Chapter 4
I’m starting to think my theme park has a serious PR problem when it comes to keeping people alive.
Two murders in two weeks. At this rate, I should rebrand as Huckleberry Hollow Homicide Park.
The Sugar Crypt tent reeks of cinnamon, brown sugar, and freshly spilled blood—autumn’s least appetizing combo.
Fog machines churn out mist that mingles with woodsmoke, while the haunted mood playing sounds an awful lot like a death march.
Halloween lights bathe everything in ominous shades of orange, which would be festive if I weren’t staring at a corpse.
Because that’s exactly what Dilly Thatcher has become—a very dead, very frosting-covered corpse. Dilly is still face-down in Savvy’s Rest in Peaches coffin cake, and the irony isn’t lost on me.
And standing over her with a marble rolling pin that’s sporting a fresh coat of what definitely isn’t strawberry sauce?
Is Delora the Demented, AKA this shindig’s appointed event planner?
The woman grips that kitchen weapon with the focus of someone who’s just committed murder and is seriously considering an encore.
My scream could wake the dead, which would be helpful right about now.
MURDER! Fish and Chip yowl in perfect harmony in my arms, creating a feline Greek chorus of doom. DEATH BY DESSERT!
There goes the evening entertainment, Chip adds with his typical food-focused priorities. And probably the rest of that cake, too. What a waste of perfectly good peaches.
The sound of sensible shoes trampling over cobblestones announces the arrival of my senior backup squad. Ree and Georgie burst through the tent flap with the enthusiasm of first responders who’ve been training for this exact moment their entire lives.
“What happened?” Ree gasps, clutching a pumpkin spice whoopie pie as if it were a shield. “Did someone—OH MY WORD!”
Georgie skids to a halt, the cat ears on her head tilting at a dangerous angle. “Is that Dilly? In the cake? Well, that’s one way to become one with your dessert. Very hands-on approach to food styling.”
“This isn’t dinner theater, Georgie,” I manage, my voice slightly higher than a dog whistle.
Delora raises the rolling pin—whether in shock or self-defense, I can’t tell—and both Ree and Georgie dive behind a nearby hay bale with the grace of combat veterans.
“She’s got a weapon!” Ree shrieks from behind her straw fortress.
“And poor impulse control!” Georgie adds with a shriek.
“And questionable judgment,” I add, scooping up Chip and holding him close. He’s not nearly as agile as Fish, thus the reason he’s acting as my furry little shield.
The tent flap explodes inward again, and Detective Dexter Drake bursts in with his hand hovering over his gun and an expression set to apocalypse mode.
“Sheriff’s department! EVERYONE FREEZE! “
And sweet mercy, even in the middle of a murder scene, the man looks good enough to make handcuffs seem like a romantic gesture.
His jet-black hair catches the Halloween lights, his storm-blue eyes scan the scene with professional intensity, and his body fills out that uniform in ways that should require permits.
“Josie?” His gaze lands on me, and relief flickers across his face before morphing into something decidedly more laced with irritation.
“I didn’t do it!” I throw my hands up so fast, I nearly launch Chip into a towering candy corn cheesecake.
“Neither did I,” Delora protests, though she’s still clutching that rolling pin with a death grip.
Drake’s head swivels toward her voice, and his eyes widen to approximately the size of whoopie pies—and twice as delicious. “Mom?”
The collective gasp from Ree, Georgie, and me could be heard clear in the next county.
“Did he just say Mom?” Georgie stage-whispers from behind her hay bale. “As in, the homicidal maniac holding the bloody rolling pin is the woman who birthed him?”
There goes the wedding, Fish deadpans. Hard to plan seating arrangements when the groom’s mother might be doing time.
Does this mean we can’t eat the evidence? Chip asks with genuine curiosity, and more than a genuine note of disappointment. Because that cake still looks partially salvageable, and I have standards about food waste.
Me, too, but I draw the line at sharing with a corpse.
Drake holsters his weapon and approaches the body with professional efficiency, though his jaw ticks in a way that screams family drama incoming. And I’ll be honest, I am so here for it.
“Who is she?” he asks, getting down on one knee and checking for a pulse we all know he won’t find.
“Dilly Thatcher,” I’m quick to tell him. “Half of the Sugar now we’re moving up to murder. It’s called career advancement.
I just hope they don’t expect overtime pay in premium tuna, Chip muses. Our budget is more discount kibble than gourmet seafood.
