Chapter 22
T he Fright Night Halloween Spooktacular is in full swing as I weave through the crowd in search of Buffy, feeling like a detective in a very elaborate costume party, which, let’s face it, pretty much describes my entire life at this point. Happy Halloween, indeed.
My towering Bride of Frankenstein’s hair proves surprisingly useful as a beacon, allowing people to spot me from three zip codes away while simultaneously ensuring that low-hanging decorations become my natural enemy.
A nearly full moon hangs overhead like nature’s own spotlight, its silvery light competing with the festival’s artificial illumination in what appears to be some kind of celestial lighting war.
The temperature has dropped just enough to add a chill to the air that has nothing to do with Halloween effects and everything to do with Maine in October, reminding us that winter is coming whether we’re ready or not.
Costumed festival-goers swirl around me like autumn leaves caught in a breeze—zombies and superheroes and more than a few provocatively dressed cats mingling with princesses and pirates and at least three people dressed as avocado toast, because apparently, nothing is sacred anymore.
I spot Buffy outside near the back of the haunted house, standing eerily still in her librarian-turned-zombie costume.
Her normally sleek dark hair has been teased into a wild mess, and her makeup gives her a convincingly undead pallor, complete with artificial wounds that look disturbingly realistic.
And she happens to be staring at the exact spot where Heath’s body was found.
Her expression is unreadable beneath all that zombie makeup.
My feet whisk me in that direction just as Fish, Sherlock, and Fudge materialize beside me, having apparently decided that following me is more interesting than begging for treats from festival attendees.
Sherlock’s Dracula cape has slipped sideways, making him look more like he’s wearing a particularly fashionable black bib than embodying the terror of Transylvania.
And for all purposes, a bib is far more practical on him.
Are we sneaking up on someone? Sherlock barks while crouching low in what he clearly believes is stealth mode but actually makes him look like he’s about to pounce on a squirrel. I love sneaking! I’m so good at it! Wait, who are we sneaking up on?
We’re not sneaking, Fish counters with a yowl. Not with you barking up a storm. We’re investigating. Try to look less like you’re having a seizure and more like you belong here. And cut back on the woofing, would you?
Heath was once standing right there, Fudge observes sadly, looking at the spot where Buffy is staring. He was practicing his ghost stories before telling them to the crowd. He had really good dramatic timing.
“Buffy?” I call out, not wanting to startle her—especially not when she’s standing at what amounts to a crime scene.
She whirls around, and her hand flies to her chest in surprise as if she’s just been caught doing something far more suspicious than staring at a murder scene .
“Bizzy!” she pants out my name in a panic. “You scared the living heck out of me.” Her eyes dart past my shoulder as if checking to see if I’m alone or if I’ve brought backup in the form of armed law enforcement officers. “What are you doing way out here?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” I reply, keeping my tone light despite the gravity of the situation and the fact that we’re having this conversation over the exact spot where Heath Cullen was stabbed to death.
“Not many people choose to spend their Halloween hanging around a murder scene. Most folks stick to bobbing for apples and candy corn.”
Buffy lifts her chin and her eyes close involuntarily. “I was just thinking. About Heath. About everything.” She tosses her hands in the air as if she were surrendering, and with any luck, she might.
“Were you thinking about your secret identity?” I ask, deciding to go straight for the jugular. Subtle interrogation is for people who didn’t have a baby a month ago and therefore get more than three consecutive hours of sleep.
The color drains from Buffy’s face, washing out even her zombie makeup until she looks like she might actually become an undead herself. “Bizzy, what are you talking about?”
“I know Heath discovered something about you,” I say, watching her reaction. “Something about a different name, a different identity. He was blackmailing you, wasn’t he?”
For a moment, I think she might deny it or even run. Instead, her shoulders slump in defeat. “How did you find out?”
“Let’s just say I have my sources,” I reply cryptically, which isn’t even a lie since mind-reading and pet communication definitely count as sources in my book, even if they wouldn’t hold up in court.
Okay, calm down, she thinks to herself. Bizzy might know something, but there’s no way she knows everything.
“I want you to tell me everything,” I counter, echoing her thought, but she doesn’t know that.
Buffy glances nervously over her shoulder as if Heath’s ghost might materialize and continue blackmailing her from beyond the grave. “Not here. Someone might hear us.”
