Chapter 4
The next morning arrives with all the subtlety of a horror movie.
Dark clouds roll in from the Atlantic, turning the October sky the color of old pewter.
Coastal Maine knows how to do ominous, and today it’s just plain showing off.
The air smells like impending doom mixed with pumpkin spice, apple cider, wet leaves, and that particular ocean-salt tang that means a storm is coming to ruin everyone’s hair.
I’m currently seated inside Once Upon a Thyme restaurant in Storybook Hollow, trying to focus on Savvy’s scrumptious menu presentation instead of the family group chat exploding on my phone.
The restaurant has been transformed into Halloween headquarters.
Fake cobwebs drape from every surface, dancing skeletons hang from the ceiling, and mechanical bats swoop at regular intervals, causing at least one child per minute to shriek with delight or terror.
I won’t lie, both of those warm my wicked heart.
The breakfast spread laid before us is Savvy’s vision made edible.
She’s ordered one of everything from the current menu for comparison purposes, which means our table looks like we’re feeding a small island nation.
And when I say from the current menu, I mean that Savvy is about to make a point regarding the food we’re trying to pass as edible.
Suffice it to say, she hasn’t worked her magic on the menu in this establishment just yet.
There’s a stack of pancakes that could double as a mattress, eggs Benedict swimming in hollandaise that’s definitely from a packet, and hash browns that appear to have given up on life sometime during the Carter administration.
Another photo shoot, Fish sighs from her position on a velvet cushion near the window. Don’t these people have enough pictures of us? I’ve given them forty-seven different poses. My face hurts from looking majestic.
It’s true. No matter where Fish and Chip land, they’re mobbed by the masses. And no matter how much they might complain, I doubt they’d want it any other way. Or at least I hope not.
Eh, either way, I make it up to them in snacks throughout the day. So it’s win-win for everyone.
I’m giving them Blue Steel! Chip meows, sucking in his considerable gut. Or wait, is this Magnum? I can never remember which look is which.
That’s heartburn, Chip, Fish corrects. You’re giving them heartburn.
A lady must always be camera-ready, Cupcake adds, delicately arranging her pom-poms for optimal fluffiness. It’s called standards. You felines might consider developing some.
I can’t help but chuckle.
Only Ree, Georgie, and Bizzy know about my ability to hear these furry conversations, and I plan to keep it that way. The last thing I need is people thinking I’m crazier than someone who buys a murder-prone theme park for a dollar. Ironically, that would be me as well.
“Listen up, sugar,” Savvy says, pushing aside a plate of what might charitably be called bacon but looks more like a few strips of leather.
“We’re turning this food from forgettable to worth the drive from three states over!
Your pretzel stand? Forget those frozen sadness twists.
We’re doing authentic Bavarian pretzels with maple bourbon mustard and pumpkin beer cheese that’ll make people stand in a one-hour line! ”
Savvy is clearly in her element. Her platinum hair catches the light, her Southern accent making everything sound like edible poetry. She picks up a corn dog from the sampler platter, examining it like a scientist studying a failed experiment.
“This,” she waves it for emphasis, “is a crime against corn and dogs. The churros?” She pokes at one with her fork.
“They’re sweating grease like they’re nervous about doing some serious time in prison.
” She shakes her head. “Apple cider churros with salted caramel and candied pecans? Now that’s what we need.
Your corn dogs are getting the Korean treatment—sweet potato coating with gochujang aioli that’ll blow their minds.
And from now on, the popcorn will come in three additional varieties: truffle parmesan for the fancy folks, maple bacon for the comfort food lovers, and ghost pepper for the people who hate their taste buds. ”
“This all sounds expensive,” I start, but she waves me off.
“Expensive is relative. Dead customers are bad for business. Good food keeps them alive and coming back.”
“That’s a low bar, but I’ll take it.”
“Speaking of keeping things alive...” She gives a wicked grin. “How is it going with Detective Dreamy? Y’all looked cozy yesterday, even with a corpse at your feet.”
I nearly choke on my coffee, which tastes like someone described coffee to someone who’d never experienced joy. I can’t wait for Savvy to work her magic on the java around here.
“Dexter and I are just getting started. I think we’re taking things slow. Like really slow. Maybe retroactive slow.”
“Slow?” Savvy laughs a sound like wind chimes in a hurricane. “Honey, with your park’s body count, the two of you had better speed things up. What’s it gonna take for you two to generate some heat? Another murder? Two? Should we schedule them in advance?”
I shoot her a look for even going there.
“We’ve had two kisses,” I’m quick to defend my non-existent relationship.
“Two kisses and three corpses. That’s some ratio,” she shoots back. “Most people get dinner and a movie. You get death and detective work.”
She takes a bite of the eggs Benedict and immediately makes a face. “Lord, have mercy, this hollandaise tastes like someone mixed mayo with regret. No wonder people keep dying here—they’re trying to escape the food.”
I roll my eyes at that one. But let’s face it, the woman has a point.
“The food doesn’t kill people,” I protest.
“Not directly, not yet, but it might inspire homicidal thoughts. Look, sugar, when I’m done with this menu, people will be willing to commit murder just to get a reservation. The good kind of murder. The metaphorical kind.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It’s better than the literal kind you’ve been hosting.
” She pulls out more menu cards, spreading them out like a deck of deliciousness.
“Now, the candy stores need work, too. Saltwater taffy is fine, but what about bourbon caramel apples? Maple bacon fudge? Pumpkin spice everything because basic people have money, too?”
My phone buzzes again with family drama.
McKenna: Dad, did you seriously kill someone at Mom’s park???
