Chapter 13
I t’s the next afternoon, and the fall harvest festival just outside my cottage door has transformed the grounds of the inn into a kaleidoscope of orange, black, and purple, with enough glitter to make a unicorn file a copyright infringement lawsuit.
I promised both my mother and my father that they’d get to spend the afternoon carting Ella around the carnival, and they’re both so hopped up you’d think I was offering them cash, prizes, and a lifetime supply of coffee. But as it stands, the real prize is Ella, and boy, do they know it.
The festival is in tip-top Halloween shape.
Paper ghosts dance from tree branches as if they’re auditioning for So You Think You Can Haunt , hay bales form makeshift seating areas for parents who’ve given up trying to keep up with their crew, and an army of scarecrows stands at attention, their button eyes following visitors with the dedication of mall security guards.
The air is a decadent cocktail of scents—caramel apples bubbling in giant copper pots, funnel cakes dusted with powdered sugar snow, hot chocolate topped with ghost-shaped marshmallows, and the distinctive sweet-spicy aroma of pumpkin spice everything.
I adjust Ella in her stroller, marveling at how adorable she looks in her pumpkin pie costume. The plush triangular slice engulfs her tiny body, with just her face peeking out from the whipped cream collar, and a little stem hat perched on her head .
The fabric glistens in the afternoon sun, tiny sequins catching the light like dew on a real pumpkin. We’ve even added miniature cinnamon stick rattles to her wrists, though she’s made three determined attempts to eat them already.
This is costume number twelve of the week—only twenty-three more to go before Halloween itself. At this rate, I’ll need to invest in a climate-controlled costume storage facility to store them all.
“There they are!” Mom’s voice rises above the festival noise, and I spot our family gathering near the caramel apple stand.
Mom looks resplendent in her bee costume from the other day (waste not, want not is her motto) as she waves enthusiastically.
Beside her, Dad—aka Nathaniel Baker, the silver fox of Spider Cove—sports a lumberjack costume that’s suspiciously similar to his everyday attire, just with a more deliberate flannel selection.
Gwyneth, Jasper’s mother, stands ramrod straight in what appears to be a historically accurate Victorian mourning dress, complete with a tiny hat perched at a precise angle on her impeccable silver-streaked dark hair.
It’s both impressive and slightly terrifying, which sums up Gwyneth rather neatly.
Georgie rounds out the group in what can only be described as the most bewildering costume choice of the evening. Her silver lamé uniform is so short it barely qualifies as coverage, complete with an alien antenna bobbing from her head and a stethoscope that lights up in neon colors.
“Georgie,” I can’t help but ask, “what exactly are you supposed to be?”
“I’m a naughty nurse from Mars, obviously,” she replies with the confidence of someone who thinks this explanation clarifies everything rather than raising additional questions. “It’s very avant-garde.”
The effect is less medical professional and more intergalactic party crasher with questionable credentials, and knowing Georgie, that’s probably exactly what she was going for.
“Look who’s here! It’s my little Ellie-Belly!” Dad calls out, immediately abandoning all dignity to make googly faces at Ella. “Come to Grandpa, you little pumpkin!”
Before I can even park the stroller properly, Gwyneth swoops in like a Victorian-era hawk.
“Nathaniel, you’re overwhelming her. Babies need a gentle approach.
” She demonstrates by softly cooing at Ella while simultaneously elbowing Dad out of the prime baby-viewing position with the precision of a seasoned linebacker.
Dad inches back to get a better look at his haunted-looking bride. “I raised three children of my own, Gwyn,” he points out, reclaiming his spot with the subtlety of a bulldozer. “I think I know a thing or two about babies.”
“Yes, and look how they turned out,” Gwyneth mutters, although there’s no real venom in it. She’s actually grown fond of our family’s particular brand of chaos, even though she’d rather eat her tiny hat than admit it.
The turf war continues as Fish, Sherlock, and Fudge weave around our feet, taking in the festival sights and smells with varying degrees of enthusiasm.
So many small hoomans in costume, Fish observes from her position of safety beneath the stroller. I can’t tell if they’re supposed to be scary or adorable. Either way, I find them suspicious.
