Chapter 14
H azel Hershey glances at her watch, then at her crew as the Fright Night Halloween Festival rages all around us like a quasi-organized sugar-fueled apocalypse.
It’s the middle of the afternoon and my parents just whisked Ella off to win some spooky yet adorable stuffed prizes, probably while arguing about the proper technique for ring toss and whether Dad’s back can handle another heroic attempt at carnival games. Spoiler alert: it can’t.
“That’s enough B-roll for today, guys,” Hazel shouts at her men. “Let’s wrap it up.” She turns to me with a warm smile and tucks a strand of her spiky red hair behind one ear. “I’ve actually been hoping to run into you, Bizzy.”
Her crew begins packing up equipment with the relieved efficiency of people who just got an unexpected early dismissal, and I take a moment to study Hazel more carefully.
She’s tall and willowy, with a sprinkle of freckles across her nose that gives her a deceptively youthful appearance despite being in her mid-thirties, I’m guessing.
She’s clad in black as usual but with a chunky orange necklace that looks like little pumpkins strung together.
The effect is Halloween professional, if that’s a thing.
“Oh?” I raise an eyebrow, genuinely curious as to why she wanted to run into me. “What can I help you with? ”
“Actually,” Hazel says, lowering her voice to that conspiratorial tone that immediately makes me want to look over my shoulder for eavesdroppers, “I was hoping I might be able to help you.” She glances around at the bustling festival, where a toddler dressed as a vampire is currently having a meltdown because someone told him vampires don’t eat cotton candy—probably Gwyneth.
“Could we talk somewhere a bit quieter? I have some information I think you should know.”
Finally caught her alone without that husband of hers hovering, she muses to herself and now I’m twice as curious.
She has to know Jasper is the lead detective in the case, doesn’t she? That and the fact that pillow talk is practically a currency between the two of us.
I nod and follow as she leads me to a bench beneath a large oak tree that’s been decorated with plastic ravens and orange lights, still within sight of the festival but far enough away that we won’t be overheard by anyone except possibly the fake ravens, who don’t look like they can be trusted anyway.
Fudge trots along behind us, occasionally sniffing the air like he’s trying to solve mysteries through his nose alone.
“First,” Hazel says, reaching into her messenger bag with the careful precision of someone handling either important documents or explosives.
“I have something exciting to show you.” She pulls out a tablet and swipes across the screen a few times, her fingers moving with speedy efficiency.
“We caught your ghost again last night! And this time, the image is much clearer.”
She turns the tablet toward me, and I find myself staring at my own face—or rather, a translucent, glowing version of it—floating in front of the bay window at the inn. The resemblance is uncanny, down to the slight asymmetry of my eyebrows that I’ve been fighting with tweezers for years.
“That’s...” I swallow hard, genuinely disturbed by the image because seeing yourself as a ghost is definitely not on anyone’s bucket list. “That’s definitely me. Or something that looks exactly like me, which is somehow even more unsettling.”
“I know.” Hazel nods and her expression is a perfect blend of excitement and concern like a scientist who’s just discovered something amazing and slightly terrifying. “It’s the clearest paranormal evidence we’ve captured in years. The face is unmistakable.”
This will be perfect for the Halloween special, her thought drifts my way with enthusiasm. The ratings will go through the roof.
Well, that’s comforting. Nothing like being someone’s ticket to paranormal stardom.
“Have you shown this to anyone else?” I ask, still staring at ghost me and wondering if this is what I look like when I’m having an out-of-body experience during Ella’s three AM feeding sessions.
“Just my team. And I wanted to show you, of course, since it’s your...” she pauses delicately as if she’s trying to find the politically correct term for creepy supernatural doppelganger. “Likeness.”
“Oh my goodness.” I hand the tablet back to her, my mind racing faster than Fudge chasing a tennis ball. “What do you make of it? Is it common for ghosts to look like living people, or am I just special that way?”
“There are theories,” Hazel explains, slipping easily into lecture mode.
