Chapter 5 #2
“Great,” Jordy says, steering Macy away with the determination of someone who’s preventing an international incident—or a felony.
“Let’s hit the hayride. You can let off some of that pent-up steam.
” And maybe channel some of that aggression into more productive pursuits later.
.. he thinks with a private smile that makes me want to bleach my brain and possibly my eyeballs.
“ Heath! ” a woman calls out in an irate voice that cuts through the festival noise like a chainsaw through butter. Sure enough, my old friend Hammie Mae Westoff appears from nowhere with her red curls bouncing with every determined step like angry rusted springs.
I’ve known Hammie Mae since way back when, and I’m about to say hello when she dusts off Heath’s shirt with swift, not-particularly-gentle motions that suggest she’s either punishing him or conducting a very aggressive lint inspection.
“Pull yourself together,” she hisses at him. Then, turning to the scattered paranormal team, she calls out, “ Everyone meets back here in twenty minutes! We have ghosts to hunt! ”
The crowd disperses like fog under a heat lamp as the Beyond Belief Paranormal Club members wander off to enjoy the festival while they can. Only Hammie Mae remains, watching Heath march off with an expression that I can’t quite decipher.
“Hammie Mae?” I call out, and her face transforms instantly into a warm smile as she spots me.
“Bizzy Baker Wilder!” She rushes over for a rocking hug, as her arms envelop me like we’re old war buddies. Up close, her cinnamon-colored curls frame a face sprinkled with freckles that somehow make her look both twelve and thirty-two simultaneously.
Hammie Mae—real name Hameline Margaret—has been running her family’s blueberry farm and artisanal chocolate factory (housed in one of their converted barns) since she took over from her father years ago.
Their chocolate-covered blueberries are the stuff of local legend and a major reason why tourists flock to Cider Cove, or Spider Cove, as we’re calling ourselves for the month of October.
“Look at you!” she exclaims, stepping back to survey me. “By the looks of it, you finally had that baby!”
“I sure did.” I laugh. “I guess miracles still happen. In fact, she’s just over a month old now. We’re calling her Ella.” I gesture toward my now baby-less carrier still strapped to my chest. “And how is little Matilda?”
“Four months and fabulous.” Hammie Mae beams with maternal pride. “My mother is sitting tonight. She watches her for me when I venture out to do adult things—like chase the local ghosts.” We share a laugh that feels genuine despite the weirdness of the night so far.
Fun fact: Hammie Mae named her sweet baby girl after her mother, and I can’t blame her. Matilda is a gorgeous name that somehow manages to be both classic and distinctive.
“So how did you get involved with the Beyond Belief crew?” I ask as I set down the carrier next to the porch and we stroll past a ring toss booth where kids are trying and failing to land plastic pumpkins on witch hat pegs—a game that’s probably designed to be impossible but keeps people coming back for more punishment.
All proceeds go to the local food pantry so it’s a win-win for everyone, except maybe for the ones that don’t actually win a stuffed ghost that glows in the dark. I won’t lie. I want one, too.
“Oh, it started as a distraction after Matilda was born. Postpartum is no joke, and I needed something that wasn’t just about being a mom, you know?
” She shrugs. “I saw their flyer at Bean There, Done That Coffee Shop, and thought, why not? I’ve been hearing things go bump in the night at the farm ever since I was a kid. ”
“Well, I met the group and they’re wonderful—including your canine participants.”
She belts out a laugh. “Fudge and Skittles are great. I used to have a labradoodle when I was kid, and boy, do I miss her. In fact, there’s a breeder right here in Spider Cove, and I’m on the wait-list for a puppy. I’m just counting down the days.”
I’m about to say something just as the rest of the paranormal team materializes around us as if summoned by the mention of things going bump in the night.
Hazel’s orange pumpkin antennae bobble as she approaches, while Buffy’s green ones catch the flickering lights from a nearby jack-o’-lantern display like tiny disco balls.
Heath trails behind them, looking slightly less kempt than before his encounter with Macy, as if he’s been through a small but significant natural disaster. And let’s face it, he so has.
“We’re documenting haunted locations all along the Eastern Seaboard,” Hazel explains, pulling up what looks like architectural plans of the Country Cottage Inn on her tablet. “Your inn has quite the reputation, you know. ”
“For hospitality, yes. For ghostly tenants, that’s news to me.
” I raise an eyebrow. “Unless you count the guests who skip out without paying their bill.” And honestly, that’s almost always an oversight on my part.
I can thank my pregnant brain for that, and my sleep-deprived brain now that the baby is here.
“There have been reports,” Buffy chimes in, her blue eyes wide with enthusiasm. “Footsteps in empty hallways, doors opening on their own, even a woman in white seen passing through walls in the east wing.”
“That was probably just my sister Macy after too much wine,” I joke, but nobody laughs, not even Heath.
“We take our investigations very seriously,” he says, his tone suggesting I should do the same. “We never fake evidence, unlike some teams in the field.” He shoots Hazel a pointed look that could puncture steel.
The tension between them instantly thickens to something you could cut with a knife, which, given Heath’s propensity for carrying prop weapons, might not be entirely metaphorical.
