Well, I’m an indoor cat who somehow became the mascot of a theme park. Fish here is borrowed from another family. We’re all just figuring it out as we go along.
That’s very philosophical of you,Cupcake practically mewls.And here I thought you were just another pretty orange face.
Hey! I’ll have you know this face is the result of superior genetics and excellent grooming habits. Also, Josie uses the good brushes on me.Wait…were you justcomplimentingme?
Can we please return to headquarters before I lose what’s left of my sanity?Fish interrupts.We’ve got a symposium to supervise and a murder to solve.
Of course,Cupcake agrees graciously.But Chip, I do hope we’ll have another chance to chat soon. I find your perspective quite... refreshing.She wags her tail in my face as she says it, and I think I see stars! In the shape of cupcakes, of course.
Anytime,I tell her, because it’s true. She might be fancier than a five-star restaurant, but she’s got spunk underneath all that fluff.Just remember—if anyone gives you trouble around here, you let me know. I’ve got connections.
As we head back toward the pavilion, I can’t help but feel pretty good about myself. I defended a lady’s honor, impressed a sophisticated poodle, and managed not to embarrass myself too badly in the process.
Not bad for an orange cat whose biggest aspiration used to be figuring out how to open the treat cabinet.
Maybe this mascot gig is turning me into a better cat than I thought. I always knew I was irresistible to females across all species.
CHAPTER 11
Josie
There’s nothing that screams successful business venture like restocking merchandise that flies off the shelves faster than gossip at a church potluck while your potential future mother-in-law hovers nearby like a vulture in vintage Chanel.
Have I mentioned the fact she might be a killer? And I thought my last mother-in-law was evil.
The Fish and Chip Souvenir Stand sits in the heart of Huckleberry Lane’s cobblestone plaza, surrounded by the scent of hot cider and kettle corn that mingles with the crisp autumn air and just a hint of impending doom.
Golden leaves swirl across the walkway in tiny tornadoes, and the distant melody of haunted organ music provides a soundtrack that’s equal parts whimsical and ominous—basically the theme song for my entire life.
The booth itself looks like Halloween arrived early and decided to redecorate. Candy corn bunting drapes from every available surface, spooky garlands twist around the supportposts, and shelves overflow with Fish and Chip merchandise that’s apparently more addictive than whatever they put in pumpkin spice lattes.
Ironically enough, Fish and Chip are nowhere to be found, but I have a sneaking suspicion they’ve been organizing the troops in an effort to get this mice infestation under control yet again. It’s really not their fault, those darn little things just keep procreating.
“This one’s face looks smug,” Delora announces, holding up a plush Fish with the expression of an even coordinator who’s just discovered evidence of a federal crime. “And why is it wearing a crown?”
“That’s Fish,” I explain, restocking a shelf of Halloween-themed tote bags. “She came that way.”
“Came that way?” Delora’s eyebrows climb toward her hairline. “You mean someone deliberately designed a cat toy to look condescending?”
“Have you met Fish?” Georgie pipes up, somehow managing to get popcorn butter on her green kaftan, a show of true dedication to carbs. “Condescending is her default setting.”
The sound of approaching footsteps draws my attention, and I look up to see Dexter striding across the plaza with an expression that says he’s just realized his day is about to get significantly more complicated.
He’s traded his professional attire for black jeans, boots, and a flannel shirt that makes him look ruggedly handsome and completely out of place among the candy-corn decorations. His dark hair catches the light, those stormy blue eyes are focused my way with laser hot intensity—emphasis on the hotness—and the way that flannel stretches across his shoulders suggests a body that could probably stop a speeding bullet—though apparently it can’t stop his potentially homicidal mother, which really puts things in perspective.
“Dexter!” Delora immediately pounceson her son. “Thank heavens you’re here. This entire establishment is unraveling faster than a discount yarn sweater.”
“Hey, I happen to own that sweater,” I mutter.
“Mother,” Dexter says with a level of patience that I suspect he’s doled out one too many times. “What seems to be the problem now?”
The wordnowtells me everything I need to know.
“The problem,” Delora gestures dramatically, “is that your...friendhere is turning a murder investigation into a marketing opportunity. Look at this!” She waves a keychain that purrsmurder meow. “This is completely inappropriate!”
Dexter’s gaze flicks to me, and I catch definite amusement in his eyes. “I didn’t think I’d see you again this soon.”
“Oh, I live here now,” I reply. “Right between the haunted mansion and humiliation. Very centrally located.”
