Chapter 20
I t’s just a few hours after the chocolate catastrophe and Gwyneth and my father all but committed a baby heist about an hour ago, insisting that baby Ella wanted to take a nice solid nap in their cottage.
I wholeheartedly agreed—mostly because after the Westoff Farms incident, I need some quiet time to process the fact that I’m apparently banned from chocolate shops and quite possibly related to half the town.
So I brought my laptop out to the back patio of the Country Cottage Café which overlooks the sandy cove and promptly fell down a rabbit hole that involved any and every relative on both my mother’s and my father’s side.
Because apparently, when you can’t solve mysteries the normal way, you resort to digital genealogy stalking.
The crisp October air carries the scent of woodsmoke, sea salt, and something sugary sweet that’s wafting from the kitchen—Emmie’s latest autumn-inspired creation, no doubt. The woman could make cardboard taste like a culinary masterpiece if she put pumpkin spice in it.
The fading daylight paints the cove in watercolor hues of amber and rose, while the distant sounds of the Fright Night Halloween Festival—creepy music, children’s laughter, and the occasional shriek from the haunted house—drift across the property like a spooky soundtrack to my family research.
Candles flicker on the table as the Atlantic roars in front of me like a lioness ready to eat her fill of Halloween candy.
Can’t say I blame her. I’ve already done the same.
A few festival castoffs have wandered over to the cove, their costumes fluttering in the breeze as they walk the shoreline like extras from a Halloween movie.
There’s a pirate chasing a princess, a zombie shuffling along with surprising grace, and what appears to be an oversized pumpkin that might actually be a person—though in Spider Cove, you never can tell.
Just beyond them, Fish, Sherlock, and Fudge zip up and down the sand as their silhouettes glide against the glittering water.
Fish maintains a dignified trot, while Sherlock bounds in joyful circles around her.
Fudge seems to land somewhere between Fish’s aloofness and Sherlock’s lumbering enthusiasm as he darts back and forth like a fuzzy pendulum at lightning speeds.
This is NOT a game of tag, Fish yowls indignantly as Sherlock nips playfully at her tail. This is me trying to escape your slobbery existence.
Everything is a game of tag if you believe hard enough! Sherlock barks with canine optimism. Also, have you noticed how pretty the water is when it sparkles? Also, I smell hot dogs somewhere. Also, I think I just saw a fish in the water. Wait, is that wrong to say around you?
Everything you say is wrong on some level, she yowls back.
“How’s it going?” a voice chirps from above and I look up just in time to see my sister Macy—the one I actually know far too much about—plop into the seat next to me.
On her heels are Jasper, Emmie, and Leo, forming a parade of concerned faces that I wasn’t expecting but probably should have been, considering my track record with finding trouble—not that they’re trouble, but their collective expression suggests I’m about to be.
Candy, Gatsby, and Cinnamon trot off for the shore to run with their four-footed friends without so much as a bark hello. Pet priorities, apparently. When there’s beach running to be done, human conversation is strictly secondary.
“Hey, hey, the gang’s all here,” I tease, closing a particularly unhelpful genealogy website that’s been about as useful as a chocolate teapot.
“I was just clicking through a good couple hundred pictures of both the Bakers and the Pahrump family trees, hoping to find some answers that don’t involve chocolate-related criminal activity.
” I wince a little because I haven’t exactly told Macy anything about our new mystery sister yet.
“So you’ve moved from stumbling over dead bodies to creating chocolate chaos?
Diversifying your disaster portfolio, I see,” Macy quips just as Emmie lands a platter of those scrumptious pumpkin spice French toast bites and another platter of her far too addicting toffee on the table.
The woman has a supernatural ability to appear with food whenever drama is about to unfold. It’s not a bad talent to have.
“You’re barking up the wrong family tree,” Macy continues. “You’re supposed to get me off the hook for murder one, not trace our family lineage back to the Mayflower .”
Jasper hikes a brow her way. “Why should she get you off the hook? Are you guilty?”
“You’re not funny,” she snips his way, before narrowing her eyes to laser-beam slits.
“We all know I didn’t kill him. I just had a manicure that day.
