Sneak Peek!
Fish & Chip: Nine Lives One Dead Body
Book Description:
From the rescue—to the rescue!
Two cats, nine lives, one murder case.
Chapter 1
Welcome to Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland!
Hello! Josie Janglewood here, your friendly neighborhood theme park owner and occasional amateur detective (don't ask—it's complicated).
Welcome to my little slice of Maine magic! Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland sprawls across 100 glorious acres of pure whimsy, where the rides actually work (most of the time), the food is getting better by the day, and the only things more entertaining than our attractions are my crime-solving cats, Fish and Chip. They're the real stars around here—I just handle the paperwork and try not to trip over any more dead bodies.
Whether you're here for the thrills, the spills, or just the excellent churros, you're going to love exploring our ten themed areas, each one more magical than the last. Well, except for the ones that are more terrifying than magical, but that's half the fun, right?
So grab a map, pick your poison, and prepare for an adventure that's guaranteed to be unforgettable—and statistically unlikely to involve homicide!
Happy exploring! – Josie
Your Guide to the 10 Hollows:
1. Huckleberry Lane – Our charming main street, complete with taffy shops, photo booths, and vintage storefronts that'll make you feel nostalgic for an era you never actually lived through.
2. Storybook Hollow – Pure fairy tale magic with swan boats, cotton candy, and enough glitter to be seen from space. Perfect for living out your princess fantasies.
3. Wild Adventures Hollow – Jungle-themed excitement with rope bridges, faux temples, and animatronic animals (some of which still work!).
4. Bayou Bend Hollow – Southern charm meets spooky atmosphere, complete with paddleboat rides and our genuinely terrifying Haunted House that's not for the faint of heart.
5. Gold Rush Hollow – Wild West adventure with saloons, gold-panning, and a haunted mine ride that's only slightly terrifying.
6. Pawprint Hollow – Home to our petting zoo and kiddie rides, where Fish and Chip rule like furry mob bosses.
7. Galaxy Hollow – Retro-futuristic fun with neon lights, vintage robots, and enough glow-in-the-dark everything to power a small city.
8. Magical Marvels Hollow – Our crown jewel featuring a stunning dichroic glass castle and gardens that look like they were designed by actual fairies.
9. Gears & Dreams Hollow – Steampunk wonderland with copper pipes, vintage machinery, and the best romantic restaurant in three counties.
10. Everwhirl Hollow – Our mysterious forgotten garden, where nature has reclaimed the paths and magic feels just a little bit dangerous.
Don't forget to visit our merchandise stands—Fish and Chip ear headbands are flying off the shelves!
“This was a mistake,” the silver-haired maven glares at my newly acquired theme park. As the event coordinator for the Sweet Season Spooky Symposium—the week-long baking extravaganza currently taking over Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland—she apparently feels entitled to share every critical thought that crosses her mind. “Obviously a mistake I won’t be making again next year.” She exhales hard enough to rearrange my bangs, looking every bit her age—roughly three hundred, give or take. Okay, realistically? She’s in her late seventies, but she carries herself like she has cursed a few princesses in her day. “We need to showcase the baked goods and your, what did you call it? Merch?”
She looks personally offended by the term, as if I just suggested we serve dinner on paper plates at the Met Gala.
“It’s called marketing,” I say with a smile that could ice a cake. “You know, that thing that pays for events like this one?”
“Marketing,” she repeats, making it sound like a communicable disease. “How… commercial.”
“Commercial is what keeps the lights on,” I counter. “Unless you prefer hosting your baking symposiums in the dark. Very atmospheric, I’m sure, but terrible for social media.”
The sun is just setting here at the theme park, a sea of orange and purple twinkle lights sparkle up above us like Halloween-inspired stars, the scent of churros and corndogs wafts through the chilly fall air, and the sound of spooky music emanates from the haunted house behind us.
Delora, I-Don’t-Know-Her-Last-Name-Yet—stands with the rigid posture of someone who’s spent decades perfecting the art of looking down on people. She’s tall and thin with silver hair lacquered into a French twist so perfect it could survive a hurricane. Her ice-blue eyes seem to catalog every flaw in my theme park, my outfit, and probably my entire existence.
She’s wearing an expensive rust-colored pantsuit, paired with pearls that probably predate the Constitution—much like herself—and heels that somehow don’t sink into the grass—which feels like a personal affront to physics—which confirms my suspicion that she’s the Wicked Witch of the East. The gravity-defying shoes are a dead giveaway.