“Some paranormal researchers believe spirits can manifest in forms that will be recognized by the living—a kind of spiritual communication shortcut. Others think that strong energy from a living person can create a kind of echo in haunted spaces.”
She tucks the tablet away with the same careful precision.
“My day job in pharmaceutical sales actually helps with my paranormal research more than you might think. Both require meticulous documentation, understanding of technical equipment, and a healthy skepticism until you have repeatable results.”
“You work in pharmaceuticals?” I ask, genuinely surprised because somehow I’d pictured her living off YouTube ad revenue and selling ghost-hunting equipment on eBay. It’s hard to picture Hazel in a corporate setting, although her polished presentation suddenly makes a lot more sense.
She gives a quick laugh. “Yes, I’m the senior sales representative for Meridian Pharmaceuticals,” she confirms with a smile that suggests she’s used to people being surprised by this revelation.
“I’ve worked my way up over the past decade.
Paranormal filmmaking is more or less my passion project, though it’s starting to gain enough traction that I might be able to transition to it full-time eventually.
And I’d love to.” She leans in a notch. “The pharmaceutical background gives me credibility in research circles that many paranormal investigators lack. I approach hauntings with scientific methodology—controlled conditions, calibrated equipment, documented protocols.” A touch of pride enters her voice.
“Not everyone in our field is so rigorous.”
Especially not when I’ve engineered a few of those investigations myself, she thinks to herself so quickly I almost miss it, like a whisper in a windstorm.
Wait, what?
Did she just admit to engineering paranormal evidence? Because that seems like the kind of thing a person should probably keep to themselves, especially when talking to someone whose ghost they claim to have caught on camera. Okay, so technically, she did keep it to herself, but still.
Before I can process that potential bombshell, Hazel’s expression turns serious, like someone who’s about to deliver bad news at a dinner party.
“But that’s not the only reason I wanted to talk to you. It’s about Heath.” She clasps her hands together and her knuckles whiten. “I’ve been thinking about his death nonstop, and there are things you should know.”
“I’m listening,” I say, keeping my face neutral despite the fact that my thoughts are currently doing the mental equivalent of a fire drill.
“I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, or cause trouble for anyone, but...” She blows out a breath. “Heath wasn’t the easiest person to get along with. He had more than a few conflicts with several people in our group.”
“What kind of conflicts?” I ask as she pauses dramatically, because if there’s one thing I’ve learned from solving murders, it’s that the dramatic pauses usually contain the good stuff.
“Well, for one, he was obsessed with Buffy.” Hazel’s voice drops to a near whisper as if we were discussing state secrets instead of relationship drama.
“At first, they were dating, but when she ended things, he couldn’t let go.
He would follow her everywhere—to the bookshop, to her apartment, even sitting outside in his car for hours. It wasn’t healthy. ”
I think of Buffy’s subdued demeanor at Sea Beans and Books, the way she’d been evasive about her relationship with Heath like someone trying to avoid stepping on a landmine.
I shake my head. “Did Buffy report this behavior to anyone?”
“She was too afraid,” Hazel says with the expression of someone who’s seen this movie before and knows how it ends. “Heath could be very charming to outsiders, but he had a darker side. She certainly saw it. And then there’s Hammie Mae...”
“What about her?” I try not to sound too eager, but let’s face it, I’m about as subtle as a neon sign in the desert. After all, Hammie Mae is my friend.
“Heath was putting enormous pressure on her to sell part of her blueberry farm. He claimed to represent some developer, but I’ve always wondered if that was true.
” Hazel leans closer like we’re sharing secrets at a sleepover.
“At our last club meeting before... before it happened... I overheard Hammie Mae tell Heath she would do whatever it takes to protect her family’s legacy.
She was livid, Bizzy.” True story, she thinks to herself.
But even if it weren’t, it’s a good tale to tell.
A chill runs through me that has nothing to do with the October breeze or the fact that someone just walked by dressed as the Grim Reaper.
I glance down at Fudge, who’s staring at Hazel with unusual intensity, his little head cocked to one side like he’s trying to solve a particularly complex math problem.
