubblegum pink cottages, baby blue rooftops, and gingerbread trim that dares gravity to intervene.
Oversized open storybooks double as benches, while animatronic frogs leap from lily pad to lily pad croaking what sounds suspiciously like, “Kiss me, you coward.”
I’ve claimed a wrought iron table near the Enchanted Carousel, where gilded unicorns and dragons rise and fall to a tinkling melody.
The air carries the sweet aroma of freshly baked gingerbread from the nearby Hansel and Gretel’s Bakery mixed with the cotton candy clouds being spun at Cinderella’s Sweet Dreams.
Children squeal with delight as they spin on Sleeping Beauty’s Spinning Wheel ride, a collection of teacup-like contraptions painted to resemble spindles that rotate at a speed carefully calculated not to disturb recently consumed theme park treats.
My notebook is open before me, filled with increasingly desperate attempts to rename Sunday’s Great Gourd Gala Parade. So far, I’ve crossed out Pumpkin Promenade (after some scant research, I’ve come to find out it’s been blacklisted since the infamous 1994 flaming gourd incident).
Then there’s the Harvest Hullabaloo (sounds like a square dance gone wrong) and Autumnal Advancement (sounds too much like mandatory HR training).
I tap my pen against the paper, wondering if Fall Festival Procession is too boring or just boring enough to avoid future incidents involving fifteen pumpkins and the town’s only fire truck.
Meanwhile, Fish and Chip are living it up as if they just signed a seven-figure deal with Disney as more employees show up on the scene to tend to them.
One employee is fanning Fish with a feather roughly the size of an ostrich, while another tops off Chip’s water bowl with imported spring water chilled to his exacting standards.
A third guard is stationed like a royal bouncer, repeating, “Photos only. Please don’t pet the mascots,” to a sea of pouty toddlers.
Somehow, I turned two sarcastic cats into the park’s financial lifeline.
Cat ear headbands? Sold out. Twice.
Popcorn buckets? Vanished in four hours and already listed on eBay for triple.
I’ve spent half the morning on the phone placing rush orders for fall and Halloween-themed merchandise—cat ears with tiny bats, ghost-shaped buckets with cat faces, and t-shirts with Huckleberry Hollow Howl-o-ween emblazoned across glow-in-the-dark cat silhouettes.
Retail therapy has become revenue therapy.
Who knew that two opinionated pets with attitude problems would be my ticket to saving this financial shipwreck of a theme park? If only murder investigations could be solved with glitter and themed snacks. Actually, maybe they can. I’m new to both careers.
The Autumn Antics Parade has potential, Fish concedes, though her expression says otherwise. Still, The Royal Feline Processional remains my top choice.
What about The Great Treat Parade? Chip offers, executing a flawless stretch for the cameras. With edible giveaways. For spectators. And mascots. Especially mascots.
“How about the Fairy Tale Fall Frolic?” I mutter, jotting it down. “Alliteration sells tickets.”
Speaking of sales, let’s talk royalties, Fish adds. My likeness is moving units. Standard influencer rates start at—
You’re being paid in premium kibble and unlimited photo ops, Chip interrupts. Plus, all the dropped popcorn you can eat. It’s the ultimate feline compensation package.
A shadow falls across my notebook, momentarily blotting out the page of increasingly desperate parade names.
I glance up, expecting a lost tourist asking for directions to the nearest restroom, and instead find myself looking at a familiar face that makes my stomach twist with emotions that range from irritation to the kind of indigestion that requires prescription antacids.
Clyde stands with his weight shifted to one hip in that calculated pose he practices in front of mirrors, the one he thinks makes him look like a casual philosopher when in reality it screams, I read three self-help books and now think I’m Aristotle.
His dirty blond hair is artfully tousled, his linen shirt aggressively unbuttoned. He’s wearing loafers without socks and looking morally ambiguous—as one does when having an extramarital affair. And I can smell his cologne and condescension from three feet away.
“Well, well,” he grumbles. “If it isn’t my little wifey playing theme park manager. How adorable.”
I resist the urge to baptize him with my latte. “Clyde. Shouldn’t you be in Bali on a soul retreat or something? I hear Mars is lovely this time of year.”
“The retreat is coming up. But this week I’m podcasting about personal growth. Today’s topic is reinvention.”
“How ironic,” I say, smiling with all the warmth of a frozen waffle.
He drops into the seat across from me, completely uninvited. “I heard some concerning things. About you and some police detective. Why the heck are you taking selfies with the guy? What do you think you’re doing with him?”
I set my pen down. Slowly. “You mean the one investigating a murder I found myself tangled up in while you were busy spiritually aligning with your downward dog?”
“I did some digging on this guy,” Clyde continues, ignoring my question. “This Dexter dude has a reputation for getting a little too involved with people connected to his cases.”
“Your concern is touching, if completely unwarranted and unwanted.” My fingers drum against the table with growing irritation that could register on a seismograph.
“Is there a point to this visit, or did you just come to play the jealous ex despite being the one who installed a yoga instructor in our home like she was a piece of exercise equipment?”
“This isn’t jealousy; it’s concern.” He frowns my way with the lie. “That death here on the park grounds? It’s not safe. You’re not qualified to work here, and I’m not allowing it anymore.”
I inch back, more amused than alarmed. “Not allowing it? That’s rich, even for you. I wasn’t aware I needed permission from the man who decided our marriage vows had a yoga exemption clause and a flexibility requirement I couldn’t meet.”
