Page 84 of Fish and Chip

I give it two months, Fish mewls from her perch near the snack table. Two months of peace, and then this park will produce another body. Mark my words. And Josie Janglewood will be standing right next to it, wearing something ridiculous.

She’s not wrong. Come to think of it, she’s never wrong.

Turns out, the only thing scarier than solving a murder on Halloween night is knowing you’ve got to do it all over again at Christmas. This time with tinsel, film crews, and whatever fresh havoc the holiday season decides to throw at us. I wouldn’t say the park is cursed, but at this point the odds aren’t exactly flattering.

But at least I’ve got Dexter. And a cursed doll head for protection. And friends who hire oiled-up werewolves and vampires to make cozy mystery readers happy.

And honestly? That’s probably enough.

Or it will be.

Until the next body drops.

CHAPTER 22

Chip

The Halloween moon hangs over Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland like a giant orange candy nobody will let me eat, which seems deeply unfair considering everything I’ve sacrificed this week.

And by sacrificed, I mean the hot dog costume. I ate part of it. It was delicious. I regret nothing.

Fish and I are sprawled on our designated throne near the Haunted Mansion. Fine, it’s less of a throne and more of a very expensive cushion with our names embroidered on it, but a king knows a kingdom when he’s napping on one.

From here we have an excellent view of the aftermath of what I’m calling The Great Oily Werewolf Incident, a title I came up with myself and think would look fantastic on a T-shirt. I’ve already told Josie to alert the gift shop.

Georgie said she’d buy six. One to wear and five for Christmas presents.

Speaking of Georgie, she’s still dancing, the shirtless men are still flexing, and Josie and Detective Dreamboat are doing that face-mashing thing again where they forget oxygen exists.

How long can hoomans go without air? I ask Fish with genuine concern. It’s been at least four minutes. Should we call someone? Is there a hotline? Do I dial it with my face? I’ve never dialed anything. I have concerns about my qualifications.

They’re fine, Fish says, though she doesn’t sound convinced. Bizzy and Jasper do this all the time. I’ve learned to look away and think about literally anything else.

I think about tuna, I offer.

You always think about tuna.

Because tuna has never made me uncomfortable.

Cupcake trots over, and her crystal ball collar casts tiny stars across the ground. She’s got that look again. The one that makes my whiskers twitch and my brain temporarily forget it came with instructions. Wait—did I come with instructions? And more importantly, what did I do with them?

Sugar, what a week, she drawls. Murder, mayhem, and more shirtless men than a ladies’ night at the honky-tonk. Bless their hearts.

The men or the murderers? Fish asks.

Both, honey. Both.

Quick question, I say, nodding at the crystal ball dangling from her collar. Did that thing predict any of this? The murder? The werewolves? The sparkling vampires? Anything?

Cupcake snorts. Sugar, this old thing can’t even predict when the mailman’s comin’.

So it’s useless?

Honey, it’s here to complete the outfit, not solve crimes.

Salem appears, still riding in Eulla Bell’s arms and looking like she’s aged nine lives in a single evening. Is it always like this here? The chaos, the costumes, the corpses?

Pretty much, I confirm. You get used to it. Sort of. Not really. But the food’s good, and that covers a lot of homicidal sins.