She smells like roses and judgment, with just a hint of disappointment in all of humanity—especially me.
“Your safety standards appear to be more suggestions than actual rules. How delightfully negligent,” she seems more than happy to point out. “This is less ‘theme park’ and more ‘insurance claim waiting to happen.”
She’s not entirely wrong.
Before I can respond with something appropriately snarky, Fish and Chip make their grand entrance. Fish, Bizzy Baker Wilder’s sleek black-and-white cat whom I’m borrowing for the foreseeable future, descends from a nearby hay bale with all the dignity of a seasoned detective arriving at a crime scene. Her green eyes survey the scene with the kind of calculating intelligence that makes you wonder if she’s planning world domination or just judging your shoe choices.
Chip, my gloriously fluffy tabby who’s as round as a pumpkin and twice as orange, bounces over with his characteristic enthusiasm, his green eyes bright with curiosity, and his whiskers twitching at all the new scents in the autumn air—but mostly they twitch for the food.
Why is the ruffled stranger glaring at our human? Chip mewls at Fish, his mental voice all indignation and butter.
Because she doesn’t appreciate seasonal majesty, Fish mewls with the weary tone of a cat who’s dealt with difficult humans before. Also, her shoes are offensive. Too shiny for this much dirt.
My name is Josie Janglewood, and I have the dubious gift of reading the minds of animals—which is how I know my rotund orange overlord Chip thinks my life choices deserve their own disaster documentary. And if you’re wondering, yes, animals almost always have better things to say than humans.
It’s been my reality since I was six and fell down my grandmother’s stairs, waking up with a mild concussion and a very specific talent to tap into the gray matter of the furry kind. Most days it’s a blessing. Other days, it’s like having a constant commentary track running in my head, courtesy of every pigeon, squirrel, and judgmental cat in the vicinity.
But I digress.
I take a look around at the crowd pulsing through the theme park, and I still can’t believe that every inch of what I see is mine, all one hundred acres. I’m not sure if I should be thrilled or terrified that my biggest life decision was made with loose change and a handshake.
It’s fall, the air is crisp, the scent of popcorn, corndogs, and funnel cakes is thick in the air, and the sound of people screaming their heads off ensures the promise of a migraine later and possibly a lawsuit.
It turns out, that a couple of weeks ago, I caught my husband practicing yoga positions with his very flexible, very blonde, very perky instructor in ways that would justify a divorce lawyer, so I took a job managing Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland Theme Park, where the elderly owners promptly sold me the entire place for a dollar, which should have been my first clue that it might be cursed.
The park has ten different “Hollows” and right now we’ve got our feet and paws firmly planted in the one where Southern charm meets spooky atmosphere, complete with paddleboat rides and our genuinely terrifying Haunted House that’s not for the faint of heart.
Bayou Bend Hollow is the kind of place that makes fall grab you by the shoulders and shake you senseless with seasonal joy. Wrought iron fences wrapped in garlands of gold and burnt orange leaves sweep through the area like brushstrokes in an autumn painting. Jack-o’-lanterns grin from every railing with the manic enthusiasm of people who’ve had too much pumpkin spice. Fog machines set to a low simmer waft mist across cobblestone paths, creating the kind of atmospheric drama that makes everything look like a Victorian ghost story come to life.
If autumn were a person, this part of Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland Theme Park would be her perfectly curated Pinterest board come to life.
It’s the opening evening of the Sweet Season Spooky Symposium, a week-long baking and decorating bonanza starring sugar, sass, and more ghoulish cupcakes than should be legally allowed. This isn’t just any baking event—it’s being filmed for a national television special, which means exposure for the park that money can’t buy. The exposure alone could fund our safety upgrades for the next decade—assuming no one actually dies during filming. The merch tie-in isn’t such a bad deal either. And seeing that safety wasn’t a big priority with the previous owners, the cash could stave off a few impending lawsuits as well.
Vendors are arriving like a well-rehearsed parade, dessert stations are in full assembly mode, and the staff is sporting limited-edition Fish and Chip Halloween cat ears—black velvet headbands with either plush orange triangles or little monochrome tufts for maximum feline flair. And yes, they’re already sold out, which makes my bank account do a happy dance.
“I don’t believe animals should roam free at events,” Delora says, eyeing Fish and Chip with the kind of disdain usually reserved for people who put pineapple on pizza. “It’s a health code violation, or at least it must be.”
