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“You know what I mean.”
“Do I, though?”
He opens his mouth to argue, then stops, shakes his head, and smiles. Smart man.
“Never mind. Let’s do this instead.”
He pulls me close and kisses me again, and I’m pretty sure he knows exactly what my answer was going to be.
Solving a murder is satisfying. Kissing a detective under fireworks while pretending you’re not actively investigating one? Even better.
CHAPTER 8
Chip
Finally! I yowl as the last hooman child finishes her photo with us. Freedom! Sweet, glorious freedom!
Fish stretches beside me, her black-and-white stripes catching the glow from the purple-and-green Halloween lights strung overhead. I thought that would never end. That last child smelled like cheese, and now I’ll be forced to take a bath for the next three hours.
All children smell like cheese, I point out, because I’m basically a scholar on the subject. It’s their signature scent. That and sticky fingers.
We trot away from the photo station, our paws padding along Huckleberry Lane toward the Wonderland Mall, where Josie’s supposed to be doing inventory or whatever it is hoomans do when they’re trying to avoid thinking about murder.
The entire street is lit up like the nightmare before Halloween, with jack-o’-lanterns grinning from every storefront, fake cobwebs draped across awnings, and twinkle lights strung everywhere, making the whole world look orange and spooky.
My stomach rumbles. Photo ops always make me hungry. Well, breathing makes me hungry. Existing makes me hungry. And sometimes, eating makes me hungry. It’s a gift.
Did you hear that? I ask Fish.
Your stomach demanding nachos? Yes, Chip. The entire park heard it.
I swish my tail at her. I prefer to think of it as my internal GPS pointing toward sustenance. It has never once steered me wrong. Steered me into a closed door, yes. Wrong, never.
We round the corner near the pizzeria, and I stop dead in my tracks.
Because holy catnip and all things delicious. Look at the state of this street.
Huckleberry Lane is littered with dropped carnival snacks. Popcorn scattered like edible confetti. Half-eaten corn dogs abandoned on benches. Funnel cake pieces the size of my paw. A mostly intact churro lying near a trash can like it’s waiting for me specifically. I feel seen.
Chip, Fish says, her pupils going wide. Are you seeing what I’m seeing?
A buffet of delicious proportions? I breathe. An all-you-can-eat, already-paid-for, hooman-dropped feast of my wildest dreams?
I was going to say a health code violation, she says, but yes.
Neither of us gets so much as a paw forward when a voice calls out from behind the pizzeria dumpster.
Well, well, well. If it isn’t the park mascots.
A calico cat saunters into view. Patches, the vicious little scrapper who runs the dumpster territory with an iron paw. Behind her, Shadow the ninja cat materializes from literally nowhere because that’s what ninja cats do. Then comes Whiskerface, a grizzled tabby who’s been working rodent control since before I was born. And Mittens. And Boots. And at least six other cats I recognize from Fish’s recruitment drive. The Feline Extermination Force, assembled and reporting for snacks.
Hey ho, the gang’s all here! I meow. Look at all this food! Just our luck, it’s like the hoomans had a party and forgot to clean up!
Patches grins, showing teeth that have definitely seen some action. Halloween crowds are sloppy. They drop more food than they eat. It’s Christmas for cats.
And with the hoomans all worked up over the murder, not a soul is guarding a single snack, Fish observes. Tragedy has a silver lining. It’s deep-fried and dusted with powdered sugar.
Mittens pipes up. And wait until the Christmas crowds come in. Then we’re really in the money, the honey, and all the funnel cake we can eat.
