Georgie: Please say we’re investigating. I wore my lucky detective tiara.
I type back.
Josie: Meet me in Storybook Hollow as fast as you can.
Because apparently, I’ve got a symposium to attend, a business to expand, and a murderer who’s about to discover that crossing Josie Janglewood was her final mistake.
CHAPTER 8
Two cats convinced they’ve already solved a murder before I’ve finished my second cup of coffee—that’s my definition of a productive morning.
The Princess Pavilion in Storybook Hollow sparkles with the kind of fairy-tale magic that makes grown women believe in happy endings and children demand pony rides.
Autumn leaves crunch underfoot like potato chips while the scent of cinnamon sugar and apple cider mingles with the distant sound of Halloween mood music playing something that’s either whimsical or mildly threatening—honestly, it could go either way with this place. Think lots of creaking stairs and the occasional scream to punctuate the creepy organ music.
A massive glittery sign stretches between two perfectly sculpted unicorn topiaries readingSweet Season Spooky Symposiumin letters that glitter with sinister intent. The outdoor pavilion buzzes with the energy of bakers who’ve traveled from across the country to argue about frosting techniques and judge each other’s piping skills.
Obviously, the woman with the wicked dog did it,Fishannounces, marching alongside me with the confidence of a cute cat who’s cracked the case before the opening credits finished rolling.
I so agree,Chip says, his orange head bobbing with conviction.The victim was found face-first in HER coffin cake. Case closed. We should probably start charging consulting fees.
I won’t point out the obvious—that Delora, AKA Detective Dreamboat’s incubation station, was standing over poor Dilly with a bloody rolling pin when we found her. Clearly, she’s the wicked witch in question here, not our Southern charmer with the circus poodle.
No one called Savvy a wicked witch,Fish mewls, shooting me a look that suggests I’m missing something fundamental about cat logic.
I gasp. “You cannot read my mind!”
Both cats dissolve into chittering laughter that sounds suspiciously like they’re mocking my intelligence.
No, but we can read your face better than a weather report,Chip explains between giggles.You’ve got all the subtlety of a neon sign in a blackout.
Your expressions are practically subtitled,Fish adds.Right now, you’re thinking about Detective Dreamboat’s mother and that rolling pin—and calling her a wicked witch is exactly something you would do.
“Apparently, I need to work on my poker face,” I admit, because arguing with cats who can read me like a picture book seems pointless. “Good thing I chose theme park management over professional gambling.”
The pavilion spreads before us in princess-themed glory—rows of white ladder-back chairs arranged in perfect formation, each adorned with autumn-colored ribbon that matches the maple leaves scattered artfully across the cobblestone floor. A refreshment table groans under the weight of Halloween-themed desserts that look too good to eat and too spooky to ignore, ladenwith cupcake cake pops shaped like tiny ghosts. Orange and black macarons arranged in perfect spirals. A towering display of petit fours decorated with edible spiders that look disturbingly realistic. And front and center, a banner readingSweet Dreams & Sugar Schemes—Savvy Sparrow, Proprietorin elegant script.
Fish and Chip get whisked away to their plush thrones. Today’s models feature autumn-colored velvet with tiny crowns as a line forms instantly, and I watch three staff members scramble to manage the mascot chaos with the efficiency of roadies handling a rock concert.
The peasants are particularly devoted today,Fish observes, settling onto her throne with the dignity of a true queen.I approve of their increased reverence.
Is that bacon I smell?Chip asks, nose twitching as he surveys his adoring public.Someone in line definitely has bacon. This is the best murder investigation ever.
I navigate through the crowd toward Nadine, who stands near the refreshment table looking as if she’s aged five years overnight. What was a perfectly braided crown on her head yesterday sits slightly askew, and her trademark flour-dusted apron hangs a little looser than usual. Nadine is short and round, and I’ve often heard her refer to herself as a cinnamon roll with sass.
“Nadine,” I approach with the careful tone of someone offering condolences at a funeral. “Once again, I’m so sorry for your loss. Dilly was?—”
“A pain in my rear end for thirty years,” Nadine interrupts with the kind of brutal honesty that makes me like her even more. “But she was my pain in the rear end. Thanks for the sympathy, sugar. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need coffee strong enough to raise the dead. Too bad it won’t actually work.”
She shuffles off toward the coffee station, leaving me standing there wondering if that was grief or relief talking.
“Ms. Janglewood.”
I turn to find silver-haired Delora approaching with a clipboard clutched in her manicured hands and an expression that could frost glass. Today she’s traded her usual pearls for a simple gold chain, but the ice-blue eyes and general aura of disapproval remain unchanged.
“Delora,” I manage, reminding myself that this is Detective Dreamboat’s mother and I should probably refrain from saying anything that might complicate my non-relationship with her son. “How are you holding up?”
“As well as can be expected when one’s professional reputation is being destroyed by incompetent theme park management,” she replies with the warmth of a January morning. “I trust you understand the gravity of the situation.”
