Chapter 26
Aburst of carnival music from a nearby merry-go-round nearly drowns out my gasp as I stare at my phone screen. My fingers tremble slightly as I zoom in on the crime scene photo I snapped the day Ned Hollister’s body was found.
The two enamel pins near Ned’s body—the Tree and the Haunted Gold Mine—looked like incriminating evidence when I found them missing from Vivian’s vest. But now that I study them more carefully, they look deliberately placed.
Too perfect. And far too obvious. Like the killer was trying too hard to be sloppy.
I zoom in further, focusing on those strange white triangular marks on the floor that had puzzled me. They’re not random patterns or equipment marks like I initially thought—they’re footprints. Three distinct triangular impressions form a repeated pattern.
My fingers fly across the phone screen, searching for shoes with a triangular tread pattern. The search results load, and my heart hammers against my ribs and files a formal complaint.
“No way,” I mutter, staring at the image of pink nubuck hiking boots—identical to the ones Patty Sherwood wears everywhere like they’re some kind of political statement about being outdoorsy and relatable.
The signature triangular treads are unmistakable, like a fingerprint made of rubber and bad intentions.
Are we looking at shoes now? Fish says, dry as ever. I wasn’t aware footwear had replaced murder solving on today’s agenda.
Maybe she’s thinking of upgrading from those orthopedic nightmares she calls sneakers, Chip offers, stretching across the bench like a furry noodle. Though I don’t recommend pink. It would be impossible to hide bloodstains.
“It’s not a fashion emergency,” I whisper. “It’s forensics.”
My eyes scan the crowd. There she is—Patty Sherwood, mayoral hopeful and soon-to-be cautionary tale, leaning against the popcorn cart like she hasn’t a secret in the world. She’s eating from a souvenir bucket shaped like Chip’s face, which just adds insult to felony.
She’s eating from a bucket with MY FACE ON IT, Chip huffs. That’s cannibalism once removed.
At least your likeness serves a functional purpose, Fish says with an eye roll. Mine is on socks. And they’re not even cashmere.
I scoop them both up and make a beeline for Patty. It’s time to put this popcorn princess on the defensive.
Patty beams when she sees me. “Josie! That parade is a homerun!”
I stop before her, slightly out of breath from nerves more than exertion. Fish and Chip eye her suspiciously from their position in my arms.
“Thanks,” I manage. My heartbeat is so loud in my ears I wonder if she can hear it. “I love your boots, by the way. The pink ones you’re always wearing.”
She sticks out a foot proudly. “Aren’t they fabulous? They’re custom Alpine Treks. Worth every penny. I have them in three colors. But the pink is my favorite.”
“The tread pattern is really unique,” I continue, casually. “Those triangular marks are pretty distinctive.”
“It’s their signature,” she agrees with a wink. “It also lets people know how much I paid for these babies. It doubles as an unspoken flex.”
I nod, steeling myself for what comes next. “You know, I was thinking about what you said at the bar and grill that night—about how the killing was an isolated incident and we shouldn’t worry.”
“Absolutely,” she confirms, popping another kernel into her mouth.
“You seemed very certain of that,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.
“I’m just a positive thinker,” she says with a wink.
“No. You’re the killer.”
The popcorn freezes halfway to her mouth. For a split second, her political mask slips, revealing something cold and calculating beneath. Then the smile returns, no warmth, all malice.
“That’s quite an accusation, Josie,” she says with a nervous laugh. “Especially from someone who’s only been park manager for a week.”
“Still longer than your alleged stint at the ticket counter,” I say. “Except, oops—you weren’t a ticket agent. You were a ride operator at The Old Mill Flume in Gold Rush Hollow.”
That lands. Hard.
A look of unease crosses her face. “I—well, yes. I did work here. Ages ago. But not as a ride operator.”
She’s lying, Fish notes. Her left eye twitched. A classic hooman deception tell-all.
Plus, she’s stress-eating my face, Chip adds. Guilt makes hoomans consume carbs. It’s science.