She leads me to a small equipment shed well beyond the haunted house, far enough from the main festival to ensure privacy but close enough that we can still hear the cheerful chaos.
The structure is barely big enough for two people, but it offers a reprieve from prying eyes and ears.
It’s smaller than my closet, hosts an assortment of rusted-out tools, and holds the scent of musk and fresh soil.
“My real name is Elizabeth Butterwick,” she admits once we’re inside, her voice barely above a whisper. “Or it was, up until recently when I changed it to Buffy Butterwick.”
“Why the change?” I ask, trying to keep the judgment out of my voice.
“I was in a relationship with someone dangerous,” she says, her eyes darting to the door as if expecting him to materialize at any moment.
“When I finally got away, I changed everything—my name, my appearance, my career. I moved from city to city for a while, never staying in one place too long. Then I found Cider Cove. It felt safe here, quiet.”
“Until Heath discovered your secret,” I prompt.
She nods, wiping away a tear that threatens to smear her zombie makeup.
“I don’t know how he found out. One day, he showed me an old driver’s license—my old license—with my real name and picture.
He said he’d been researching the paranormal team and stumbled across some inconsistencies in my background. ”
“And he threatened to expose you?”
“He said if I didn’t help him convince Hammie Mae to sell him the farm, he’d tell everyone my real identity,” Buffy confirms. “He knew my ex was still looking for me. All it would take is one post on social media with my real name and location, and everything I’ve built here would be over.”
That explains the tense conversation I witnessed at the festival. “So you agreed to help him pressure Hammie Mae?”
“No,” Buffy says with her eyes filling with fire.
“I outright refused . I told him I’d rather take my chances and run again than help him bully the poor woman.
She’s been nothing but kind to me since I moved here.
” A visible lump forms in her throat and she swallows it down.
“That’s when he got really nasty. He said if I didn’t cooperate, he’d not only expose me, but would make sure my ex knew exactly where to find me. He said he’d all but draw him a map. ”
“Is that why you and Heath were arguing the night he died? Right before he was killed?”
Buffy nods miserably. “I was begging him to reconsider. I even offered him money—all my life’s savings—every single dime. But he said it wasn’t about the money anymore. It was about...” She hesitates.
“About what?” I press.
“About proving he was right,” she finishes. “He mentioned something about the paranormal club. He said we were all a bunch of fakes. He said Hazel had been lying to everyone, faking evidence, and that he was going to expose her, too.”
Fish, who has been silently judging our surroundings from the doorway, suddenly straightens.
Someone’s coming, she yowls with fright. I can get away easily enough, but you’re stuck here, Bizzy, unless you make a run for it!
Skittles comes bounding up, Buffy’s faithful labradoodle with her ginger curls bouncing as she skids to a stop at the shed door. Her eyes dart between Buffy and me, and there’s unmistakable concern in her doggy expression.
What’s happening? she barks frantically. Are you in danger? They’re not trying to pin Heath’s murder on you, are they?
Buffy gives her a reassuring pat. “Don’t worry. Everything is all right.”
I inch back at the exchange.
It’s as though she could read her dog’s mind, too, although most pet parents are just that intuitive.
I’ve seen the same thing with Emmie and her sweet pooches—that uncanny ability to know exactly what their pet is thinking without the benefit of supernatural abilities.
In my opinion, that’s a mark of a good owner.
“You were saying about Hazel?” I prompt, steering us back to the potential murderer at hand.
“Hazel was afraid of losing her YouTube channel,” Buffy says, absently stroking Skittles’ fur. “Heath was threatening to expose how she faked most of her paranormal evidence.”
“I don’t get it. It’s not like she needs the funds,” I say with a shrug. “She’s pretty big in the pharmaceutical field.”
Buffy shakes her head. “I don’t know about that. I heard her mention something to Heath over the summer, something about thank goodness she still has her channel or she’d be sunk.”
I inch back one more time with my Spidey senses tingling. “What else do you know about her?”
“Not much. I’m still sort of new here,” Buffy admits. She bites her lip, then pulls out her phone. “But after what happened with Heath, I started doing some research. I guess I should have kept digging.”
I pull out my own phone almost in sync with hers. We both tap and scroll for a moment before simultaneously gasping and looking up at each other in horror.
And just like that, there’s another motive on the table.