Hazel’s jaw tightens and a muscle in her cheek twitches, but she doesn’t respond. Something clearly happened between these two that goes well beyond professional disagreement.
“Well, we should let you get back to your festival,” Buffy interjects as if she’s attempting to defuse the situation. “We need to set up our equipment before midnight. That’s when the veil between worlds is thinnest, you know.”
“So the rumor has it.” I nod, seeing that this is the second time I’m hearing about this veil in one night.
“Anyway,” Heath interrupts, clearly sensing the tension before anyone decides to toss a real knife his way. “I’m not just here for the paranormal stuff. I’m also scouting properties for potential development. This area has a lot of untapped potential for high-end vacation homes.”
Hammie Mae stiffens beside me as if someone just walked on her grave. I don’t know what passes between them in that silent exchange, but it’s clear there’s something brewing beneath the surface—something that has nothing to do with ghosts or ghouls .
Is Hammie Mae interested in Heath? Because honestly, if he’s a castoff of my sister’s, Hammie Mae can do so much better.
I wish them happy hunting and take off, spending the next half hour overseeing the bobbing for apples competition (which Georgie is dominating despite her pumpkin constraints) and making sure the cider doesn’t run out.
As I’m crossing back toward the inn, I spot Heath with Hammie Mae in a shadowy corner, and by the look of it, they’re arguing.
Their voices don’t carry, but their body language speaks volumes.
He’s leaning in aggressively, and she’s backed against a tree.
I do my best to boot-scoot in that direction just in time to catch a few words.
“I know what you did,” he howls in her face. “Either you pay me or everyone else will know, too.”
Hammie Mae’s face drains of color before she pushes past him and disappears into the crowd.
That didn’t look very friendly, Fish observes, appearing at my feet.
Should we follow her? Sherlock gives a soft woof with his cape now slightly askew.
“Let’s give her a minute,” I whisper, not wanting to embarrass her further.
What in the world could Hammie Mae have done? Although, whatever it is, it’s none of my business. Heaven knows I have enough mysteries to solve at home, like how to get my baby to sleep for more than twenty-minute intervals.
I continue my rounds at the festival, handing out candy to kids and redirecting a group of teenagers who think the antique rose bushes would make a great hiding spot to polish off their flask of what definitely isn’t apple cider.
About twenty minutes later, I spot Heath again.
This time he seems to be confronting Buffy about something near the haunted house.
Her green antennae are practically vibrating with anger as she spits words back at him with one hand firmly restraining Skittles, who looks ready to live up to her spooky costume and take a bite out of Heath’s ankle, a reaction that suggests even the four-footed among us think he’s crossed some kind of line.
Whatever is going on with Heath Cullen, he’s certainly making the rounds himself and alienating just about every woman at the festival, which is either a very specific talent or a very dangerous hobby. My guess is both.
After another check-in with the vendors, I decide it’s time to sneak back to my cottage and peek in on baby Ella.
As much as I trust Gwyneth and Dad, maternal instinct is a powerful override to rational thought, and I’ve reached my limit for how long I can go without verifying that my daughter is still breathing and hasn’t been kidnapped and whisked off to a cruise ship by well-meaning grandparents.
Fish and Sherlock tag along, probably hoping I’ll sneak them treats away from the crowd. And knowing me, I most certainly will.
We decide to cut behind the haunted house, which is a shortcut to my cottage that avoids the main festival chaos, when I spot a small white cutie pie darting through the artificial fog creeping across the ground.
It’s Fudge, Heath’s Westie, but his playful yips from earlier are gone, replaced by the kind of frantic growls that suggest something is very, very wrong.
He races in spastic circles before disappearing around the back of the structure.
“I think we should follow him,” I say to Fish and Sherlock. “Something doesn’t feel right.”
The three of us navigate through the fog, which curls around our ankles like ghostly fingers. The sound of the festival fades as we move behind the haunted house, replaced by an eerie silence broken only by the occasional recorded moan or scream from the attraction.
That’s when I see her—Macy, standing perfectly still, staring down at something on the ground.
Even in the dim light, I can tell from her posture that something is very wrong.
She’s got that frozen quality that people get when they’ve witnessed something their brain can’t quite process and she looks darn right mad.
“Macy? What are you doing back here?” I call out, rubbing my arms to ward off a sudden chill as the ground fog licks at our heels.
But Macy doesn’t answer. Instead, she lifts her foot and gives a swift kick to whatever she’s looking at.
I move closer, and my breath catches in my throat.
The fog clears just enough for me to see.
Lying on his back, with what appears to be a knife protruding from his chest, is Heath Cullen.
His eyes stare sightlessly at the stars, and the pool of darkness spreading beneath him is definitely not part of the Halloween decorations unless the festival has taken a very dark turn toward authentic gore.
Something green and glittery catches the light on his sweater—tiny sequins reflecting the festival lights like miniature stars.
“Macy,” I whisper, frozen in place. “What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything,” she says, her voice oddly calm for someone standing over a corpse. “I found him like this.” She gives the body another swift kick. “Although I can’t say I’m sorry.”
Heath won’t have to worry about tracking down ghosts at the inn. He’s just become one.
Heath Cullen is dead.