“Twenty-five years ago,” I continue, “there was an accident on that ride. A teenager died when his safety harness failed. The official report called it an unavoidable mechanical failure, but that’s not what really happened, is it?”
The color drains from Patty’s face. “You can’t possibly know about that.”
“But Ned Hollister did,” I say. Also, I just looked it up.
“He found the original maintenance records in the park archives—the ones that showed the ride operator was distracted, flirting with a co-worker when the safety checks should have been performed. The records with your signature on them, Patty.”
Her eyes dart left and right, looking for escape routes. “That was ancient history. A stupid teenage mistake.”
“One that would have ended your mayoral campaign if it came out. One that Ned was planning to reveal in his exposé.”
This confrontation needs more dramatic music, Fish muses. Hooman reveals lack production value. I find that with Bizzy’s investigations, too.
And snacks, Chip adds. Although I guess the popcorn counts, even if the bucket IS shaped like my cute, furry face.
Patty’s whole facade crumbles. “You don’t understand! That mistake has haunted me for decades! I finally got my life together and that—that gossiping parasite was going to destroy it!”
“So you killed him,” I say quietly. “You followed him into the funhouse during the reception and strangled him with that safety chain—rather poetic, considering the circumstances.”
“He would have ruined EVERYTHING!” Patty suddenly shrieks, abandoning all pretense. In one swift motion, she hurls the popcorn bucket at my face.
I duck, but buttery kernels rain down on us nonetheless. Fish and Chip leap from my arms as Patty shoves past me, making a break for the exit.
“Yes, I did it! I had to do it!” she shouts as her composure completely shatters. “He was going to destroy my life over an accident!”
Call in the reinforcements! Fish commands.
Right on cue, cats spill from every corner like furry backup dancers—emerging from bushes, trash bins, and snack carts. Patty skids to a halt, surrounded by a semicircle of judgmental feline eyes and knife-sharp claws.
“What the—” she stammers, spinning in confusion.
I lunge forward just as she tries to break through the cat barricade, tackling her with a move I haven’t attempted since high school field hockey.
We tumble to the ground in an ungraceful heap, with Fish and Chip immediately pouncing to assist by sitting on Patty’s designer blazer. Or at least Fish does.
Heavy footfalls pound the cobblestones behind us, and a familiar voice rings out.
“FREEZE! Sheriff’s department!”
I look up to see Detective Drake sprinting toward us, badge in one hand, gun in the other. Right behind him is Jasper, Bizzy’s husband, equally armed and serious.
Talk about a hero entrance.
“She did it!” I call out, still sprawled half on top of the struggling mayoral candidate. “She confessed to killing Ned Hollister!”
Drake holsters his weapon and pulls a stunned Patty to her feet while Jasper snaps handcuffs around her wrists. The cats who have done their civic duty begin to disperse with the air of creatures who expect extra tuna for their trouble. And I’ll make sure they get it.
“I’ve got her,” Jasper says to Drake. “I’ll take her statement at the station.”
As he leads Patty away, Drake turns to me, his expression oscillating between impressed and exasperated. He pulls me to my feet but doesn’t let go of my hands.
He’s tall, dark, and brooding with icy blue eyes and a face that looks both angry and handsome. Have I mentioned he’s panting and can’t seem to take his eyes off of me?
“Are you okay?” he demands as his eyes scan me for injuries. “You could have been killed. You shouldn’t have confronted her. It wasn’t safe.”
“I couldn’t help it,” I start rambling as adrenaline makes my words tumble over each other. “I figured it out and she was right there and I just had to say something I—”
His lips cut off my explanation, pressing against mine with an urgency that makes my knees weaken. For a moment, the bustling midway, the departing police cars, even the murder—all of it fades away. There’s just this kiss, unexpectedly perfect in its timing and terrible in its location.
Did you hear that? WE ARE KISSING!
Oh brother, Chip moans from somewhere near my feet. So it begins.
It could be worse, Fish counters. He could be the killer. Or a dog person.
When the kiss ends, I’m left breathless, sticky from popcorn, and wondering if crime solving might actually be my kink.
Because life after ditching my cheating ex?
Turns out, it’s murderously fun.