Chapter 24
Sunday has finally arrived and autumn has fully embraced Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland, transforming the park into a postcard-perfect image of fall splendor. The whole place looks like what happens when September decides to show off.
Sugar maples blaze in fiery oranges and crimson reds, their leaves occasionally surrendering to gravity and drifting lazily toward the cobblestone paths.
The air carries a bouquet of scents—caramel apples bubbling in copper pots, cinnamon-dusted funnel cakes, wood smoke from decorative fire pits, and the earthy perfume of fallen leaves underfoot.
The Magic and Mascots parade is minutes from beginning, and the energy buzzing through the park feels almost tangible, like static electricity before a storm.
“Hold still, Chip. Your bowtie is crooked, and I refuse to have the royal court looking like it rolled out of a clearance bin,” I mutter, adjusting the orange and gold satin accessory around my cat’s fluffy neck. He squirms in his brocade vest like a toddler in church clothes.
I look ridiculous. Twenty pounds of feline dignity reduced to a circus poodle. Next, you’ll have me jumping through flaming hoops for tuna treats.
“It’s just for an hour,” I assure him, straightening the jeweled collar that catches the morning sunlight in prismatic bursts.
And let’s be real. He would definitely jump through flames for tuna treats.
“Then you can go back to your regularly scheduled program of judging everyone while shedding on their clothes.” And begging for food, but that’s a given.
Fish sits beside us like the queen she thinks she is, draped in royal blue velvet with gold trim. A tiny crown sits on her head, balanced precariously on dignity and elastic.
Her jeweled collar—slightly more ornate than Chip’s—completes her transformation from ordinary cat to regal monarch.
The crown is crooked. A queen cannot address her subjects with asymmetrical headwear.
I adjust Fish’s crown with the precision of a museum curator handling a Fabergé egg. “There. Now you’re the picture of royal perfection.”
Thank you. Though the fabric could be of higher quality. Next time let’s shoot for genuine silk and actual gemstones, not these plastic imposters. The people expect extravagance from their queen.
“Duly noted. I’ll call Tiffany’s.”
The VIP viewing area for the Hidden Gems Conference members has been transformed into an autumn wonderland overnight.
Hay bales wrapped in gingham ribbons form rustic seating around the perimeter.
Arrangements of chrysanthemums in burnished copper pots punctuate the space, while maple leaf garlands drape from post to post.
The refreshment table is a sugar bomb waiting to happen, featuring cookies shaped like pumpkins and cider so spiced it might cure a cold.
“Josie! There you are!” Ree waves, looking ready for fall in a rust-colored cardigan and well-fitted jeans, her red hair feathered to Farrah Fawcett perfection. “The parade marshals are looking for their star attractions.”
Before I can respond, a familiar voice booms from behind a cider stand. “Make way for artistic genius!”
Georgie emerges, and my jaw drops. She’s outdone herself today, sporting what can only be described as a wearable wonder.
It’s another wicker hat of what looks like two miniature replicas of Fish and Chip sitting in a miniature parade float decorated with fall foliage and twinkling fairy lights.
And as if that wasn’t enough, she’s wearing a red kaftan with what looks to be Fish’s and Chip’s faces printed all over it. I won’t lie. I want one.
“What do you think?” Georgie asks with jazz hands. “Magnificent? Revolutionary? Going to be featured in Vogue?”
“I was going to say a safety hazard, but yes, sure.”
Ree surveys the park. “You’ve really turned this place around. The carousel isn’t a deathtrap, the popcorn buckets are selling like TVs on Black Friday, and the employees don’t look like extras in a zombie film.”
“It was a low bar,” I mutter.
“And those cat ears are selling faster than we can stock them,” Georgie confirms while that float on her head rocks back and forth as she nods. “And the petting zoo! From sad goats contemplating their life choices to an actual menagerie. How did you convince all those farms to donate animals?”
“I promised them lifetime passes and their pick of vintage carousel horses if the park ever goes under,” I admit. “It was a low-risk investment on my part, high-reward for them.”
“And the uniforms!” Ree gestures toward a passing employee in a perfectly tailored outfit that matches the colors and theme of Storybook Hollow. “From thrift store rejects to theme park chic. You’re like the Project Runway of amusement park management.”
“Except with fewer dramatic breakdowns and more cat hair,” I say, brushing an orange tuft from my sleeve as if on cue.
I leave artistic evidence of my presence, Chip mewls. It’s called branding. You’re welcome.
“Josie!” Bizzy skids in, stylish as ever despite the mayhem. “I’m here to witness Fish’s big debut. The royal court is almost in session.”
Fish straightens. Finally, a subject who understands the monarchy.
“Jasper is parking the car,” Bizzy continues. “Sherlock is here, too. He wouldn’t miss Fish’s parade debut for anything.”
Cue Georgie’s matchmaking radar going off. “Speaking of dreamy law enforcement, has Detective Drake handcuffed your heart yet, or is he still reading you your romantic rights?”