I like the ones dressed as hot dogs! Sherlock woofs, and his tail wags as he eyes a toddler waddling past dressed as a plush sausage. They smell confusing but friendly!
Heath would have loved this, Fudge sniffs with a doggy sigh. He always put me in the best costumes.
Poor thing. I’ll have to continue the tradition.
A herd of elementary schoolers in an array of costumes parades past us, all sporting identical bright green wristbands that glow like alien appendages against their disguises.
There are tiny superheroes with capes flapping in the breeze, miniature monsters with felt teeth and fabric claws, princess warriors wielding both tiaras and swords, and at least a dozen variations of dinosaurs ranging from scientifically accurate to cartoonishly cute.
Their harried-looking teachers, also wearing the green bands plus neon pink witches’ hats for easy identification, clutch clipboards, and walkie-talkies with the desperate energy of an outnumbered general. And they are so outnumbered.
“Remember, everyone with a green band gets THREE tickets, and no more!” one teacher calls out with the authority of someone who’s already repeated this seventeen times. “Choose your activities wisely! And stay with your monster group!”
This announcement is met with the collective groan of children who clearly believe that wisdom and festival tickets don’t belong in the same sentence.
“Look how well-behaved those kids are,” Gwyneth points out, momentarily distracted from the baby custody battle at hand. “When Jasper was that age, we had strict rules about field trips. No running, no shouting, and absolutely no cotton candy.”
“You didn’t let Jasper have cotton candy?” Georgie looks genuinely horrified as if Gwyneth has just admitted to canceling Christmas. “No wonder he became a cop. The man needed to rebel somehow.”
Mom finally manages to extract Ella from the grandparental tug-of-war, settling the baby comfortably in her arms. “I was always so strict about junk food with you three,” she says with a wistful smile. “No sugar after four PM, vegetables at every meal, and a piece of fruit for dessert.”
I nod at the memory. “That explains why Macy tried to trade me for a funnel cake when I was six.”
“She was just being entrepreneurial.” Mom is quick to defend her older daughter while bouncing Ella gently. “Besides, that nice carnival worker brought you right back.”
“Only because Macy refused to throw in her cotton candy as part of the deal,” I point out.
Dad steps closer to Mom, peering down at Ella with an expression so tender it makes my heart squeeze. “Look at her, Ree,” he says softly. “She looks just like one of ours, doesn’t she?”
Mom’s eyes mist over as she nods. “She does. Same eyes, same little nose.” A beat of silence, then, If only things had been different.
The thought drifts from Mom’s mind to mine, quiet but distinct, and something about it sends a chill through me despite the warm October afternoon.
Different how? I wonder, but before I can untangle that thread, Georgie crashes back into the conversation like a bedazzled wrecking ball .
“The secret to raising good kids is to occasionally terrify them,” she announces with authority.
“I’m sorry, what?” I ask, momentarily forgetting my mother’s cryptic thought.
“You know, with a healthy dose of fear.” Georgie nods so enthusiastically, that her headband begins to bob dangerously.
“My brother raised his boys with the constant threat that if they misbehaved, I’d babysit.
It worked like a charm! They’re both businessmen now.
Boring as beige wallpaper, but they’ve never been arrested. ”
“That’s certainly an approach,” Gwyneth says while squeezing out a pained smile.
“Better than Nathaniel’s method,” Mom chimes in. “Which was to be gone so much they forgot what he looked like.”
“I resent that,” Dad protests. “They always recognized me. Huxley only called me Mom’s tall friend for a year, tops.”
I can’t help but laugh. It’s true. Luckily, I always remembered exactly who my daddy was.
Watching my eclectic family banter around my sweet baby girl, who seems utterly unimpressed by the lot of them, is nothing short of a treat, and during this, the trickiest time of the year.
There’s something so precious about this moment—all of us together, surrounded by the festive chaos of Halloween, and the next generation safely cradled in my mother’s arms. It feels right.
It makes me think about family, about connections, about the invisible threads that bind us together across time. And suddenly, I’m thinking about my mystery sister—the DNA match we’ve never met, the username Lovemydoodle my only clue to her identity.
Somewhere out there is another Baker girl, someone who shares my blood, my questionable decision-making skills, and possibly my talent for stumbling into murder scenes.
