The Sugar Crypt tent reeks of cinnamon, brown sugar, and freshly spilled blood—autumn’s least appetizing combo. Fog machines churn out mist that mingles with woodsmoke, while the haunted mood playing sounds an awful lot like a death march. Halloween lights bathe everything in ominous shades of orange, which would be festive if I weren’t staring at a corpse.
Because that’s exactly what Dilly Thatcher has become—a very dead, very frosting-covered corpse. Dilly is still face-down in Savvy’s Rest in Peaches coffin cake, and the irony isn’t lost on me.
And standing over her with a marble rolling pin that’s sporting a fresh coat of what definitely isn’t strawberry sauce? Is Delora the Demented, AKA this shindig’s appointed event planner? The woman grips that kitchen weapon with the focus of someone who’s just committed murder and is seriously considering an encore.
My scream could wake the dead, which would be helpful right about now.
MURDER!Fish and Chip yowl in perfect harmony in my arms, creating a feline Greek chorus of doom.DEATH BY DESSERT!
There goes the evening entertainment,Chip adds with his typical food-focused priorities.And probably the rest of that cake, too. What a waste of perfectly good peaches.
The sound of sensible shoes trampling over cobblestones announces the arrival of my senior backup squad. Ree and Georgie burst through the tent flap with the enthusiasm of first responders who’ve been training for this exact moment their entire lives.
“What happened?” Ree gasps, clutching a pumpkin spice whoopie pie as if it were a shield. “Did someone—OH MY WORD!”
Georgie skids to a halt, the cat ears on her head tilting at a dangerous angle. “Is that Dilly? In the cake? Well, that’s one way to become one with your dessert. Very hands-on approach to food styling.”
“This isn’t dinner theater, Georgie,” I manage, my voice slightly higher than a dog whistle.
Delora raises the rolling pin—whether in shock or self-defense, I can’t tell—and both Ree and Georgie dive behind a nearby hay bale with the grace of combat veterans.
“She’s got a weapon!” Ree shrieks from behind her straw fortress.
“And poor impulse control!” Georgie adds with a shriek.
“And questionable judgment,” I add, scooping up Chip and holding him close. He’s not nearly as agile as Fish, thus the reason he’s acting as my furry little shield.
The tent flap explodes inward again, and Detective Dexter Drake bursts in with his hand hovering over his gun and an expression set to apocalypse mode.
“Sheriff’s department! EVERYONE FREEZE! “
And sweet mercy, even in the middle of a murder scene, the man looks good enough to make handcuffs seem like a romantic gesture. His jet-black hair catches the Halloween lights, his storm-blue eyes scan the scene with professional intensity, and his body fills out that uniform in ways that should require permits.
“Josie?” His gaze lands on me, and relief flickers across his face before morphing into something decidedly more laced with irritation.
“I didn’t do it!” I throw my hands up so fast, I nearly launch Chip into a towering candy corn cheesecake.
“Neither did I,” Delora protests, though she’s still clutching that rolling pin with a death grip.
Drake’s head swivels toward her voice, and his eyes widen to approximately the size of whoopie pies—and twice as delicious. “Mom?”
The collective gasp from Ree, Georgie, and me could be heard clear in the next county.
“Did he just sayMom?” Georgie stage-whispers from behind her hay bale. “As in, the homicidal maniac holding the bloody rolling pin is the woman who birthed him?”
There goes the wedding,Fish deadpans.Hard to plan seating arrangements when the groom’s mother might be doing time.
Does this mean we can’t eat the evidence?Chip asks with genuine curiosity, and more than a genuine note of disappointment.Because that cake still looks partially salvageable, and I have standards about food waste.
Me, too, but I draw the line at sharing with a corpse.
Drake holsters his weapon and approaches the body with professional efficiency, though his jaw ticks in a way that screamsfamily drama incoming. And I’ll be honest, I am so here for it.
“Who is she?” he asks, getting down on one knee and checking for a pulse we allknow he won’t find.
“Dilly Thatcher,” I’m quick to tell him. “Half of the Sugar & Sass duo. She was supposed to be the star of our symposium.” Now she’s just another spooky prop for our Halloween décor. Don’t ever say we do anything halfway around here. Kidding, mostly.
Georgie nods at Detective Delicious. “And your mama threatened to kill her not an hour ago,” she shouts, popping up from behind the hay bale. “We all heard it. Very specific threats about violence and bodily harm. The kind that would make a mob boss take notes.”