“That’s adorable,” I say. “You think you’re in charge.” Did I just say that out loud? Oh, heck. I might as well run with it. “Fish and Chip are the mascots around here,” I continue, gesturing to my feline companions. “These cats are practically celebrities. You insult them, and you insult all of Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland.” Or at least me. And maybe Bizzy Baker. She would be Fish’s human counterpart.
You’re not wrong, we are practically celebrities, Chip chimes in with a mewl. Also, is that frosting on her sleeve? I require an inspection. I could lick it off if you want.
I give him a look for even going there. This woman would have us both arrested for assault with a furry weapon. Although with the way she’s acting, it might be worth the trouble.
Georgie and Ree arrive just in time—my chaos cavalry in the flesh, my newfound besties, and my senior sleuthing squad all rolled into two delightfully nosy packages.
“Well, hello there, fancy pants,” Georgie booms at Delora with her churro-print caftan billowing in the breeze like a sugar-dusted flag of war. The woman has kaftan game that I deeply respect and secretly covet. Georgie is an eighty-something hippy with a stack of gray hair that wobbles on her head, a wandering eye for men of all ages, and a propensity for trouble. “You must be the event coordinator we’ve heard so much about.”
I may have vented to them yesterday that the event coordinator was about as friendly as a cactus.
“I brought backup snacks,” Ree adds helpfully, holding up a tray of maple bacon cookies as if she’s presenting evidence in court. Ree is my old friend from way back when we both had littles. She has red hair like me, a penchant for 80s fashion, and feathered hair that makes birds everywhere jealous. “And possibly a cinnamon emergency kit.”
Delora scoffs at the sight. “This is a professional baking event, not a bake sale for the PTA.”
I’m sensing she’s been blacklisted from every potluck in Maine.
But she’s not wrong. This is definitely a baking event for the professionals. The Sugar Crypt tent stretches behind us like a delicious fever dream. Tables draped in black velvet showcase an army of spooky treats—ghost-shaped macarons with edible glitter, pumpkin whoopie pies the size of dinner plates, and cupcakes decorated with tiny fondant tombstones. Fog rolls lazily from dry ice bowls tucked under the tables, while flickering black candelabras cast spooky shadows across the treats.
The whole look is Halloween meets high-end bakery, and it’s magnificent.
“Wow, would you look at all this?” Georgie gasps.
Ree nods with a sigh. “It looks like you won’t be needing my desserts after all. Josie, this setup looks fantastic.”
“Thank you,” I’m quick to tell them. “But I had very little to do with it. My staff handled all the spooky bells and whistles, the symposium bakers brought their amazing treats, and our own Sugar Moon Bakehouse contributed a few specialties.” I leave out the part about Delora looking to oust Fish and Chip.
Georgie and Ree will suffer a lot of things, but not people foolish enough to say a bad word about our favorite felines.
The baking celebrities are starting to arrive, their devoted fans clustering around like groupies at a rock concert. I spot the Sugar & Sass sisters—Dilly and Nadine—holding court near the entrance, their trademark banter already drawing crowds. These women have turned sassy baking commentary into an art form, dishing out savage truths about love with the same precision they pipe buttercream, and their legion of followers hangs on every witty quip and relationship zinger.
Delora eyes Georgie and Ree like they’re stray animals who wandered in from the wrong side of a country club. I’m about to do the intros when Delora stretches out her hand.
“Delora,” she says, offering the kind of tight smile that suggests she’s already planning her escape. She doesn’t give her last name yet again, which feels deliberate at his point. Something tells me she’s been embroiled in a lawsuit before.
“Georgie Conner. Life coordinator and professional chaos coordinator,” Georgie replies with a grin that could power the fog machines before giving the woman a quick shake. Chaos coordinator is an understatement.
“Ree Baker,” Ree adds, holding out her hand. “Community relations and pastry sampling expert.”
“Charmed,” Delora says, looking anything but.
Someone must stop this woman before she bans candy corn, Fish declares, leaping onto a nearby barrel as if ready to pounce.
Or worse, Chip adds, before she discovers the bacon-wrapped pumpkin bites.
I, too, share his fear that those might disappear before I can properly shove a dozen into my purse.
“I see you have flexible standards here,” Delora says, her lips twitching in disapproval as she surveys the controlled chaos around us. “I’ve worked events at the Biltmore. The Ritz. The Louvre.”
