Georgie Shaw Cozy Mystery Box Set

by Anna Celeste Burke

  That applied as well to references to Disney. If Uncle Max drew a comparison to Disney films, parks or resorts—usually a negative one—it was okay for him, though not for us.

  Doug drove as quickly as he dared through the maze of tunnels, without endangering associates headed to or from locker rooms where they changed into their park “outfits,” as we called the ensembles they wore. “Outfits, not uniforms,” Marvelous Marley World’s Associates’ Handbook read, “because here at Marvelous Marley World, we’re all outfitted with all we need to provide the best service and assistance to our cherished guests.”

  My unusually taciturn boss slowed down and honked when he came to a blind corner. As he made a right turn, he was forced to come to a complete stop. A shepherdess, with her pantaloons exposed, had hiked up the hoop on her skirt. She finished whatever adjustment she was making and scrambled to retrieve the lovely shepherd’s crook that had fallen to the ground before we could run it over. That was fortunate because that shepherd’s crook is a technological wonder, with the capacity to deliver special effects.

  “Oh my, I’m so sorry,” she said, in a sweet voice indicating that she was already "in character." The Heidi-like shepherdesses were a favorite among the park guests. This one was near perfect. Not only in voice but in her make-up and a wig of ringlets she straightened just a tad as she smoothed her skirt.

  The tunnels and other areas “backstage” are used to do just what Giselle, as her nametag noted, was doing—making sure her appearance was perfect, so nothing detracted from the role she played once she was in the park. When she rode up the elevator, she would emerge from a hidden doorway ready to mingle with adoring fans. Giselle, not her real name, of course, would smile and swish and twirl through the crowd until she took her mark at a predetermined spot. There she would sing one of several Marvelous Marley chart-topping hits from the shepherdess series of movies featuring not just Giselle, but Arielle and Laurielle, too. The shepherdesses were among the human characters who worked alongside all the animate and inanimate animals embodying interspecies friendship, stewardship, rescue, and protection themes evident everywhere you went in Arcadia Park.

  There’s nothing natural about Max Marley’s coloring book version of nature. Unblemished by weeds or dirt, the surroundings have a “Land of Oz” ambiance. Arcadia is colorful, with Hobbit-like habitats in lush gardens, treehouses filled with audio-animatronic birds, idyllic small-town storefronts, fantasy cottages, hedgerows, and lollypop trees. The lines blur between the real and the fanciful. Because of the underground tunnels, guests never see any delivery trucks in the park. No garbage trucks or dumpsters, either. Associates whisk garbage away via an automated vacuum collection system, part of the underground city of utility corridors. A horde of groundskeepers and maintenance workers tend to paradise before and after the park closes, sometimes working under bright lights to do that at night.

  The Wild Kingdom eat-or-be-eaten theme that pops up on nature shows does not appear anywhere in Arcadia Park, although burgers are on menus throughout the park. As critics have pointed out—Arcadia connotes domestication—nature subjugated and controlled, rather than wilderness preserved. That’s another issue guaranteed to set off Uncle Max. I take Arcadia for what it is—a fun, almost corny, tribute to pets and other animals, not nature writ large. “Mad Max,” as we sometimes called him, has bigger dreams—delusions of grandeur manifested by his efforts to preserve a pastoral vision that has never existed anywhere in the real world. Needless to say, nowhere in that vision is there a place for death.

  “Thanks,” I hollered to Giselle, as we took off again. Doug had said nothing since we left my office.

  He had a grim look on his face. “Doug, are you okay?”

  “Yes, yes. I just hate it when the rumor mill gets out ahead of us after an event like this one. Park Associates found the body and should have gone into ‘circle the wagons’ mode immediately. That means mum’s the word until we have the facts.”

  “That hasn’t happened?”

  “No,” he said, as he displayed his phone. “I’m already getting emails with rumors that are going around—asking me if they’re true.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like this was no accident. The woman found at the base of Catmmando Mountain was murdered.”

  “Geez Louise,” I said. “How could they know that if they weren’t at the scene?”

