Chapter 16
T he Country Cottage Inn library has undergone a Halloween metamorphosis more dramatic than a werewolf during a full moon. What was once a cozy sanctuary of leather chairs and mahogany shelves now looks like Halloween and high-end interior design had a collision.
Orange and purple twinkle lights drape across the ceiling like electric spiderwebs, casting an eerie glow over the two dozen club members crowding the space.
Artificial cobwebs cling to every corner with the dedication of a helicopter parent, some hosting plastic spiders the size of my fist that I’m pretending are fake until proven otherwise.
Battery-operated candles flicker on tables with all the authenticity of a politician’s campaign promises, and someone—I suspect Jordy—has added hidden speakers emitting the occasional ghostly moan at a volume just low enough to make you question your own sanity.
“I still can’t believe we’re hosting a ghost hunters’ convention at our inn,” I whisper to Emmie as we arrange the refreshments on a long table against the far wall.
“When I was growing up, I thought my biggest career challenge would be choosing between being a doctor or a lawyer. Nowhere in my life plan did supernatural caterer make the list.”
Emmie laughs while artfully arranging her pumpkin spice French toast bites in orange paper cups that make them look like tiny edible jack-o’-lanterns.
“Your guidance counselor clearly underestimated your career trajectory. Professional innkeeper, amateur sleuth, and paranormal enabler? That’s a triple threat that you can’t learn in any college course. ”
“Don’t forget sleep-deprived new mother and person who finds dead bodies with alarming regularity,” I add, straightening a platter of Emmie’s almond toffee. The buttery confection is arranged on black and orange plates in a spiral pattern that’s almost too pretty to eat. Almost is the keyword here.
I swipe a piece when Emmie’s not looking and nearly moan as it melts on my tongue like sweet, buttery heaven.
Ella may have inherited my hair and Jasper’s dimples, but I pray to whatever patron saint watches over baking that she gets Emmie’s culinary talent.
My own cooking skills begin and end with dialing for pizza—and even then, I’ve been known to mess up my own address during particularly sleep-deprived moments.
Emmie points to the platter. “Save some for our ghost-hunting friends. I hear communicating with the dead works up quite an appetite.”
“Especially when the dead refuse to answer back,” I quip, scanning the room as people continue to file in as if they’re attending the world’s spookiest book club meeting.
The Beyond Belief Paranormal Club members are a fascinating cross-section of humanity that could probably populate their own reality TV show.
There’s a retired physics professor with wild Einstein hair who’s discussing electromagnetic fields with a teenage Goth girl wearing more eyeliner than actual clothing.
A pair of middle-aged male twins in matching I Ain’t Afraid of No Ghost t-shirts are setting up what appears to be homemade ghost-detecting equipment cobbled together from old radios, Christmas lights, and what looks suspiciously like a toaster oven.
A nervous-looking accountant type clutches a notebook titled Supernatural Encounters: A Statistical Analysis like it’s his security blanket, while a burly construction worker adjusts the settings on a professional-grade thermal camera that probably costs more than my minivan and Emmie’s combined.
And, of course, there are the newer, far more questionable members—Camila and Macy. I’m choosing to ignore those two for now, and perhaps into the evening.
Our furry entourage has claimed strategic positions around the library with the tactical precision of a small army. Fish has commandeered the top of a bookshelf with her tail swishing regally as she surveys her kingdom from above like a feline surveying her subjects from above.
Hoomans are so strange, she mewls, watching the club members with narrowed eyes. They pay no attention to the actual mysterious creatures living among them—namely, cats—but will lose their minds over a dust particle in a photograph.
Sherlock, ever the opportunist and eternal optimist when it comes to food, has positioned himself near the refreshment table, his eyes tracking every movement of the edibles with the focus of a military strategist.
If I lie very still and look extra cute, someone will definitely drop something on purpose, he strategizes. It’s basic probability. More hoomans plus more food equals greater chance of floor snacks. This is simple math.
He’s so right. Not a lot of people can resist his sweet puppy-dog eyes.
Meanwhile, Fudge trots happily around the room, greeting each club member with enthusiastic tail wags that suggest he thinks this is the best party ever thrown.