“That explains it!” Georgie claps. “No wonder you look like your panties are caught in the crack. You’re overdue for something fun. Welcome to the whimsical underbelly of Maine, where the coffee is strong and the standards are… creatively interpreted.”
“You think this is creative?” Delora stalks past a display of caramel apple cake pops and ghosts made from meringue, her heels clicking against the cobblestones like a disapproving metronome. “These decorations look like someone raided every yard sale in Maine.”
“That was the goal,” I say, flanked by my two feline defenders. “It’s festive. Nostalgic. Slightly unhinged. Just like us.”
“Don’t knock it till you taste the merch,” Ree says, already nibbling a maple bacon cookie. “These cat ears are selling like witchy hotcakes, and they’re limited edition.”
“Someone already offered me sixty bucks for mine,” Georgie adds, patting her glittering Fish headband. “And that was before I told him they were lightly infused with wisdom and churro magic.”
The atmosphere shifts as more baking stars arrive, their entourages trailing behind them like sweetly scented storm clouds. The energy is electric, charged with the kind of anticipation that comes with sugar, competition, and the promise of nationally televised drama.
Delora stops cold, her eyes narrowing as she spots something—or someone—across the tent. The temperature seems to drop ten degrees as her composure cracks just enough to reveal something dangerous underneath.
“Excuse me,” she says with a sharp edge to her voice. “I’m going to kill that woman.”
“Well then,” I mutter. “You know what they say—there’s nothing like a little homicide to make things interesting.”
“We’d better follow her before the battle axe adds homicidal notch to her belt,” I mutter, watching Delora storm off through the crowd like a woman on a mission to ruin someone’s entire evening—most likely mine. “At this rate, we’ll need a bigger cemetery.”
It’s true, Bayou Hollow boasts not only the spookiest haunted house in all of Maine, but it boosts one of the more colorful cemeteries in the great state too. Albeit sans any actual bodies. But something tells me that Delora is about to supply it with plenty.
Another murder is brewing, Fish observes from her tote, tail twitching with anticipation. I can smell the drama from here. It’s got notes of desperation and repressed rage.
Are we talking about actual murder or just the metaphorical kind? Chip asks hopefully. Because I’m hoping for the metaphorical kind. The actual kind always interrupts dinner.
He’s not wrong. We had a homicide here a few weeks back, and I was stress-eating my way through the entire concession stand inventory—nothing says ‘amateur detective work’ like solving crimes while demolishing a funnel cake. Dinner was ruined every night, and so was my carb count.
The evening air at Bayou Bend Hollow carries the intoxicating blend of cinnamon, brown sugar, and woodsmoke from the smoked turkey leg stand, while somewhere in the distance, a spooky mood music plays a tune that’s equal parts cheerful and creepy.
The autumn mist drifts between the moss-draped cypress trees, and the scent of caramel apples mingles with the earthy smell of fallen leaves and just a hint of something that might be fog machine fluid or an actual supernatural presence. My money is on the latter.
It’s the opening night of the Sweet Season Spooky Symposium, our week-long baking extravaganza that’s supposed to put Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland on the map. But with the event coordinator’s newfound hankering for homicide, we might just land on the news for the entirely wrong reason.
A massive glittering sign stretches between two ancient oaks, reading, “Welcome to the Sweet Season Spooky Symposium” in letters that twinkle like fallen stars. Orange and purple lights snake through the Spanish moss, and jack-o’-lanterns grin from every surface with the manic enthusiasm of Halloween decorations, with the manic enthusiasm of witnesses to something sinister who wholeheartedly approve.
“That woman’s got a temper that could make a drill sergeant cry for mommy,” Georgie notes, adjusting her glittery cat ears. “I bet she could start a fight in an empty room.”
“An empty room would be safer,” Ree adds, clutching her notebook. “At least there wouldn’t be any casualties.”
We follow Hurricane Delora toward the Sugar Crypt tent, where the real magic happens. The massive black tent glows purple from within, casting eerie shadows on the cobblestones. Inside, tables groan under the weight of Halloween masterpieces that look too good to eat and too spooky to ignore.
Ghost-shaped macarons hover over dark chocolate graveyards. Pumpkin whoopie pies the size of dinner plates sit beside cupcakes topped with tiny fondant tombstones. A three-tiered cake shaped like a witch’s hat towers in one corner, while something that looks suspiciously like edible dirt, complete with gummy worms, spreads across another table.