“That does sound concerning,” I say carefully. “But if you suspected either of those women might be dangerous, why not go to the police?”
Hazel’s eyes widen. “Oh, I’m not saying either of them did it!
I just... I thought you should know about the tensions that existed.
Your husband is handling the investigation, right?
I’m sure he’s exploring all these angles already.
” She pats my arm lightly. “I just want to help. Heath was difficult in many ways, but he was still part of our team. The most important part.” At least he seemed to think so.
Her sincerity seems genuine, and if I weren’t able to catch snippets of her thoughts, I might be completely convinced.
“The whole situation is just awful,” she continues. “Heath’s death is shocking enough, and now finding this apparition at the inn...” She gestures vaguely toward her tablet. “I have to wonder if there’s a connection somehow.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, genuinely curious about where she’s going with this, because if nothing else, Hazel certainly knows how to build suspense.
“Well, I think this might be our first real ghost,” Hazel says, her eyes lighting up with excitement despite the somber topic.
“In all my years of paranormal investigation, I’ve never captured something this clear, this specific.
A ghost that looks exactly like you appearing at the same time we lose Heath?
It seems like more than coincidence.” Hazel taps her fingers thoughtfully against her knee.
“In paranormal research, we often find that violent deaths can trigger supernatural activity. It’s as if the veil between worlds thins at moments of extreme emotion or trauma.
” Keep her focused on the ghost angle, she thinks. The more mysterious, the better.
The ghost angle?
I inch back and take a better look at her.
“That’s an interesting theory,” I say, wondering what game she’s playing and whether I’m currently winning or losing. I’m betting on the latter. “So you think Heath’s death might have awakened something at the inn?”
“It’s possible.” Hazel nods eagerly. “Or perhaps whatever was already there has been energized by recent events. Either way, we’re going to continue our investigation.
” She checks her watch again with the efficiency of someone who operates on a tight schedule.
“Speaking of which, I should get this footage back to our editing suite. We’re on a strict deadline for the Halloween special. ”
She stands, brushing invisible dirt from her black jeans.
“I’ve taken up enough of your time, but please, if you need anything or have any questions about the footage, don’t hesitate to call.
” She pulls a business card from her pocket and hands it to me.
“And we’re still on for the club meeting at the inn, right? ”
“Absolutely,” I confirm, rising as well. “I’ll make sure everything is ready for you.”
“Wonderful. And Bizzy?” She hesitates, then adds, “Be careful around Buffy and Hammie Mae. I’m not saying either of them is guilty, but—well, people aren’t always what they seem. ”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I promise, holding up her card like it’s some sort of talisman against suspicious blueberry farmers and obsessive ex-girlfriends. “Thanks for the warning.”
“And thank you for letting my club meet at the inn later tonight. I hope we’ll see you there!” I have a feeling she won’t miss this for the world.
And I have a feeling she’s right.
With a friendly wave, Hazel heads back toward the festival entrance, her stride purposeful but relaxed—not at all like someone fleeing a conversation where they’ve just tried to throw multiple people under the bus. Just a busy professional with places to be and spectral evidence to review.
Fudge watches her go with that same intense focus as a low whine builds in his throat like a teakettle about to whistle.
She was always at our house hanging out with Heath, he thinks suddenly. They didn’t always see eye to eye, but she was his friend.
I glance down at him, then back at Hazel who is now lost in the crowd of costumed festival-goers. It’s true, everyone at this festival is wearing a costume of some kind—vampires, witches, superheroes, even corporate pharmaceutical sales reps moonlighting as ghost hunters.
I just need to figure out which mask Hazel is hiding behind, and why she’s so eager to point fingers at Buffy and Hammie Mae while conveniently forgetting to expand upon her own ability to engineer paranormal evidence. If that’s what she meant with the thought.
Speaking of which, I need to find Hammie Mae as soon as possible. If Hazel’s version of events has even a grain of truth to it, there’s a lot more to this story than a simple property dispute or an obsessive ex with a knife collection.
And something tells me time is running out to uncover the truth.