I feel heat rising in my cheeks. “Detective Drake and I have a strictly professional relationship centered around solving a murder. And pie. Nothing more.” And some seriously hot eye contact, but I leave that out.
“Mmm-hmm,” Ree hums skeptically. “And that’s why you were spotted at Fairy Tale Feast restaurant Friday night, sharing dessert in the Enchanted Forest section. Very professional. Very heart-shaped.”
“That was—we were—” I stammer, mentally cursing the Cider Cove gossip network, which operates with the efficiency of military intelligence gathering. “That was a working dinner.”
“Working on what, exactly? Testing the structural integrity of the tiramisu?” Georgie wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. “I bet the crime scene wasn’t the only thing sizzling.”
“We discussed murder,” I insist. “The restaurant just happened to be convenient.”
“Murder is her love language,” Bizzy says helpfully.
She’s not wrong. Clyde’s murder would be ideal, but I’ll take what I can get.
Ree sniffs. “All I’m saying is that place sure was convenient for gazing into each other’s eyes by candlelight.”
The distinctive sound of a marching band warming up saves me from further interrogation. The first floats of the parade appear at the far end of Huckleberry Lane, and excited murmurs ripple through the crowd.
“It’s starting!” Bizzy exclaims.
Ree, Georgie, and Bizzy press forward, eager to secure front-row viewing positions, and a hat with its own float on it creates a natural buffer zone as other spectators give it a wide berth.
The crowd is thick and alive with the kind of energy a dozen shots of espresso can bring, the air is thick with the scent of freshly popped popcorn, and the sounds from that disjointed marching band threaten to haunt us for the next hour straight.
The first float rolls our way. A squirrel in a waistcoat waves to the crowd while fall vegetables dance behind him like they’ve trained on Broadway. The carrot really is cute.
Just as I’m about to join my friends, I spot Wallis Fulton looking as if he’s aged five years in five minutes.
“Wallis,” I call, intercepting his path among the maple trees near the castle. “Everything okay? You look like someone just told you pumpkin spice has been permanently discontinued.”
He attempts a smile that doesn’t initiate. “It’s that obvious, huh?”
“Only to someone who’s made a recent study of disappointed facial expressions. My mirror’s been giving me a master class since I found my husband doing intimate things with women who were not me.”
This earns a genuine, if small, chuckle. “I just tried one last time to get Edie and Eddie to sell me this place, and they shut me down for good. I guess it’s just not meant to be.”
“What made you think they would sell it?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“They’ve been talking about it for years,” he sighs, his Southern accent thickening with emotion. “And I thought—well, family should come first, right?”
“So, it’s true? You’re family?”
He hesitates, then his shoulders slump. “I might as well tell you. Eddie is my half-brother—different fathers. I always thought that gave me some claim, you know? Some right to be part of this place.”
The revelation clicks several puzzle pieces into place—his unusual interest in the park’s finances, his hovering around the Merryweathers, his intense reaction to Ned’s death on park grounds. I figured it was personal.
“But don’t you worry about me,” Wallis continues, his sugar sweet smile sliding back into place. “Fulton Travel Guides is going strong and growing. I’ll be fine.”
He glances back into the crowd, where the other travel writers are enjoying the parade with the enthusiasm of people who don’t have complicated family drama involving theme park inheritance.
“I guess I’ll enjoy what’s left of the conference,” he says. “Too bad Ned’s not here to navigate the rest of the journey with us. Hopefully they’ll catch his killer soon enough.”
“I hope so, too,” I say, watching him drift back into the colorful mass of spectators.
The parade continues its meandering path through the park with floats representing each of the ten hollows, costumed staff tossing candy to children, and the distinctive tinkling music of the carousel playing a happy little tune.
I should be basking in the success of an event going exactly as planned—a rarity in my week of park management that ranks somewhere between winning the lottery and finding a unicorn. But something about Wallis’s dejection nags at me like a splinter in my brain.
I’m about to turn my full attention back to the parade when I spot Vivian Templeton at the edge of the crowd, standing apart from the festivities as if she’s attending a different event entirely.
Unlike everyone else, whose gazes track the passing floats as if they were hypnotized, hers is fixed elsewhere with laser focus.
She’s not looking at the parade at all. In fact, her gaze is directed at the very last place Ned Hollister was seen alive—the funhouse.
I glance at the parade, where Fish and Chip will soon make their grand appearance on the final float, then back at Vivian’s rigid posture and unwavering focus on the funhouse entrance. I don’t need to get Fish and Chip to their posts just yet. I still have a bit of time.
The intensity of Vivian’s stare sends a subtle chill up my spine despite the warm autumn sun.
What is she seeing? Or perhaps more importantly, what is she remembering?
The royal cats will survive without me.
Right now? I’ve got questions for the editor-in-chief who apparently can’t stop making googly eyes at a murder scene.
Because when someone can’t look away, it’s usually because they’ve seen something they shouldn’t have.