Page 15 of Fish and Chip

Something else catches my eye. There’s a tear in the fabric of her costume near her shoulder, as if someone grabbed her or she snagged it on something. And there’s what looks like orange thread caught on one of her onyx rings.

Orange thread.

My stomach does a quick, unwelcome flip. Orange fur I could explain away in a heartbeat, seeing as my cat redecorates every surface he touches in his own fur. Chip sheds enough for me to knit a second, slightly smugger Chip every fiscal quarter.

Orange thread is a different animal entirely. Thankfully, Chip’s alibi is airtight. He was busy yowling at the buffet table in front of forty witnesses. Okay, fine. He was locked in my arms, and he was yowling while I stuffed my face with sweet treats in front of forty witnesses.

“At least Chip’s in the clear,” I mutter.

I heard my name, Chip calls over from the crowd’s edge. Whatever it is, I have a lawyer. Her name is Fish, and she bills in tuna.

“Oh my stars and garters!” A thick Southern accent cuts through the murmuring crowd, and I look up to see Eulla Bell pushing through the distressed guests, and there’s Felicity right behind her.

Eulla Bell’s honey-blonde hair hasn’t moved an inch despite all the commotion, and her pearls are still perfectly arranged around her neck. She’s clutching Salem to her chest, and her sweet cat’s yellow eyes are wider than I’ve ever seen them.

“Is that—” Eulla Bell’s hand flies to her chest, and she does this whole Southern belle about-to-faint routine that would be more convincing if she didn’t look like she was doing the happy dance behind those bright blue eyes. “Lord have mercy, did Belladonna bite the big one?”

Is the wicked witch really dead? Salem asks, her voice higher than it was earlier. Fear will do that to you. Or at least the fear of her owner doing some hard time away from home.

Very dead, Fish confirms from somewhere near my feet. She and Chip must have ventured back now that the initial chaos has died down.

Only Fish could deliver a cause-of-death ruling with less emotion than she gives an empty food bowl.

Don’t worry, Midnight Muffin, Chip rushes to assure the little cutie, and to do a bit of flirting while he’s at it. We’ve dealt with a murder or two here before, and our hooman always finds the killer!

He says it as if it’s a selling point. As if I’m a vending machine that dispenses justice and treats. Mostly treats.

Does this happen a lot? Salem’s fur starts to puff up as if she’s been plugged into an electrical socket.

Every few weeks, Chip says, because reading the room has never been his thing. You get used to it. Last time there was a body in Storybook Hollow. Time before that, it was in the Haunted House. We’re like a murder-of-the-month club, except it’s a theme park. We’ll be looking into murder merch soon.

I shoot him a look that says we will certainly not. But not before a thousand multimillion-dollar ideas sail through my brain, and I let them sail right back out again. Mostly. The commemorative tote stays under consideration. I can’t help it. I envision the words I Survived Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland (Results May Vary) printed across it.

I would so buy one.

Salem scoffs at the idea of a murder-of-the-month club. Or maybe it’s just plain old murder. We gotta get out of here! This place is more dangerous than a possum playing dead in the middle of a stampede! Eulla Bell! We are leaving before I end up on one of those podcasts you love to listen to!

Chip sidles closer to her, his orange bulk somehow managing to look both comforting and slightly predatory. Don’t worry. I’ll protect you. I’m very brave. Ask anyone, but maybe not Fish.

You got stuck in a tissue box last week, Fish says. You screamed and rolled down a flight of stairs. The sheriff’s department came out.

That was one time! Chip’s tail whips with indignation.

It took three hoomans and a broom handle to get you out, Fish says with a sharp meow.

The tissue box was deceptively small!

Fish ignores him and turns her attention to Salem. You should be careful around Chip. He could be the Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland Killer. And you might be next on his hit list.

Salem’s fur erupts until she’s roughly ninety percent fluff and ten percent cat. Her eyes go wide as saucers, and she lets out a yowl that startles livestock three counties over.

She explodes out of Eulla Bell’s arms, bounces once, and tears through the crowd like a tiny black tornado with whiskers.

“Salem! Baby girl, come back!” Eulla Bell takes off after her cat, muttering something about Yankees, their terrible sense of humor, and how she swears on her mama’s best casserole dish that somebody is getting a sedative and a stern talking-to. My money says it’s the cat.

Felicity stands frozen, staring at Belladonna’s body. Her mousy brown hair is windblown, and her warm hazel eyes look shell-shocked. Her hands are trembling, and she’s gone pale under the Halloween lights.

“I can’t—” Felicity starts, then shakes her head as if trying to clear it. “I need some air. I need to—I can’t be here right now.”