  “My point exactly—unless there’s a leak.”

  My mind began to race, and I felt a pit open up in my stomach. The only thing I could imagine that was worse than death in the park was a murder. No wonder Doug was white-knuckled as he drove the golf cart.

  “I suppose someone could have overheard the team members talking among themselves. News like that would travel like wildfire,” I muttered.

  “Yes, Murder at Catmmando Mountain is a perfect sound bite, isn’t it? On Valentine’s Day, no less! Not good. Let’s hope it doesn’t turn out to be some crime of the heart—a lover’s quarrel taken to the extreme.”

  “Yikes! The media would have a field day with it, given all the promotion we’ve done for our ‘Love is Purrfect in Arcadia Park’ holiday theme.” I tried to think of something reassuring to say. Murder resulting from a lover’s quarrel was bad, that's true. Would it be any better if this turned out to be a mugging or a random murder committed by a psycho killer on the loose in Arcadia Park?

  “Doug, I don’t think we should get ahead of the facts. Whatever’s going on, we’ll deal with it. Once we’ve determined guests in Arcadia park are safe, we’ll handle the PR fallout. You know how short the news cycle is, no matter what’s happened. We’ll come up with counter-measures. There are always so many good things going on at Arcadia Park that we'll be able to shift the focus to those.”

  Rolling out the hearts and flowers stories from Arcadia Park was our forte in the PR Department. Not just on Valentine’s Day. Stories of people and their pets are a mainstay of Arcadia Park’s positive message. A portion of the proceeds from admissions goes to no-kill shelters. Twice a year the park sponsors free pet care days where mobile vet hospitals offer essential services for free—like spaying or neutering, immunizations, and tagging pets. Arcadia Park hosts an annual pet show, too.

  Several romance-focused messages were in the works today. Those stories were part of an ongoing campaign to portray the park as a lovely setting for guests with more in mind than fun for kids. A “Bring your Valentine” Couples Rate was in effect for the day—two admissions for the price of one. Roving reporters would snap photos of lovers strolling hand-in-hand, buying roses for each other, or having their picture taken in front of a giant heart-shaped garland of flowers at Swan Lake. More than once, that spot had been chosen for a proposal of marriage—borrowing a moment from one of the more romantic movies, The Swan Prince’s Bride, in Marvelous Max Studios film archives. The swan boats glide through a modern-day tunnel of love, where the story of the sad Swan Prince who finds his soulmate plays out in a series of stunning tableaus that inspire proposals. After a death in the park, especially if it turned out to be murder, all those soft, sentimental stories would seem insensitive.

  “Maybe I should put a hold on the distribution of Valentine’s Day Love Notes from the Park—just until we know more,” I suggested.

  “Yeah, that’s a good idea. Send a message to Kelly, if you don’t mind.”

  “Will do.” I texted Kelly Larson, Doug’s executive assistant, and asked her to have all Valentine Notes held until after lunch. Next, I sent a text to my administrative assistant, Carol Ripley. “I’ve got Carol pulling together a crisis team meeting for us this afternoon, Doug.” I searched Twitter and saw tweets, dang it, featuring hashtag #Arcadiatroubles. Fortunately, there was no word yet about a dead body, and not so many tweets that the news about Arcadia Park was trending.

  “Glad you’re thinking! Clearly, I’m not at the top of my game.”

  “I’m sorry you’re taking this so hard, Doug. None of this is your fault�
�even if there has been a leak or the guys haven’t done a stellar job at containment. The timing stinks, given it’s a holiday.”

  “There is another rumor, Georgie.” My name is Georgina—a last minute choice because my parents had gone to the delivery room believing they were having another boy. Everyone calls me Georgie and that’s fine with me. When I was growing up, the name got me unwanted attention at times, but I liked the balance it brought to my sense of self. Georgina was rather regal and very girlish while Georgie seemed more down-home and made me feel more like one of the guys. I had lots of male friends, in addition to three older brothers. That has come in handy more times than I can count. Being able to hang around men without always feeling the need to defer or flirt has proved critical as I climb the ranks in management.

