Chapter 20 #2
Macy scoffs. “If I killed everyone who negatively impacted my sales, half of Cider Cove would be floating face-down in the harbor,” she shoots back.
“And yes, I would start with those seasonal pop-up shops that sell knockoffs of my products every holiday season. And I’m not above taking down Two Old Broads either.
” Speaking of which, Christmas is coming up.
I should probably restock my bullets. Mom and Georgie had better watch their wonky quilted backs.
My eyes widen her way and she growls in response.
Jasper offers me a pained smile that suggests he’s mentally noting to never get on Macy’s bad side—or her business competition list. “Anyone else?”
“There’s Hazel Hershey,” I say, recalling Hammie Mae’s revelations at the farm—before we got permanently banned from chocolate establishments.
“Hammie Mae revealed that Heath caught Hazel faking paranormal evidence and was threatening to expose her, which would ruin her YouTube channel and reputation.”
“I wouldn’t kill because of a YouTube channel,” Leo says, reaching for a piece of toffee.
“I would,” Macy is quick to say. “Most YouTube channels are monetized. He was trying to get her where it hurts—right in the analytics.”
“Could be, but she works in pharmaceuticals,” I say. “I don’t think money is a problem for her.”
“Yes, but pride is universal,” Emmie points out with the wisdom of someone who’s seen enough Food Network drama to understand that reputation is everything. “And from what I’ve seen of Hazel, she’s got that in spades.”
Jasper purses his lips as if he’s mentally reviewing evidence and finding it slightly less substantial than he’d like. “And Hammie Mae?”
I press my lips tight and glance at Macy because this is where things get complicated.
I haven’t told her we might have another sister, or that I’m almost convinced it might be Hammie Mae.
That particular bombshell deserves its own special delivery system, preferably one that includes restraints and tranquilizers for Macy’s inevitable reaction.
“She had motive.” I sigh hard, knowing full well I might be throwing one sister under the bus to save another.
“Heath was a realtor and he wanted to buy up her farm and develop it into condos or something. He was trying to force her hand. He said things could get very uncomfortable for her family if she didn’t reconsider. ”
“Arrest them all,” Macy says as she rises to her feet and belts out a whistle that could summon dogs from three counties. Candy runs up and, before we know it, they both disappear into the night like a blond hurricane and her fluffy familiar.
“Macy Baker, prosecutor, judge, and jury,” Leo says, watching her go. “Defense attorneys tremble before her harsh but efficient justice system.”
“How’s the hunt for your sister going?” Jasper asks, steering us back to my laptop exploration.
“Like this,” I say, opening my laptop once again and turning my screen so that the rest of the table can see it.
“I’ve spent the last hour scrolling through pictures.
” I press a key and the page refreshes, drawing a gasp from the three of them.
“What?” I say, turning the screen my way and gasping myself.
“Bizzy, that woman looks just like you,” Emmie says, scooting next to me to take a better look. “But this picture looks ancient.” She squints at the screen. “It says her name is?—”
“My great-aunt Edna.” I gasp again. “I know exactly who she is.”
The sepia-toned photograph shows a woman in her twenties standing in front of what appears to be an earlier incarnation of the Country Cottage Inn.
Her dark hair is styled in finger waves popular in the 1920s, and she’s wearing a drop-waist dress typical of the flapper era.
But what’s most striking, and most unsettling, is her face.
It’s mine.
Not similar, not reminiscent, but an exact duplicate of my own features, down to the slightly crooked smile and the tiny scar on my chin from a childhood bicycle accident that I definitely didn’t have in the 1920s. So odd.
“That’s...” Jasper seems at a loss for words, a rare occurrence for my articulate detective husband.
“Uncanny,” Leo supplies.
“Downright spooky,” Emmie adds, leaning closer to the screen. “Is this who’s haunting the inn?”
I stare at the image and a chill creeps up my spine despite the warm evening—and not the good kind of chill you get from excellent air conditioning.
“Edna Pahrump died in 1928,” I say slowly, each word feeling heavier than the last. “She was twenty-three. There was some kind of scandal, but my grandmother would never talk about it, which, knowing my family, probably means it involved at least three felonies and a dance number. All I know is she died here, at the inn. That and the fact my mother mentioned there was family lore of her reading people’s minds.
They thought she was a fortune teller of some kind.
I can’t believe I just remembered that.”
Emmie gasps again. “Bizzy, I bet she was telesensual like you. That must be where you get your gift from.”
I nod as tears begin to well in my eyes.
It’s true. My gift is something called transmundane, further classified as telesensual.
There are other gifts that fall under the transmundane umbrella like seeing the dead, seeing into tomorrow, and even time travel.
I guess you could say I got off pretty easy with just the ability to pry into a little gray matter.
“How did you find this picture?” Leo asks as he squints into it.
“I was searching the Baker family archives online, looking for any clues about potential half-siblings my father might have left scattered around New England,” I explain.
“I guess when I refreshed the page it went straight to this old newspaper archive feature. It looks like the article this photo came from was about the inn’s grand reopening after a renovation in 1927. ”
“Why was your great-aunt at the inn’s reopening?” Jasper asks, his brow furrowing in that way that tells me his mental gears are turning at full speed and probably generating enough heat to power a small appliance. He wants answers, and so do I.
“That’s the thing,” I say, scrolling down to show more of the article with the enthusiasm of someone who’s just discovered buried treasure, or at least buried family drama. “According to this, she wasn’t just attending—she worked here. She was the manager.”
“Just like you,” Emmie whispers, her eyes wide in a way that usually precedes either profound revelations or complete nervous breakdowns.
A gust of wind sweeps across the patio, scattering fallen leaves and sending a ripple through the candle flames on our table. In the distance, the festival lights flicker, too, as if in response.
“Bizzy,” Jasper says slowly, “you don’t think there’s a connection between your great-aunt’s ghost, Heath’s murder, and this mysterious half-sister you’re looking for, do you?”
The kicker is, that sounded completely insane, but in the end, might just be true.
“I don’t know. I was wondering that, too.
But right now, I’d like to think about something concrete, like that phone.
Did you ever get into it? And what about those fingerprints?
” I ask, because when your sister starts mentally stockpiling ammunition and your family tree resembles a crime scene, regular detective work feels like a vacation.
“No to the phone, but my men are on it. And as for the fingerprints.” Jasper’s chest expands. “It had a clear set of prints, but they didn’t match anyone who belonged to that club. I don’t know what to think.”
Secrets, sisters, and scandals buried deep in the past are all swirling together like ingredients in one of Emmie’s more complicated recipes.
And here I am, nearly a century later, running the same inn where my doppelg?nger great-aunt worked, finding bodies with the same regularity that other people find loose change in their couch cushions.
History has a funny way of repeating itself at the Country Cottage Inn, and apparently, so does the Baker family’s talent for attracting murder, mystery, and general mayhem.
Some families pass down heirloom jewelry or secret recipes.
We pass down supernatural abilities and an uncanny knack for stumbling into crime scenes.
As the sun dips below the horizon, and the ocean turns a steely gray, I can’t shake the feeling that all the answers I’m looking for—about my sister, about Heath’s murder, about the ghost—are converging, drawing together like moths to a flame.
Or a killer to their hunting ground.