“Excuse me,” she says with a sharp edge to her voice. “I’m going to kill that woman.”
“Well then,” I mutter. “You know what they say—there’s nothing like a little homicide to make things interesting.”
CHAPTER 2
“We’d better follow her before the battle-axe adds homicidal notch to her belt,” I mutter, watching Delora storm off through the crowd like a woman on a mission to ruin someone’s entire evening—most likely mine. “At this rate, we’ll need a bigger cemetery.”
It’s true, Bayou Hollow boasts not only the spookiest haunted house in all of Maine, but it boasts one of the more colorful cemeteries in the great state, too. Albeit sans any actual bodies. But something tells me that Delora is about to supply it with plenty.
Another murder is brewing,Fish observes from her tote, tail twitching with anticipation.I can smell the drama from here. It’s got notes of desperation and repressed rage.
Are we talking about actual murder or just the metaphorical kind?Chip asks hopefully.Because I’m hoping for the metaphorical kind. The actual kind always interrupts dinner.
He’s not wrong. We had a homicide here a few weeks back, and I was stress-eating my way through the entire concession stand inventory. Nothing says amateur detective work likesolving crimes while demolishing a funnel cake. Dinner was ruined every night, and so was my carb count.
The evening air at Bayou Bend Hollow carries the intoxicating blend of cinnamon, brown sugar, and woodsmoke from the smoked turkey leg stand, while somewhere in the distance, a spooky mood music plays a tune that’s equal parts cheerful and creepy.
The autumn mist drifts between the moss-draped cypress trees, and the scent of caramel apples mingles with the earthy smell of fallen leaves and just a hint of something that might be fog machine fluid or an actual supernatural presence. My money is on the latter.
It’s the opening night of the Sweet Season Spooky Symposium, our week-long baking extravaganza that’s supposed to put Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland on the map. But with the event coordinator’s newfound hankering for homicide, we might just land on the news for the entirely wrong reason.
A massive glittering sign stretches between two ancient oaks, reading,Welcome to the Sweet Season Spooky Symposiumin letters that twinkle like fallen stars. Orange and purple lights snake through the Spanish moss, and jack-o’-lanterns grin from every surface with the manic enthusiasm of Halloween decorations, with the manic enthusiasm of witnesses to something sinister who wholeheartedly approve.
“That woman’s got a temper that could make a drill sergeant cry for Mommy,” Georgie notes, adjusting her glittery cat ears. “I bet she could start a fight in an empty room.”
“An empty room would be safer,” Ree adds, clutching her notebook. “At least there wouldn’t be any casualties.”
We follow Hurricane Delora toward the Sugar Crypt tent, where the real magic happens. The massive black tent glows purple from within, casting eerie shadows on the cobblestones. Inside, tables groan under the weight of Halloween masterpieces that look too good to eat and too spooky to ignore.
Ghost-shaped macarons hover over dark chocolate graveyards. Pumpkin whoopie pies the size of dinner plates sit beside cupcakes topped with tiny fondant tombstones. A three-tiered cake shaped like a witch’s hat towers in one corner, while something that looks suspiciously like edible dirt, complete with gummy worms, spreads across another table.
And there, examining a tray of what appear to be severed fingers made from shortbread, stand the Sugar & Sass sisters themselves. They’re both somewhere in their sixties, stylish, and have the sassy attitudes to back up the moniker of their bakery.
Dilly Thatcher commands attention even when she’s standing still, which is sort of a miracle for the woman since she’s always on the move. Her auburn hair is teased and sprayed into a style that could survive a tornado, and her makeup is applied with the precision of someone who’s never met a mirror she didn’t love. Tonight, she’s wearing a glittery orange blouse emblazoned withBake It Like You Mean Itin rhinestones, paired with black leggings and ankle boots that add three inches to her petite frame.
Next to her, Nadine Halbrook looks like the sensible sister who keeps the books and makes sure Dilly doesn’t accidentally set the kitchen on fire. Her white-gray hair is braided into a crown that somehow manages to look both practical and elegant, and her vintage apron features dancing skeletons that cover up a simple black dress. Flour dusts her sleeves, and she looks as if she smells like cinnamon and common sense.
Delora reaches the sisters just as I’m eyeing the gummy worms and wondering if stress-eating candy dirt counts as a legitimate coping mechanism.
“Nice of you to finally show up,” Delora snaps at Dilly first. “I suppose sabotaging my event schedule is just another day at the office for you.”
The tent goes quiet except for the distant sound of spooky organ music and someone’s stomach growling—probably Chip’s. Okay,fine. It’s mine.
Dilly straightens to her full five-foot-nothing height, and her smile could cut diamonds. “Your event? Oh honey, this is my show, my symposium, and my audience. I own you tonight, tomorrow, and for the rest of your miserable little life. If I want to be late, I’ll be fashionably late. If I want to leave you in the dust, I’ll make sure you choke on it.”
The venom in her voice could dissolve steel, and probably Delora.
“Whoa, whoa.” I jump in before someone actually draws blood. “Let’s save the homicide for another night and definitely another venue. I just got this place insured.”
“And that’s assuming we can find a venue that allows weapons-grade glares,” Georgie adds helpfully.
She’s not kidding.
Delora opens her mouth to deliver what I’m sure will be another devastating insult when a melodious Southern drawl cuts through the tension like butter through a hot biscuit.
“Now, now, ladies. Let’s settle this sweeter than Sunday tea. Tonight’s about baked goods, not baked tempers.”
All heads turn toward a woman who looks like she stepped out of aSouthern Livingmagazine, assumingSouthern Livingstarted featuring people who could charm the paint off a fence post. The woman has shoulder-length platinum blonde hair that falls in perfect waves, winged eyeliner sharp enough to puncture tires, and the kind of smile that makes you want to tell her your deepest secrets while buying whatever buttered biscuits she’s selling.