Riley: Every social media site says you’re a person of interest.
Clyde: Your mother’s park is cursed. I’m innocent!
McKenna: Yeah, right!
Josie: Girls, no one killed anyone. Probably.
Riley: PROBABLY???
Clyde: See? Even your mother admits it’s a death trap.
Josie: Clyde, you’re literally AT the death trap right now.
McKenna: Can you two please stop murdering people? It’s so freaking embarrassing.
Riley: My roommate thinks we’re in the mafia now.
Clyde: We’re not in the mafia. Your mother just attracts corpses.
Josie: Like you attract yoga instructors?
McKenna: MOM!
Riley: DAD! She’s right.
Clyde: This is why we’re divorced.
“Family kerfuffle?” Savvy asks, reading my expression.
“My daughters think I’m running a murder park.”
She bats her lashes my way. “Aren’t you?”
“Not intentionally!”
The restaurant door slams open with enough force to make the mechanical bats have a seizure.
“There you are!” Delora Drake stalks in wearing a plum-colored pantsuit.
Her silver hair is twisted into its usual helmet of disapproval.
She looks like someone personally offended her by existing.
“The cats that apparently run this place are needed in Everwhirl Hollow. Morning Coffee & Chaos wants them camera-ready in twenty minutes.”
She doesn’t even look at Fish and Chip, just vaguely gestures in their direction like they’re furniture that needs moving.
“Everwhirl Hollow?” I ask. “Our mysterious garden where nature has reclaimed the paths, and everything feels just a little bit dangerous? It’s great for Halloween vibes, actually.
The crew is going to love those fog-shrouded gazebos and the way the morning light filters through the overgrown arches and looks as if it’s threatening all of humanity. ”
“Perfect for television then.” She turns on her orthopedic heel. “Try not to trip over any bodies on your way over.”
“That was one time!” I call after her. “Okay, twice. Three times max!”
Savvy stands, smoothing her apron. “I’d better go powder my nose. Those crew members are hotter than a jalapeno in July, and a lady should look her best when surrounded by attractive men with steady jobs.” She whistles for Cupcake, and the two of them head for the door.
The restaurant door bursts open again before I can respond. This time it’s my chaos crew.
Bizzy Baker Wilder rushes in, her shoulder-length dark hair whipping around her face, denim blue eyes wide with excitement.
Bizzy just so happens to be Ree’s daughter and she happens to own the Country Cottage Inn where I’m currently residing.
She may not admit it, but she’s sort of a murder magnet herself.
“I hear there’s a homicide that needs investigating!” she practically shouts as if she’s calling bingo.
I’ll admit, she looks a touch too gleeful, but I can’t blame her. Murder is practically in her blood by now. Have I mentioned she’s married to a hot homicide detective? Oh, and she just so happens to share my supernatural quirk as well.
We’re both something called transmundane, further classified as telesensual, which means we can read minds. And while I only have the ability to read the minds of animals, Bizzy has the misfortune to listen in on just about everyone’s gray matter.
Every time I feel sorry for myself, I just think of Bizzy and know it can be worse. Kidding! Sort of.
Bizzy nods my way. “It can always be worse.”
See?
Ree follows, looking resigned but carrying her trademark notebook that she’s used to jot down the who, where, when, and why of our last two cases.
Georgie brings up the rear in a kaftan that looks to be made entirely of crime scene tape and fake blood spatters.
Fashion forward or fashion crime? With Georgie, it’s always both.
“So,” Georgie says, pulling up a chair and immediately reaching for the bacon, “murder number what is this now? I’m losing count. We need a scoreboard.”
“We don’t know if it’s a murder. It could be natural causes,” I insist. “Heart attack. Stroke. Severe allergic reaction to morning television or my ex-husband.”
All three women raise their eyebrows my way.
“At your park?” Bizzy asks. “The place where murder is basically turning into a seasonal event? Like, spring, summer, fall, murder?”
“We’re investigating, aren’t we?” Ree says, already making notes.
“Obviously,” Georgie agrees, now assembling what appears to be a bacon sandwich using pancakes as bread. Hey? Now that’s a thought I should pass along to Savvy. “I already have theories,” Georgie continues. “And snacks. Theories work better with snacks.”
“Well, load up on the snacks anyway,” I say as I nod to the food. “We need to grab Fish and Chip and high-tail it to Everwhirl Hollow. The morning show waits for no one.”
Of course, it doesn’t, Fish mutters. The masses require distraction.
We are the distraction, Chip says proudly.
You are the liability, Fish corrects. I’m the reason we’re still employable.
Please. Chip flicks his tail. They adore us. We’re the face of this operation. We’re brand assets! Whose faces are on those popcorn buckets out there? Those pricey sweatshirts with all the glitter? Whose cat ears are the masses wearing as they wander around the park like zombies?
Chip is so right. And we can’t seem to keep the merch in stock. He forgot to mention the mugs, keychains, purses, backpacks, mini backpacks, souvenir cups, stuffed animals, and enamel trading pins.
Please, Fish chortles, you once got stuck in a cereal box.
It was limited-edition packaging! Chip insists.
“Let’s go, you two,” I say, heading their way.
Fish exhales. Wonderful. Another opportunity to be admired by people with questionable taste and a dangerous fondness for costumes. Please don’t let there be hats involved.
If it’s a good hat, I’m in, Chip says. I have range.
Fish chuffs at the thought. You would wear a lampshade if it came with snacks.
Don’t threaten me with opportunity, Chip says with a swish of his furry orange tail.
The morning is shaping up to be another disaster, but at least this time I have backup. Even if that backup is more interested in the food than the investigation.