  “So, Doug, are you going to tell me the other rumor?”

  Doug pulled into a parking spot beside another golf cart, shut it off and looked straight at me. “The woman is someone we know.” Without another word, we hopped from the vehicle and headed to a nearby elevator. In less than a minute, the elevator delivered us to Catmmando Square, with Catmmando Mountain and Fortress Friendship looming. The doors shut behind us. The doors painted to blend into the building’s façade were no longer visible to passersby once they closed.

  “No more rumors, Doug. Let’s find out for ourselves.”

  3 Purrsilla’s Panic

  Doug and I stepped out of the elevator onto the corner of Catmmando Boulevard and Shepherdsville Road. Each pedestrian roadway in Arcadia Park is paved in a different color and stamped in a distinct pattern for each area of the park. A kind of “Follow the Yellow Brick Road” strategy, it's intended to help guests navigate the park. Doug made a beeline across the road, heading for the lead member of the containment crew. His team was busy cordoning off a playground and picnic area adjacent to Catmmando Mountain. Portable partitions were being put up to block the view of whatever was going on in there. A man of medium height and build, in a dark brown suit, stepped out from behind one of those partitions and held out his hand to Doug. I had taken two steps in their direction when a woman's shrieks stopped me in my tracks.

  “Argh! Cruella—it’s Cruella!” Those shrill cries came from a large, white, fluffy Purrsilla, Catmmando Tom’s lady friend in his cartoon adventures. She rushed toward me in a blind panic. The plush tail that towered above her head was pinned to her body, making it easier to maneuver through the crowd quickly. That’s a no-no for anyone playing the role since the luxurious tail is Purrsilla’s most attractive feature. Apart from the gorgeous green, heavily-lashed cat eyes, anyway. Under normal circumstances, a park ranger would have taken her aside. Today everyone was distracted. Including me, given the shocking claim Purrsilla was making as she skittered my way. I snagged her before she could run headlong into a throng of guests.

  “Whoa, Purrsilla, slow down!” I didn’t exactly grab her by the scruff of her neck, but close. It took some doing to hang on to her. I’m strong, thanks to regular workouts. She was terrified, and her first inclination was to swat at me with a big paw—also a no-no in the associate handbook for those charged with bringing Marvelous Marley World’s beloved character to life.

  “Stop, Purrsilla. Take a deep breath, and, please, lower your voice.” She let go of her tail which almost whopped me in the face as it sprang back into place. Then she buried her big cat head into her oversized paws. I tried patting her on the back, hoping to calm her.

  “She’s okay, folks. Sorry for the trouble.” That dispersed the crowd that had gathered. Still hanging onto her, I walked Purrsilla toward the doors that led backstage. Doug and that man in the brown suit were eying me. I waved off Doug.

  “Purrsilla’s just fine,” I called out loud enough for Doug and anyone else still standing around to hear.

  Doug waved in return.

  “Who’s inside there?” I whispered. Calling her Purrsilla wasn’t going to cut it if I wanted to reach the human having a meltdown. I hit a spot on the wall, and those hidden doors opened. Once we were underground, Purrsilla removed the top of her costume.

  “I’m so...” she hiccupped, “sorry. It was horrible. I lost it. Cruella’s dead!” The young woman who still had not told me her name reached out and grabbed me with those paws and sobbed on my shoulder.

  “Are you talking about Mallory Marley-Marston?” I felt a shimmy of fear run down my spine. Someone we know, Doug had said.

  “Yes. We called her Cruella de Vil. I know we shouldn’t have done that, but it fit. She was a mean person—always giving my friends who work in Snappy Treats a hard time. Nothing was ever good enough for that hag! They just hated her, and so did I,” she gasped. “Oh no! I don’t mean we hated her enough to do that to her—kill her! Who could do that to anyone?”

  “It’s going to be all right. Uh, I’m sorry, I still don’t know your name.”

  “Debbie. Debbie Dinsmore.”