I glance at Dad, the notorious heartbreaker who left a trail of broken relationships across three counties before finally settling down with my mother, only to cheat on her notoriously.
There’s no question where my mystery sister came from.
Dad’s extracurricular activities during his marriage to Mom are the stuff of local legend.
But when? And who is her mother? And why won’t she respond to my messages ?
I could ask him about her now if I wanted.
I could watch his face pale as I bring up the DNA test results, but not here.
Not with Ella’s first Halloween festival in full swing and Gwyneth watching every interaction like a hawk looking for mice.
But it’s coming. I’ve got an entire litany of questions to lob his way.
Dad holds up a finger, hopefully moving on from the parenting debate. “What Ella needs now is some festival prizes won by her doting grandfather!” He gestures grandly toward the midway games. “Step right up and watch the master at work!”
I shoot him a look. “Last time you tried to win a prize, you threw your back out and had to leave the fair in an ambulance,” I remind him.
“And it was a minor setback. ” He dismisses with a wave that judging by the way he just winced it probably tweaked something in his shoulder. “This time I’ve been practicing my ring toss.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Gwyneth mutters, but she’s already reaching for Ella.
Mom nods. “Perhaps we should all go watch this spectacle. It might be educational.”
They begin to make their way toward the games, and something catches my eye—or rather, someone.
Hazel’s distinctive red spiky hair is visible near the entrance to the haunted house, where she appears to be directing a small film crew like a general marshaling troops for battle.
They’re setting up equipment and adjusting lights while Hazel gestures animatedly at the haunted house facade.
“Actually,” I say, making a split-second decision, “I think I’ll catch up with you in a bit. I just spotted someone I need to talk to.”
Mom follows my gaze and raises an eyebrow. “Investigating when you could watch your father launch his vertebrae clear to Mars? Really, Bizzy?”
“It’ll just take a minute,” I promise. “Would you mind keeping an eye on Ella?”
“Would we mind?” Dad looks offended at the very question.
“Handing over our granddaughter for safekeeping is a hardship we’re willing to endure.
” He grins, already reaching for the stroller.
“Take as long as you need, kiddo. We’ve got prizes to win and cotton candy to consume against Gwyneth’s better judgment. ”
“Just don’t let Georgie teach her any inappropriate hand gestures this time,” I caution, remembering the aftermath of Georgie’s last babysitting adventure. I’m still not sure how she managed that with a baby who can’t even sit up yet.
“One time,” Georgie protests. “And in my defense, that trucker deserved it.”
I promise to meet them at the cider booth in thirty minutes and leave Ella in their capable (if slightly chaotic) hands as I make my way toward the haunted house.
Fish and Sherlock stay with the family—Sherlock because Dad is secretly slipping him bits of funnel cake, and Fish because she’s claimed Ella’s stroller as her personal royal conveyance.
But Fudge trots loyally by my side, apparently deciding that detective work is more interesting than festival food.
We can’t blame him, he’s new around here.
But the closer I get, I notice something odd about the filming setup.
Instead of focusing on the haunted house itself, the cameras seem to be directed at specific spots around it—particular windows, a section of the porch, a corner of the roof.
It’s almost as if they’re expecting something to appear in those locations.
She’s doing it again, Fudge thinks suddenly, his little ears perking up as he watches Hazel. Heath didn’t like it when she did that.
I glance down at him, curious, but his doggy attention has already shifted to a fallen popcorn kernel.
Is he talking about Hazel? Or the ghost? Or something else entirely?
Hazel spots me before I can ask and steps away from her crew, meeting me halfway. Her orange pumpkin antennae from the other night have been replaced by a professional-looking headset, but she’s still dressed all in black, the unofficial uniform of paranormal investigators everywhere.
“Bizzy,” she greets me with a smile. “Enjoying the festival?”
“It’s certainly spirited,” I say with a laugh, watching as one of her crew members adjusts what looks like a small mechanical device attached to the side of the haunted house. “What are you filming today? ”
And here we go with suspect number two. If Hazel Hershey knows anything about who killed Heath, I’m going to get those answers, one way or another. After all, ghosts aren’t the only things that can be exposed in the light of day.