Chapter 12
A fter the book apocalypse at Sea Beans and Books, I went back to the inn, and surprisingly, Ella and I finished out a full day—which even included a quick bite with Emmie and baby Elliot.
But right about now, Ella seems as if she’s had enough of the inn, of the Halloween festival raging outside our doors, and quite possibly me.
I push open the cottage door while juggling a fussy baby, a diaper bag that weighs more than most checked luggage, and three pets who insist on entering at exactly the same moment.
Fish weaves gracefully between my ankles while Sherlock and Fudge perform their traditional doorway tango, each convinced they should be first through the threshold.
“Teamwork, people,” I mutter as we spill into the living room like a circus act gone wrong. “Or pets. Whatever.”
Jasper looks up from where he’s sorting case files on one of our yellow and white plaid sofas, his work suit jacket tossed over the other.
The fuzzy rug beneath the coffee table shows signs of his restless pacing.
Jasper can never sit still when deep in detective mode.
And thanks to me and my quasi-lethal inn, that seems to be all the time.
“There you are,” he says, quickly setting aside his papers and coming to my rescue. “I was about to hunt you down at the festival. ”
“The festival was a bust for this little lady,” I say, transferring a squirming, whimpering Ella into his waiting arms. “She’s been cranky since we left the bookshop. I think she’s hit her socialization limit for the day, and so have I.”
Jasper gives a mournful laugh. “Join the club, sweetheart.” He lands a kiss on both of our cheeks.
Ella, as if to confirm my diagnosis, lets out a wail that could probably be heard all the way back at the inn.
“And there she blows.” Jasper winces but holds her close, instinctively beginning the bounce-and-sway motion that sometimes—emphasis on sometimes —calms her down.
“I think we need the full reset protocol,” I suggest, dropping the diaper bag and rolling my shoulders in hopes of restoring circulation. “Bath, fresh clothes, feeding—the works—and that’s just me. But first comes our little angel.”
What follows is what I’ve come to think of as Baby Crisis Management Protocol—a carefully choreographed dance of bath preparation, tiny limb wrangling, and the delicate art of keeping a slippery infant from doing an impression of a greased watermelon.
Jasper manages the towel handoff with the precision of a surgical nurse, and within fifteen minutes, we have one squeaky-clean, lavender-scented baby wrapped in a fluffy towel.
The crying, however, continues unabated.
“Maybe Mr. Snuggles?” Jasper suggests, retrieving the small teddy bear from Ella’s crib. “She seemed to like him yesterday.”
“It’s worth a shot,” I whimper, accepting the fuzzy brown bear with its bowtie that perfectly matches our sofa. “Come on, Ella Bella. Look who’s here to say hello.”
I wiggle the bear in front of Ella’s tear-streaked face, but she regards Mr. Snuggles with the same suspicion a health inspector might give a questionable seafood buffet. If anything, her wails only increase in volume.
I settle us into the rocking chair near the fireplace, where a cheerful blaze is keeping the October chill at bay.
All around us, our cottage has been given the full Halloween treatment with paper bats hanging from the ceiling, a ceramic ghost-shaped cookie jar on the counter, the stuffed pumpkins nestled among the throw pillows on our plaid sofas, and a wreath of autumn leaves and miniature pumpkins hang over the fireplace.
There’s even a little witch’s hat perched on the lamp in the corner, casting spooky shadows across the room.
Ella latches on with her usual enthusiasm, but even mommy milk—her favorite thing in the world next to naps and ceiling fans—fails to soothe her completely. She pulls away, red-faced and indignant, as if to say, “How dare you offer me exactly what I usually want!”
Someone put a plug in her and quick, Fish yowls from her perch on the bookshelf, surveying the scene with a slight look of terror.
She leaps down and disappears into the bedroom, returning moments later with a small toy mouse clenched in her teeth.
And in a single bound, she deposits it on my lap next to Ella.
This always makes me feel better, she mewls, looking expectantly at the baby and I can’t help but coo.
“Thank you, Fish.” I blow her a kiss. “That was very sweet of you.”
Not to be outdone, Sherlock trots over with his favorite chew toy—a well-loved plush duck missing one eye and most of its stuffing. He lands it gently next to Fish’s offering with his tail wagging like mad in hopes this will do the trick.
When I’m sad, Mr. Quackers helps, he gives an earnest bark. Maybe she just needs the right toy?
“Good try, Sherlock.” Jasper gives him a quick pat. “At these decibels, it wouldn’t surprise me if the entire neighborhood dropped by with their favorite toy in hand. Something has to work.”
“One can only hope,” I moan as little Ella continues to test out her vocal cords—or wear them out. And I’m not entirely sure that would be a bad thing.
Fudge springs into action. The little Westie tears around the cottage like a furry bolt of lightning, scooping up everything he sees—one of Jasper’s socks, a coaster from the side table, a pen that rolled under the sofa weeks ago, and finally, his own rubber bone.
And before I know it, he’s arranged this eclectic collection at my feet with great puppy pride.
I hope I helped! he yips, circling the pile of treasures with glee. Heath always said I was a good helper!
“You did great, Fudge.” I give him a little pat with my foot. “I think we’ve got the world’s first pet therapy team in training,” I tell Jasper with a tired smile. “Too bad Ella doesn’t seem to be too impressed.”
Jasper looks at the growing pile of gifts with a mix of amusement and desperation. “Maybe I should try the chest thing again? That worked yesterday for about ten minutes.”
I nod, and we execute the transfer—a maneuver we’ve perfected over weeks of trial and error.
Jasper reclines on one of the plaid sofas, and I place Ella face-down on his chest, her tiny ear pressed against his heart.