He’s not kidding.
I’m about to step away when I notice a smattering of kitchen supplies lying on the ground near the body.
It looks as if they fell when the cake was tossed off the table.
A small antique measuring spoon catches my eye, copper with intricate carving and a pearl handle.
It looks expensive, old, and completely out of place among the plastic utensils scattered around it.
I snap a quick photo with my phone.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Drake’s voice carries the kind of authority that makes people confess to homicides they didn’t commit.
“Documenting the crime scene?” My voice squeaks as I say it.
“This is my crime scene.” He takes a step closer, and suddenly I’m drowning in the scent of his woodsy cologne and the realization that even in the middle of a murder investigation, my hormones have terrible timing.
His gaze drops to my lips for a split second, and I wonder if we’re about to reenact that kiss from last week right here over a dead body. Because apparently, we have a kink that involves corpses and crime scenes, which would be disturbing if it weren’t so weirdly romantic.
“Evidence tampering is a felony,” he murmurs, but his voice has gone all low and rumbly in a way that suggests he’s thinking about crimes that have nothing to do with murder.
“Good thing I’m not tampering,” I whisper back. “Just observing with my zoom lens.”
“Stay out of my investigation, Detective Janglewood.” He frowns as if to drive home the homicidal point.
The arrival of the sheriff’s department and the coroner breaks up the party before I can pledge allegiance to his badge, and I reluctantly drift to the edge of the tent where Georgie liberates Chip from my arms.
“Okay, spill,” Ree demands, reaching for Fish and scooping her up. “How do you keep finding dead bodies? Are you secretly a murder magnet? Should we be worried about getting on your bad side?”
“First, you found Ned Hollister toes up in the fun house,” Georgie says, wagging Chip my way as if he were evidence. “Now this? You’re either the unluckiest theme park owner in history or death follows you around hoping for good merch.”
“I prefer to think of it as job security,” I mutter. “At this rate, I could start a side business as a corpse detector.”
My attention drifts across the crowd that’s starting to gather at the tent’s edge, with all of the symposium attendees and curious staff members drawn by the commotion. Everyone’s still sporting our Halloween merchandise, which creates a surreal scene of tragedy mixed with commercial success.
Cat ear headbands glint under the purple lights, popcorn buckets with Fish and Chip faces are tucked under curious arms, and Halloween sweatshirts and adorable mini backpacks are scattered throughout the crowd.
I spot Nadine standing apart from the others, her face pale and stricken. I make my way over, leaving Ree and Georgie to provide commentary on proper crime scene etiquette to anyone within earshot.
“Nadine, I’m so sorry,” I say, pulling her in for a partial hug.
“I’m so sorry, too,” she says, and when she pulls back, I can see her eyes are laced with crimson and brimming with tears.
“I can’t believe she’s gone. We fought constantly, but she was my partner.
My friend. My true sister.” Her voice cracks slightly.
“I’ll cooperate fully with the investigation.
The only thing I want more than anything is to catch whoever did this to her. ”
“The sheriff’s department will find them,” I assure her, though my gaze drifts to where Savvy stands near the body, her expression unreadable as she watches the coroner get to work.
That adorable white standard poodle of hers, Cupcake, sits perfectly groomed at her side, looking like an overgrown cotton ball that’s been professionally fluffed.
And then there’s Delora—Detective Drake’s mother—watching the proceedings with the cool detachment of a woman who’s either in shock or calculating how fast she can take an unexpected trip south of the border.
The whole scene feels surreal. Somewhere in this crowd of Halloween enthusiasts, between the bat spatulas and skull cookie cutters, is a killer with a taste for more than just sugar.
A murderer walks among us, Fish observes from the safety of Ree’s arms, probably sporting our adorable faces on their murder accessories. Nothing says premeditated homicide like coordinated cat-themed gear.
At least they’re supporting small business while committing felonies, Chip adds with twisted logic that my bank account sadly won’t disapprove of. You’ve got to respect someone who prioritizes brand loyalty even during criminal activities.
I watch the organized chaos unfold around me—the sheriff’s department photographing evidence, the coroner examining the body, witnesses being separated for questioning—and can’t shake the feeling that this murder has more layers than a haunted seven-tier wedding cake.
The symposium was supposed to be nothing but sugar and spice, but someone had decided that Savvy’s Rest in Peaches cake needed a real body to complete the theme, and the presentation is absolutely killing the mood.