Chapter 23
B uffy and I huddle over our respective phones, the blue glow illuminating our faces in the dim Halloween night like a pair of tech-obsessed ghosts.
The festival sounds fade into the background as we scroll through article after damning article about Hazel Hershey’s pharmaceutical past. Around our feet, our furry entourage forms a protective circle, eyeing us with varying degrees of curiosity and impatience.
What are the hoomans doing now? Sherlock wonders while his Dracula cape drags in the dirt as he tries to peer at my screen. Is it a game? Is it about treats? I bet it’s about treats!
It’s clearly about the murder, you canine simpleton, Fish counters, her witch’s hat now tilted at a crooked angle that somehow manages to convey more disdain than her actual expression.
Though why hoomans insist on staring at tiny glowing rectangles instead of just asking me who did it is beyond comprehension. I knew it was Hazel from the start.
Did not! Fudge protests, his ghost costume now completely tangled around his back legs, giving him the appearance of wearing translucent bloomers. You said it was the squirrel who lives in the oak tree.
That was a joke, you gullible ghost sheet.
Fish’s tail twitches with irritation. A concept obviously too sophisticated for your kibble-sized brain.
Just kidding. You’re adorable, and I’m secretly hoping we’ll become a trio soon.
I’m pretty sure you and I can outwit Sherlock Bones here every day of the week.
Think of the snacks we’ll have, the sunbeams we’ll steal, and the cuddles by the hearth.
I nod her way. I knew Fish had a heart. I’m just glad she shows it now and again.
Skittles, Buffy’s labradoodle, circles us with nervous energy as her fluffy head darts between our faces and the surrounding festival. Is the bad person still here? Should we be guarding? I’m very good at guarding. Buffy says I’m a natural protector. Also, does anyone else smell funnel cakes?
Hazel Hershey’s pharmaceutical career isn’t as stable as she’d like everyone to believe.
According to several industry forums and a recent article I’ve found, she was let go from Meridian Pharmaceuticals six months ago amid allegations of misappropriating company research for personal projects—specifically a medication called Serenix that could induce hallucinations or temporary paralysis.
Her paranormal YouTube channel isn’t just a hobby—it’s her primary source of income. And Heath was about to destroy that, too.
“I think she killed him,” I whisper, the pieces falling into place. “She made him think she was holding one of his own prop knives—except she swapped it for a real one.”
Buffy’s eyes widen. “We need to tell your husband. Now.”
No sooner do we step out of the shed than the sounds of the Halloween festival wash over us with its cheerful music, cackling laughter, and the distant screams from the haunted house. It all seems surreal now, knowing a killer is walking among the costumed crowd.
“We need to be on the lookout for Hazel,” I pant into the night and my breath forms a cloud around my head.
“No way.” Buffy shakes her head emphatically, her zombie librarian makeup making her look like she’s mid-decomposition despite her very alive and urgent tone. “You’re a new mother, Bizzy. She’s obviously dangerous. I’m not going to put you in her line of sight. We need to find your husband.”
“He’s at the cottage,” I frown in that direction, mentally calculating the time it would take to get there and back—and it’s time Hazel could use to escape or worse.
A familiar figure catches my eye as she moves through the crowd.
“There she is.” The words escape me with a gasp as I nod toward the haunted woods, this year’s newest attraction to the Fright Night Spooktacular.
It’s a stretch of forest on the western edge of the inn’s property, transformed into a nightmare playground where boogeymen (mostly local teenagers in surprisingly professional makeup) lurk behind trees and jump out at willing victims.
The whole concept was Jordy and Macy’s brainchild, because nothing says I love you like traumatizing the town’s population together.
Those two are to Halloween what the Grinch is to Christmas, except they don’t steal the holiday—they just make it exponentially more terrifying.
But, I made sure that the area is heavily monitored to prevent anyone under thirteen from wandering in and developing lifelong therapy needs.
“Let’s go,” I say, pulling Buffy along with more strength than my sleep-deprived body should reasonably possess, and the furry among us fall in line behind us like an adorable, mismatched army.
We catch up to Hazel at the entrance to the haunted woods, where she’s examining a map of the attraction with the intense focus of someone planning an innocent stroll through fake horror.
“ Hazel ,” I call out, injecting my voice with a friendly casualness that deserves an Academy Award. “Fancy running into you here.”