  “Don’t worry, Debbie.” I looked around to make sure we were alone, lowered my voice to a conspiratorial level. “A lot of us called her Cruella.” Or worse, I thought. Debbie let out a huge sigh of relief. “I’m sorry you had to see her... had to see anyone in that condition. You need to put your feet up in the break room. Calm your nerves and then go home.”

  “But my shift’s not over for hours. I just came on duty...” Another round of sobbing cut off her words.

  “No problem. We’re going to shut down much of this area for a while. I’ll fix it with your supervisor, Megan Donnelly, okay?” Debbie nodded in agreement. “Does she know how to reach you later?”

  “Yes,” Debbie said with a puzzled look on her face.

  “Good! I’m going to have her call you with a referral for someone to speak to about what you witnessed today.” Her puzzled expression morphed into wariness. “Trust me. It’ll help—I went through something like this myself—years ago. I should have talked to someone right away. The company will pay for it, and we’ll cover a few days paid leave if you want to take it.” She didn’t respond one way or the other. What had she seen? I uttered a silent prayer that whoever had leaked information about what was going on also hadn’t taken pictures.

  “I’m calling Megan right now. You have to promise me you’ll calm down and that you’ll see the person Megan finds for you, please?”

  “Sure. I do need to take the day off. Talking to somebody couldn’t hurt.” She rubbed tears from her face with a paw—no-no number three, but who was counting on a day like today?

  Megan picked up my call on the first ring. I filled her in on the situation. Not that I knew much myself.

  I must have conveyed the seriousness of the matter because Megan sprang into action and insisted that Debbie stay with me. She planned to escort the young woman to the break room where she could change.

  Then she would transport Debbie to a pick-up spot where a company driver would take her home. I was impressed by Megan’s willingness to put herself out there for an associate. As Arcadia Park Operations Officer, staff management was an important part of her job. Not all she had to do, however, as she often pointed out when griping about her workload. Park Operations did involve a lot of duties besides managing associates. It included finances, health and safety, and guest relations, too. In no time at all, Megan arrived in a golf cart.

  “Thanks, Megan, you’re on the ball! That was fast.”

  “No problem. I take my job seriously.” As she spoke, she stepped out of the golf cart and guided Debbie around to the passenger seat. Megan dabbed at her face with a tissue, before climbing back into the driver’s seat. “I moved a little too fast and scraped my face when I jumped into the golf cart. See you later, Georgie.” Megan left as quickly as she had arrived.

  Once Megan had Debbie squared away, I had no choice but to go back out into Arcadia Park and face whatever had sent Purrsilla running away in terror. No screaming characters when I stepped out of the elevator this time, but plenty of noise, and activity everywhere.

  People
were streaming from Catmmando Mountain Conquest, a roller coaster thrill ride that took guests at breakneck speed through twists and turns inside and outside the massive mountain located in the center of Arcadia Park. Still whooping and hollering, riders blinked as they came to a stop. The last segment of the Conquest raced through the dark as Catmmando Tom battled evil-doers around them. Explosions lit up the darkness. Objects hurtled toward them in 3D, before Tom and his crack team won the day. In a cascade of fireworks and Catmmando Tom’s triumphant anthem, guests blasted out into the bright California sunshine once again. Crowd Control had roped off exit lanes leading guests off of the thrill ride and away from that dead body by the most direct route possible.

  The scene of the crime, as they say on all those cop shows, was now well-contained. Those shields encircled the perimeter, and Park security guards stood watch at the opening. A swarm of people were moving about, but there were no flashing police sirens or lights—no police cars or rescue vehicles at all. Two uniformed police officers stood with our security team members at the entry point. I walked over and gave them my name, explaining I was with Doug. A guard noted my name in a log and moved aside so I could enter.

  County CSIs—crime scene investigators—as I could tell from the equipment they had with them, were working quickly on several fronts. Some were taking pictures and others making measurements, while their gloved associates collected evidence. A woman who had to be the County Coroner bent over a body. I tried not to look at what she was doing or at the figure she was examining. Instead, I headed to where Doug was standing—off to the side, speaking to the same man in the brown suit I’d seen earlier.