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Forget custodial crews. If you want a theme park cleaned by morning, hire a gang of motivated cats with empty stomachs and no self-control.
As for solving murders, we’ll get right on that.
Right after this nap.
CHAPTER 9
Josie
I’m standing in the bowels of Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland, and yes, I said bowels, because that’s what we call the underground city that exists beneath the park’s whimsical surface.
The official term is backstage, which makes it sound like a cozy little green room with a snack table. It is not. It’s a full subterranean metropolis with its own traffic patterns, its own weather system of fog machine exhaust, and its own moral code.
And let me tell you, it’s controlled chaos down here. Heavy on the chaos. The control is more of a suggestion.
The underground network of tunnels connects all ten hollows, letting cast members move between areas without breaking character or wading through crowds. Right now, we’re in the staging area for tonight’s Halloween Spooktacular Parade, and it’s like stepping behind the curtain of Oz if Oz were staffed entirely by college students in various states of costume application and unresolved childhood theater dreams.
Technically, I own every square inch of this chaos. I’m not sure what it says about my dreams.
Overhead fluorescent lights buzz and stutter, illuminating rows of parade floats in various stages of Halloween glory.
There’s a massive witch’s cauldron that will roll down Huckleberry Lane billowing fog, a twenty-foot-tall skeleton that rocks back and forth like it’s listening to music only the dead can hear, a haunted pirate ship with mechanical ghosts, and my personal favorite, a giant jack-o’-lantern that cracks open to reveal dancing zombies. Nothing warms a mother’s heart like the undead doing jazz hands.
Cast members rush around like caffeinated bees, some half in costume, others pushing racks of spare capes and witch hats.
In the corner, a makeup artist is transforming a college kid into a convincing werewolf, and honestly, the kid looks thrilled about it, which tells you everything about our hiring pool.
Two guys in golf carts zip past us carrying boxes labeled “FAKE BLOOD—DO NOT DRINK,” which feels like a warning that shouldn’t need to exist. It exists because someone drank it. I’ve read the incident report. Twice, actually, because the first time I assumed I was hallucinating.
“This place is amazing,” Ree says, looking around with wide eyes. She’s wearing a black sweater with a glittery ghost on it and has already started taking notes in her Halloween-sticker-covered notebook. “I had no idea all this was down here!”
“It’s like a whole other world,” I agree, ducking as a golf cart loaded with pumpkins nearly takes my head off. “A world where OSHA violations come to party.”
Georgie’s ahead of us, giving the floats the same suspicious squint she gives buffet shrimp. She’s wearing an orange caftan printed with black cats, and her crochet-hook bun is holding strong, presumably through spite.
“These floats are held together with duct tape and prayer,” Georgie observes, giving the haunted pirate ship a solid kick. Something creaks ominously. Something else falls off and rolls under the float, and we all silently agree not to acknowledge it. “Remind me never to ride on one of these death traps.”
“They’re perfectly safe,” I say, though I’ll be sending maintenance out for a safety check. Again. Maintenance loves me. Maintenance also has a dartboard with my face on it, and I’ve decided to take it as a compliment. At least they spring for the good darts.
“That’s what they said about the Titanic,” Georgie mutters.
She glances around. “Where are our feline overlords, anyway? I’m surprised they’re not down here supervising the chaos.”
“Fish and Chip are doing their rounds in Storybook Hollow,” I tell her. “They’re being wheeled around in that glass pumpkin carriage, you know, the giant plastic bubble we decorated to look like Cinderella’s fancy ride. We’ve got a couple of horses that pull them past all the families lining up for the swan boats and carousel, and people go absolutely feral trying to get pictures. It’s a royal procession, except the royalty is two cats who spent last night eating dropped carnival food until they physically couldn’t move. Chip looked a little smug about the whole thing when I dropped them off this morning. He waved a paw at me. I’m pretty sure he was dismissing me.”
I’m not exaggerating, either. His last words to me as the carriage rolled away were, Tell the driver to take the churro route. My public expects me fed, round, and glorious.
Fish’s contribution was a slow blink at the gathering crowd of families and a weary, The unwashed masses may photograph my left side. And only my left side. I slept funny on my right and my whiskers are still matted.
They’ve been famous for one season and they’re already impossible. I’d stage an intervention, but frankly, I work for them now.
“He’s living his best life,” Georgie says with approval.
A shirtless guy jogs past us carrying a prop severed head. And I mean completely shirtless, just suspenders and zombie makeup, like the top half of his costume is probably already walking down Huckleberry Lane without him. Anything feels possible this time of year.
Georgie tracks him the way Chip tracks a turkey leg. “And just like that, the holiday delivers. Forget the parade floats. Where have these hot specimens been hiding?”
“They’re in costume, Georgie,” Ree points out.