And there, examining a tray of what appear to be severed fingers made from shortbread, stand the Sugar & Sass sisters themselves. They’re both somewhere in their sixties, stylish, and have the sassy attitudes to back up the moniker of their bakery.
Dilly Thatcher commands attention even when she’s standing still, which is sort of a miracle for the woman since she’s always on the move. Her auburn hair is teased and sprayed into a style that could survive a tornado, and her makeup is applied with the precision of someone who’s never met a mirror she didn’t love. Tonight, she’s wearing a glittery orange blouse emblazoned with “Bake It Like You Mean It” in rhinestones, paired with black leggings and ankle boots that add three inches to her petite frame.
Next to her, Nadine Halbrook looks like the sensible sister who keeps the books and makes sure Dilly doesn’t accidentally set the kitchen on fire. Her white-gray hair is braided into a crown that somehow manages to look both practical and elegant, and her vintage apron features dancing skeletons that cover up a simple black dress. Flour dusts her sleeves, and she looks as if she smells like cinnamon and common sense.
Delora reaches the sisters just as I’m eyeing the gummy worms and wondering if stress-eating candy dirt counts as a legitimate coping mechanism.
“Nice of you to finally show up,” Delora snaps at Dilly first. “I suppose sabotaging my event schedule is just another day at the office for you.”
The tent goes quiet except for the distant sound of spooky organ music and someone’s stomach growling—probably Chip’s. Okay, fine, it’s mine.
Dilly straightens to her full five-foot-nothing height, and her smile could cut diamonds. “Your event? Oh honey, this is my show, my symposium, and my audience. I own you tonight, tomorrow, and for the rest of your miserable little life. If I want to be late, I’ll be fashionably late. If I want to leave you in the dust, I’ll make sure you choke on it.”
The venom in her voice could dissolve steel, and probably Delora.
“Whoa, whoa,” I jump in before someone actually draws blood. “Let’s save the homicide for another night and definitely another venue. I just got this place insured.”
“And that’s assuming we can find a venue that allows weapons-grade glares,” Georgie adds helpfully.
She’s not kidding.
Delora opens her mouth to deliver what I’m sure will be another devastating insult when a melodious Southern drawl cuts through the tension like butter through a hot biscuit.
“Now, now, ladies, let’s settle this sweeter than Sunday tea. Tonight’s about baked goods, not baked tempers.”
All heads turn toward a woman who looks like she stepped out of a Southern Living magazine, assuming Southern Living started featuring people who could charm the paint off a fence post. The woman has shoulder-length platinum blonde hair that falls in perfect waves, winged eyeliner sharp enough to puncture tires, and the kind of smile that makes you want to tell her your deepest secrets while buying whatever buttered biscuits she’s selling.
She’s wearing high-waisted jeans that hug her curves as if they were painted on, a black blouse with pearl buttons, and an apron that says “Batter Off Dead” in elegant script. Gold hoops catch the tent’s lighting, and her perfume suggests expensive flowers and dangerous intentions.
“Y’all are getting yourselves all worked up over nothing,” she continues, her accent thick as molasses and twice as sweet. “I’m Savvy Sparrow, owner of Sweet Dreams & Sugar Schemes Bakery down in Tennessee.” She gestures toward a table where a casket-shaped cake sits like the centerpiece of someone’s very festive funeral. “That there is my Rest in Peaches coffin cake. Took me three days and half my sanity to get those sugar flowers just right.”
The cake is a work of art that’s equal parts beautiful and morbid—dark chocolate shaped like an ornate casket, covered in delicate peach-colored sugar roses and trailing vines. It’s the kind of thing that makes you want to wall paper social media with it before you demolish it with a fork and zero shame.
“Nice to meet you, I’m Josie Janglewood, park owner,” I introduce myself, trying to project confidence while internally wondering if my insurance covers death by sugar sculpture.
“Owner?” Dilly’s entire demeanor shifts like someone just told her there’s an open bar. Newsflash—there’s not. “Well, aren’t you just a little firecracker,” Savvy says, looking pleased as punch by the news. “We are absolutely thrilled to be here.”
“And I’m twice as thrilled to have you,” I’m quick to tell them. “And these little critters circling my ankles are Fish and Chip.”
The women all coo at once, sans Delora, who looks as if she’s sizing them up for a snack.