The steady thump-thump seems to register in her baby brain, and her cries gradually soften to whimpers, then to hiccups, and finally to the occasional dramatic sigh.
The silence that follows is so profound I’m afraid to breathe too loudly and break the spell.
“You,” I whisper to Jasper, “are the baby whisperer.”
“Pure luck,” he whispers back, one large hand splayed protectively across Ella’s back. “So, while we’re trapped in this exact position for the foreseeable future, want to tell me about your day?”
I sink onto the other plaid sofa, suddenly aware of how exhausted I am. “Where to begin? Well, first, Hazel showed me something at the inn this morning that would give most people nightmares.”
“Another potential murder weapon?” Jasper asks, instantly alert despite his immobility.
“If only. More like footage of a ghost,” I clarify. “And not just any ghost—a ghost that looks exactly like your wife, floating around our bay window.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Exactly like you?”
“Twin-level identical. It was...” I shiver despite the fire’s warmth. “Unsettling, to say the least.”
“Could it have been doctored?” Always the detective, my husband.
“Hazel seemed convinced it was genuine. They used some kind of special infrared camera that can pick up things the naked eye can’t see.” I hesitate. “After that fun revelation, I tracked down Buffy Butterwick at Sea Beans and Books.”
Jasper’s expression shifts from curiosity to concern faster than Ella can go from sleeping to screaming. “Bizzy, please tell me you didn’t talk to a suspect with our baby in tow—not that I want you to do it without her either. You know how I feel about that. ”
“I know, I know.” I raise my hands in surrender. “I was just going for coffee, honest. Besides, I’m glad I went. The bookshop is absolutely adorable, all decked out for Halloween with the coziest fireplace.”
“And I’m sure you just happened to have a casual chat about murder over pumpkin spice lattes,” he deadpans.
“Pumpkin spice lattes with extra whipped cream,” I correct. “And I did learn a few things. Like the fact that Buffy and Heath broke up two weeks ago, and it wasn’t exactly amicable.”
“That’s not exactly breaking news,” Jasper points out. “Half the town seems to have had beef with Heath Cullen.”
“Yes, but Buffy’s thoughts were pretty revealing. I caught her thinking that Heath had found her skeletons and had threatened to expose everything. Her words, not mine.”
That gets his full attention. “Did she elaborate?”
“Not intentionally. But she did mention that Heath was pressuring Hammie Mae about selling part of her property to some developer. And apparently, he and Hazel were constantly arguing about the direction of the Beyond Belief Paranormal Club.”
“So we’ve got Macy who threatened him publicly, Buffy who was recently dumped by him and might have secrets, Hammie Mae who was being pressured by him, and Hazel who was fighting with him,” Jasper summarizes. “Anyone else want to join the I Had Issues with Heath Cullen Club ?”
“At this point, it might be easier to list who didn’t have a problem with him,” I say with a sigh. “Your turn. How was your day of official detecting?”
Jasper shifts slightly, careful not to disturb Ella, who has now fallen into a peaceful sleep with one adorable chubby cheek squished against his chest. “We got some preliminary results back from the lab. There were prints on the knife—partial, but usable.”
“Whose?” I lean forward so fast I risk waking the baby.
“We’re still working on that. I’m going to need prints from everyone in the Beyond Belief Paranormal Club for starters. The chief has authorized expedited processing since we’re dealing with a murder during a major town event.”
“Any other leads? ”
“We’re looking into Heath’s phone records, financials, the whole nine yards. But we’ve hit a snag with his actual phone—it’s locked with a password. We’re working with the phone company to try to bypass it, but these things take time, even with a murder investigation.”
“Any other leads?”
He shakes his head and frowns. “Something is off about this whole case.”
“What do you mean?”
Jasper’s brow furrows, a tell-tale sign he’s working through a puzzle.
“The knife was too obvious. Right out in the open, clearly visible. Not that a killer would try to hide the weapon, or take it with them, but still it’s a ringer for those fake blades he was handing out. Someone is sending a message.”
I nod. “I’ve been thinking about that, too. He had a bag full of fake knives for the group photos.”
“And that’s why I bet he didn’t see it coming. He wasn’t threatened by the knife even if he saw the killer wielding it.”
“He thought it was a fake,” I finish for him.
“I need to look into where those fake knives came from and who had access to them,” Jasper says, his detective mind clearly racing. “And we need to find that bag of props.”
A soft snore from Ella reminds us of our sleeping beauty. “I’ll put her down,” Jasper whispers, carefully rising from the sofa with the practiced movements of a bomb disposal expert.
I watch as he disappears down the hallway to the nursery with Fish, Sherlock, and Fudge trailing behind him like a furry security detail. The fire crackles in the hearth, casting spooky shadows across our Halloween decorations and making the ceramic ghost on the counter look as if it’s come alive.
Speaking of which, my mind drifts back to the ghostly image of myself at the bay window. Why would a spirit that looks exactly like me be haunting the Country Cottage Inn? And why now, coinciding with Heath’s murder? Or maybe it’s Halloween she’s coinciding with.
A floorboard creaks somewhere in the cottage, and I glance up, expecting to see Jasper returning.
Instead, a translucent figure glides silently through the living room—pale, ethereal, and unmistakably me .
I gasp as the ghostly version of myself floats past the fireplace, her feet never touching the ground, before dissolving into nothing.
“ Jasper ,” I pant just below a whisper. The air suddenly feels oddly cold, leaving me with goosebumps. “I think I just watched myself haunt my own home.”
I shake my head at the thought. It was probably just my sleep-deprived imagination. Or maybe it’s Halloween getting to me.
Something rattles outside of the window and I jump with a start.
Maybe, just maybe, the ghost at the inn isn’t the only one keeping an eye on the Baker-Wilder family.