Before Clyde can respond with whatever wisdom he’s gleaned from his latest self-help audiobook, a staff member’s voice rings out across the way. “Fish and Chip are taking a fifteen-minute break! Autographs will resume at two-thirty!”
Almost immediately, my feline companions materialize beside the table like furry ninjas, looking up at Clyde with expressions that range from curious (Chip) to openly hostile (Fish). It’s like watching a nature documentary where the predators have just spotted their prey.
Who is this hooman? Fish demands, tail swishing with clear disapproval. He reeks of synthetic cologne and insincerity.
That’s the big oaf Josie left behind, Chip explains, circling the table to get a better view. The one who preferred the bendy woman to our yum-yum provider. He clearly has questionable judgment. Josie prepares premium wet food AND gives ear scratches simultaneously.
He’s not wrong. I do try to accommodate.
“I’m not happy with you here,” I’m quick to tell my smarmy ex. Technically, I’m not happy with him on the planet, but that’s another murder investigation I’d rather not star in.
We could fix that for you, Fish offers with her eyes locked on Clyde’s ankles. I’ve taken down bigger prey with a single swipe.
Let’s drown him in that fountain over there, Chip suggests. We can say he tripped on his pretentious shoes.
Not a bad idea. But honestly, I’m too busy for the inevitable cleanup.
Clyde sneers at the two cute cats. “Oh, look, it’s your little marketing gimmicks. The girls mentioned something about this on our call last night.”
“You spoke to McKenna and Riley?” This actually catches me off guard. Clyde’s idea of parental involvement typically involved sending birthday checks with the wrong age written in the card, or the occasional snark on family group chat.
“Of course. We talk all the time now.” His smug smile suggests this is supposed to wound me. “They’re concerned about your mental stability.”
Like I said, we could take care of him for you, Fish offers, eyeing Clyde’s exposed ankles with predatory focus. One strategically placed claw to the Achilles tendon would solve the immediate problem.
Or we could go with my idea and just push his fancy sockless shoes into the fountain, Chip suggests. Nothing says authority undermined like soggy footwear.
I shake my head slightly at them before addressing Clyde.
“The girls are thrilled for me. If anything, the family group chat is proof of that. And for your information, I’m happy here at the park.
I’m happy at the inn. In fact, for the first time in a long time, I’m actually happy at all.
” I lean forward, dropping my voice. “So, thank you. Your affair was the push I needed to find something better.”
“Thank you?” Clyde’s face flushes with indignation. “This is foolishness you’ve fallen into. Managing a run-down theme park after a murder? Dating a cop you barely know? This isn’t the Josie I married.”
“You’re right about that. The Josie you married would have cared what you think.
” I start gathering my papers. “Let me be perfectly clear,” I say with my voice dipped in steel, “I’m not your concern.
Not now, not when you were dating the yoga instructor behind my back, and definitely not when you walked out like a discount guru with a tote bag full of mantras. ”
“That’s it.” His hand clamps onto my wrist. Hard. “You’re coming home with me. This ends now.”
Threat detected! Fish snarls, her tail puffed up like a bottle brush.
Engaging battle stance! Chip chirps. Remember to target soft tissue!
Before claws fly or my pen becomes a weapon, a deep voice cuts through the air like a superhero cue. “Let go of her. Now. You’re not carrying her off anywhere.”
Both Clyde and I look up to find Detective Dexter Drake standing over our table, all nine-foot-three inches of him of no-nonsense hot lawman in jeans and a badge and a glare that could cut granite. He might as well be backlit by justice.
After a moment of stony silence, Dexter’s expression softens as he glances at me. “Unless, of course, you want him to take you away.”
“Not even in a body bag,” I mutter, yanking my wrist free from Clyde’s now loosened grip.
Clyde stands slowly, visibly recalculating his approach. He straightens his designer shirt with a motion that’s supposed to suggest dignity, but mostly conveys the desperation of a man realizing he’s outmatched in both height, looks, and authority.
“We’re not finished here, Josie,” he informs me with what he probably thinks is commanding finality. “You’ll be sorry.”
With that parting shot, he stalks away, managing to clip his hip on a giant storybook display in his hasty exit.
I hope it hurt, but not enough to sue the park.
Dexter watches him go, his posture only relaxing once Clyde is out of sight. “That sounded like a threat.”
“He’s harmless.” I wave dismissively, though internally I’m still processing Clyde’s uncharacteristic forcefulness. “All talk, no follow-through—which, incidentally, was also the problem with our marriage.”
Dexter’s lips twitch with a sexy yet suppressed smile. “Still, threatening to physically remove someone from their workplace crosses several lines.”
“What can I help you with, Detective?” I ask, eager to change the subject. “Don’t tell me you’re here to ride the Gingerbread Express.”
“I’ll take a rain check,” he replies. “I was actually on my way to the Fairy Tale Feast restaurant. I traced Wallis Fulton there. Care to join me for a bite?”
Date number two, Fish mewls with clear approval. The courtship proceeds according to schedule.
Food AND an investigation? Chip squeaks. The perfect combination! Like tuna and mayonnaise! And pickles! Lots and lots of pickles! I live for this. But after we finish our duty as cutest furry hosts on the planet.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I say, gathering my notes and standing.
And for the record, it sounds a lot like a date to me, too.
Dexter leads the way. My heart does a thing. The cats take off to finish their shift as the most sought-after mascots in the world. And somewhere, justice is sharpening its glittery knife.
I’m about to have a little alone time with the good detective—and maybe a killer.
Let the next chapter of my life begin.