Page 86 of Fish and Chip

Fish and I follow Josie and Dexter back through the park, past grinning jack-o’-lanterns and that one mechanical bat still dive-bombing tourists as if it’s finally found its purpose. We’ve all been there.

I inspect every fallen candy wrapper along the way because a professional never walks past an open case.

Another murder solved, I say. Another killer caught. Another buffet conquered.

You’re very proud of yourself, Fish mewls with a slash of her tail.

I should be. I provided crucial moral support! And I identified the cat-shaped soft pretzels as safe to eat! Twice! The second time was just to be sure. I’m an investigator at heart—and at stomach.

That’s not an investigation, Chip. That’s just eating.

I twitch my whiskers at her. Sometimes they’re the same thing. Ask any detective who’s ever solved a case with a donut in hand.

We pass the fake cemetery, quiet and moonlit and minding its own business again, the fence good as new. The park has a short memory. I envy it a little.

Do you think the movie people will be okay? I ask. Or do you think one of them will end up facedown in a pile of snow?

Statistically speaking, Fish says, someone’s going to die. That’s just how this park operates now. At this point it’s practically a tradition.

At least there will be Christmas cookies, I point out. And gingerbread. And those little peppermint things Savvy makes that briefly convince you the world is delicious.

Fish sighs. You have a one-track mind.

That’s because it’s lined with snacks.

Josie scoops up Fish when we reach the parking lot, and Dexter scoops me up, which is only fair. I’m the larger investment. Then—and I swear on my food bowl I did nothing to deserve this—the man reaches into his pocket and produces salmon treats. Salmon!

Treats.

This man walks around preloaded with snacks! Josie should marry him before somebody else does.

He’s a keeper, I inform Fish. For a hooman with a badge, his technique is flawless. I’d let him interrogate me anytime.

You’d confess to crimes you didn’t commit for a chin scratch.

I’d confess to crimes that haven’t been invented yet for a treat like this.

Because this is exactly where we belong.

Murder or no murder. Film crews or no film crews. Christmas chaos or regular chaos.

This is our park. Our hooman. Our life.

Ready for Christmas? Fish asks me as we drive away, the Haunted Mansion shrinking in the distance.

Ready for Christmas killers, you mean, I correct. And the answer is yes. Bring on the yuletide homicides. I’ll be near the cookie table if anyone needs a witness.

You’re terrible.

I’m realistic. There’s a difference, and it’s frosted.

And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Well, maybe with more tuna. And fewer cursed doll heads. And no more costumes. There are some things a cat doesn’t recover from.

Come for the Halloween murder mystery.

Stay for the Christmas murder mystery.