Heath loved these meetings! He gives a wistful bark with the thought. He said this was his favorite club in the whole wide world! I’m so happy to be here one more time!
The little Westie’s loyalty squeezes my heart. Animals always remember the good times, which is probably why they have a sunnier disposition than most people.
Buffy arrives with Skittles, her ginger labradoodle, drawing curious glances from a couple of people who probably recognize her as Heath’s ex.
She’s dressed conservatively in a dark green sweater and jeans, her long dark hair pulled back into a simple ponytail.
No flashy Halloween adornments for her. And Skittles sports a cute pumpkin collar that jingles softly as she struts by her owner’s side.
“Bizzy, thank you for hosting us tonight,” Buffy says quietly as she approaches the refreshment table with the careful steps of someone walking through a minefield. “Especially after... well, everything.”
“Of course,” I say, studying her face for any hint of guilt, deception, or the general look of someone who’s recently committed murder.
“We couldn’t cancel, not with Halloween so close. I think Heath would have wanted the club to continue.” I should never have come back to this town, she frowns with the thought. But I had to know for sure.
Know what for sure? I want to probe, but before I can find a subtle way to do so, Hazel makes her entrance, and subtle isn’t in her vocabulary tonight.
Hazel Hershey bursts through the library doors with all the drama of a Broadway star taking the stage for her big number possibly involving jazz hands.
Her spiky red hair seems extra spiky tonight as if electrified by ghostly energy or an unfortunate encounter with a light socket, and she’s traded her usual black ensemble for a deep purple velvet jacket over matching pants that make her look like she raided a magician’s wardrobe.
And around her neck hangs an assortment of crystals and pendants that clink together as she moves like a supernatural wind chime.
“Welcome, seekers of the unknown!” she announces with her arms flung wide as if she’s about to break into song.
Two assistants trail behind her, laden with equipment bags and looking slightly overwhelmed by her enthusiasm.
“Tonight, we gather in the shadow of tragedy, but also in the light of potential discovery.”
I exchange a look with Emmie, who mouths, “Seekers of the unknown?” with a raised eyebrow that suggests she’s questioning Hazel’s sanity as much as I am.
I scan the room one more time, hoping to spot Hammie Mae’s strawberry blonde curls, but she’s nowhere to be seen.
But a pang of disappointment hits me—both because I was hoping to casually interrogate her about her potential sisterhood and because she might have insights about Heath’s murder that the others don’t, especially if she’s the killer.
She’s probably at home with baby Matilda. Four-month-olds don’t exactly respect their mother’s paranormal investigation schedules, and honestly, babies are probably scarier than most ghosts anyway.
Still, her absence feels significant somehow, like a puzzle piece that’s fallen under the sofa—not immediately noticeable but making the final picture impossible to solve.
And ironically, I have a feeling Hammie Mae might be the missing piece in two of the puzzles I’m trying to put together at the moment.
If she is my sister, I certainly hope she’s not the killer.
I’d hate to solve two different puzzles with the very same piece.
Hazel calls the meeting to order with three sharp claps that echo through the library like peals of thunder designed to wake the dead—which, given the circumstances, might not be entirely metaphorical.
“Friends, fellow investigators of the unseen—” she begins, her voice dropping to a reverent hush that somehow still carries to every corner of the room and manages to set Fish’s fur on edge.
“We gather tonight not only to continue our search for evidence of the afterlife, but to honor the memory of our fallen comrade, Heath Cullen.”
A murmur ripples through the crowd. Several members bow their heads. Someone sniffles audibly, although that could be allergies since half the decorations are probably collecting dust. I should get on that. And in the corner, I can hear Camila and Macy snickering among themselves. So mature.
“Heath was passionate about our work,” Hazel continues with the fervor of someone delivering a eulogy at a particularly spooky funeral.
“He believed, as I do, that the veil between worlds thins at this time of year, making Halloween not just a time for costumes and candy, but a genuine opportunity for breakthrough contact with the other side.”
“ Hear, hear ,” calls out the Einstein-haired professor, raising an imaginary glass.