She turns our way and her steampunk ghost hunter costume catches the festival lights in a symphony of metallic accents.
The brass buckles and copper gears adorning her fitted Victorian-style jacket gleam ominously, while the leather utility belt slung across her hips holds an array of invented paranormal detection devices—gauges with quivering needles, small vials of mysterious liquids, and what appears to be a modified compass.
A pair of oversized goggles with tinted lenses rests atop her spiky red hair, and leather gloves with intricate clockwork stitched across the knuckles complete the elaborate ensemble.
Her face shifts quickly from surprise to a carefully arranged smile.
“Bizzy—Buffy? Enjoying the festival?” She blinks our way as if we startled her, and I have no doubt we did .
“Immensely,” Buffy says, her tone matching my forced cheerfulness. “Nothing says Halloween fun like discovering pharmaceutical scandals and murder motives.”
Okay, so I probably would have had a softer approach. I shoot Buffy a side-glance because of it.
Hazel’s smile freezes solid. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
“We know about Serenix,” I say, keeping my voice low enough that passing festival-goers can’t hear, but firm enough that Hazel understands we’re not bluffing. “We know you were let go from Meridian Pharmaceuticals.”
Buffy nods. “We know about the clinical trials you falsified, the side effects you covered up.”
“We know all about the six people who died because of your manipulated data,” I continue, watching Hazel’s face as it shifts from curious to irate in a single bound.
Fudge gives a sharp bark, his small body vibrating with indignation. She’s a bad person! Heath must have found out everything!
“That’s right.” Buffy nods as if she understands exactly what Fudge is saying, which makes me wonder if I’m not the only mind reader in this little confrontation.
“Heath discovered all of it, didn’t he?” Buffy asks, her voice stronger now. “He threatened to expose you.”
Hazel’s expression hardens, her elaborate costume suddenly looking less like a fun Halloween outfit and more like armor at this point. “This is ridiculous. You have no proof of anything.”
“We have plenty,” I counter, holding up my phone where one of the medical ethics blog posts is still displayed. “According to this, you were the lead researcher on Serenix, an anti-anxiety medication that showed serious adverse reactions in early trials.”
Buffy nods. “But instead of reporting those reactions, you buried the data, marking participants as non-compliant with study protocols to keep them out of the final analysis.”
“Six months after the drug was approved based on your falsified research,” I say, watching the color drain from Hazel’s face, “six patients died from complications that your original data had actually predicted. ”
“Meridian arranged for you to quietly resign before the FDA investigation gained momentum,” Buffy adds. “They let you pursue other opportunities instead of facing criminal charges.”
“Your YouTube channel isn’t just a hobby,” I drive the point home. “It’s your financial lifeline, your only source of professional credibility left.”
Buffy’s chest expands with her next breath. “And Heath, with his habit of digging into everyone’s past, had uncovered the whole story.”
Hazel’s composure cracks for a moment before she reconstructs her mask of indignation. “This is absurd. You’re making wild accusations based on internet rumors and blog posts.”
“Are we?” I ask, keeping my voice steady. “Because Heath’s search history will confirm everything. And I’m betting the FDA would be very interested in reopening their investigation with this new information.”
“I didn’t kill Heath,” Hazel insists, but her voice lacks conviction. “If anyone had a motive, it was Buffy.”
Buffy inches back, surprise written across her zombie makeup. “What?”
“There was evidence at the scene,” Hazel says, a calculating gleam in her eye. “Evidence pointing directly to you.”
I pull up my phone again, this time opening a photo from the crime scene that I snapped that night with Heath lying on the ground, the knife protruding from his chest. I turn the screen toward Hazel, whose eyes narrow as she studies it.
“See that?” she says, pointing to something on the screen. “Look at the glitter.”
Sure enough, there’s a scattering of green sparkles across the corpse, glinting in the camera flash—the same sparkles I remember noticing the night of the murder.
“There’s green glitter all over him,” Hazel points out triumphantly. “That means Buffy did it. She was wearing those green ridiculous antennae.”
She’s lying, Fish yowls. Okay, so maybe she’s not lying, but she clearly set the woman up. She’s desperately scrambling for a scapegoat.
“It’s not true. I didn’t do this,” Buffy protests, her voice rising in panic. “I don’t know how that glitter got all over him. But then it got all over me, too.”