” She holds out her hands to reveal a French manicure but, in keeping with the season, her tips are orange.
“You think I would risk these beauties by way of dipping them in blood? Not even Heath Cullen was worth that kind of sacrifice.”
“The perfect alibi.” Leo chuckles. “I didn’t kill him, Your Honor. I just had my nails done. Salon knowledge leads to justice.”
“It worked for Elle Woods,” Emmie points out, snapping up a French toast bite. “What in the world did that man do to you, Macy?”
Macy’s face darkens like a thundercloud preparing to unleash its fury on unsuspecting picnic-goers.
“He cheated on me, lied to my face, and then stole a night’s deposit from my shop.
I hated him, and I’m not sorry he’s gone.
” She pauses for effect. “What I am sorry about is that he’s not still around so I can’t kick him in the cookies one more time.
Do you think the morgue would allow me to visit? ”
“ No ,” we all answer at once.
Both Jasper and Leo wince in perfect synchronicity, their hands drifting protectively toward their laps in an instinctive male defense mechanism that’s probably encoded in their DNA.
“Okay.” Jasper raises his hands in surrender. “Since the topic is at hand, let’s talk suspects. Detective Baker Wilder?” He nods my way, and I sigh with all the weight of someone who’s found way too many bodies in one lifetime. “Why don’t you lead with your suspects.”
“I don’t know if I have any real suspects other than Macy, but I did get a chance to speak to a few of the members who belonged to the same club as Heath,” I say, mentally organizing my very short list of people with motives to murder a ghost-hunting real estate developer.
And truth be told, I just said that bit about Macy to take a sisterly pot-shot at her.
Of course, I’ve got suspects—one of which might just be my other sister.
“What club?” Macy snips as if she’s had about enough of everything.
“The Beyond Belief Paranormal Club,” Emmie tells her. “You know, the group you just joined? The ones that caught the inn’s ghost on camera.”
“Oh right, that ghost.” Macy rolls her eyes.
“The one that looks exactly like my dear sister here. What a convenient coincidence.” She fixes me with a knowing smirk.
“Really, Bizzy? Hosting a homicide once a month wasn’t bringing in enough guests, so now you’re staging ghostly appearances?
Very entrepreneurial of you.” I knew I shouldn’t have bought that condo so close to Bizzy’s reign of deadly terror.
Now she’s adding fake supernatural marketing to the mix.
The property values are tanking by the minute.
I shoot her a look for even thinking it. “I am not staging ghostly appearances, Macy.”
“Sure, you’re not,” she says with exaggerated skepticism.
“Because it’s totally normal for a ghost to show up looking exactly like the inn’s owner.
What’s next, spectral room service? A haunted concierge desk?
” She looks to the rest of the table as if seeking co-conspirators.
“I’d swear on my life she’s been able to read my mind for years.
She’s a weirdo with capital everything! This is probably just her latest scheme involving smoke, mirrors, and a really good makeup artist.”
I bite back a smile. “I’d say none of that makes sense, but actually most of it does.
” With the exception of why that ghost might be my look-alike.
Although knowing my family’s track record with secrets, there’s probably a perfectly logical explanation that involves a scandal and poor decision-making on some male relative’s part.
Bizzy is such the village idiot. Macy sighs hard with the thought. Of course, everything I say makes sense. I’ve told her a hundred times. Elegant spa retreats and wine tastings bring in real money, not this carnival atmosphere she insists on creating. But does she listen? No .
Everyone at this table knows I can read minds sans my saucy sister. Not that her thoughts would change if she knew. I suspect they’d only get saucier.
“First suspect,” I press on without concern that Macy just called me the village idiot. “Buffy Butterwick. According to Hazel and Hammie Mae, she was seeing the deceased, things went south, and Heath started harassing her. I did see them going at each other’s throats the night of his murder.”
“She’s guilty, throw the book at her. I’m too busy for all this nonsense.” Macy nods to Jasper as if she’s just solved the case and might expect a medal for her brilliant detective work. “My sales have been down ten percent because of all this murder business.”
“A compelling motive for you to kill the next person who hurts your sales.” Leo points out with a grin. “Should we be worried about the seasonal pop-up shops?”
He knows my sister all too well.