“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you all,” Nadine says with a smile. “The Sugar & Sass sisters are ready to make this entire week absolutely magical,” She presses a hand to her chest. “In the event you don’t know, I’m Nadine, and this ball of energy is my partner, Dilly. Truth be told, they’re not blood related but more the sisters of the chosen variety, very good, very longtime friends.”
As if they needed an intro. Although I didn’t know that bit about them being family sans the bloodlines. In my experience, that’s the very best kind.
“Oh my goodness, I just love you two!” Ree gushes as she sets her cookies down and nearly accosts the woman. “I watch your special appearances every week on Morning Coffee & Chaos. You’re absolutely hilarious.”
“We do a few national shows now, too,” Nadine says with pride. “In fact, Sweet Life America is here tonight filming the whole symposium for their Halloween special. You know, they’re a national show. It’s quite a step up from our local, Morning Coffee & Chaos, gig.”
“The exposure will be fantastic for your Fright and Frost Halloween merchandise launch,” Dilly assures me, her business instincts clearly sharper than her kitchen knives. “We’ve already seen some of the culinary pieces you’re featuring—those bat-shaped spatulas are absolutely precious, and don’t get me started on those gorgeous rolling pins with the gold ghosts etched into the marble. Heavy enough to tenderize meat or defend yourself, whichever comes first.”
They all share a quick laugh while I try not to think about how prophetic that statement might be.
Fish and Chip choose this moment to chime in.
Oddly violent for a baking demonstration, Fish observes.
She definitely has enemies, Chip adds.
And I’m betting Delora does too.
“Well, if it isn’t the sweetest little sugar cookies this side of heaven!” Savvy coos, scooping up both Fish and Chip and planting kisses on their furry heads before they can protest.
Both cats sniff her simultaneously, and their expressions shift from tolerance to something just this side of horror.
She smells like a D-O-G! Fish’s yowl could shatter crystal. A big, fluffy, probably-drools-everywhere DOG!
Abort mission! Chip broadcasts in panic. This is not a drill! We are in enemy territory!
Savvy chortles and coos as if spooking cats were her singular pleasure in life. “Why, I think they’re picking up the scent of my sweet Cupcake. She’s a standard poodle, white as fresh-fallen snow and twice as fluffy. Half the time she looks like she’s been dusted with powdered sugar, and honestly, half the time she has.” She laughs again, a sound like wind chimes in a gentle breeze. “She’s around here somewhere, probably charming treats out of some unsuspecting turkey leg vendor. I’m sure you three furry cuties will be fast friends!”
Fish and Chip exchange a look that suggests they’d rather make friends with a pack of rabid wolves.
“Speaking of friends,” Dilly says with a smile that doesn’t quite initiate, “Nadine, don’t you think it’s time we discussed the final arrangements for tomorrow’s demonstration?”
“I thought we’d settled all that,” Nadine replies, her tone neutral yet contrived.
“Oh, we settled it, all right,” Dilly’s voice carries an edge sharp enough to slice frozen butter. “Just like we settled your little creative differences about the recipe modifications.”
Nadine’s jaw tightens. “Those weren’t creative differences. Those were improvements.”
“Improvements?” Dilly laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Is that what we’re calling those culinary catastrophes?”
Before the sister showdown can escalate further, Dilly turns her attention to Savvy with a smile that could freeze fire.
“And Savvy, honey, I do hope your coffin cake tastes better than your last appearance on Southern Sweets & Treats. What did that reviewer call it? ‘Ambitious but ultimately deceased’?”
Savvy’s smile never wavers, but her eyes glitter with more than a hint of glossy danger. “Why bless your heart, Dilly Thatcher. You’re still upset about losing the Charleston Bake-Off to my ambitious but ultimately delicious bourbon pecan tart. Some folks just can’t handle the competition, I suppose.” She lifts a shoulder and winks.
I think that was the politest character assassination I’ve ever seen.
Savvy just served Dilly her own head on a silver platter with a side of honey butter and a blessing to boot.
The tension in the tent could be cut with a butter knife—or possibly the aforementioned marble rolling pin that my merch team and I helped pick out. The merch team consists of two cats and me, but that’s beside the point.
A sharp bell cuts through the air, saving us all from witnessing what might have been the first-ever murder by pastry bag.
“Showtime, ladies! It’s time to get the cameras rolling!” someone calls out, and just like that, things are about to take a dramatic turn for the delicious. Here’s hoping we don’t add murder to the menu.
***I hope you enjoyed this preview! Thank you for reading!****