The arrival of the sheriff’s department and the coroner breaks up the party before I can pledge allegiance to his badge, and I reluctantly drift to the edge of the tent where Georgie liberates Chip from my arms.
“Okay, spill,” Ree demands, reaching for Fish and scooping her up. “How do you keep finding dead bodies? Are you secretly a murder magnet? Should we be worried about getting on your bad side?”
“First, you found Ned Hollister toes up in the fun house,” Georgie says, wagging Chip my way as if he were evidence. “Now this? You’re either the unluckiest theme park owner in history or death follows you around hoping for good merch.”
“I prefer to think of it as job security,” I mutter. “At this rate, I could start a side business as a corpse detector.”
My attention drifts across the crowd that’s starting to gather at the tent’s edge, with all of the symposium attendees and curious staff members drawn by the commotion. Everyone’s still sporting our Halloween merchandise, which creates a surreal scene of tragedy mixed with commercial success.
Cat ear headbands glint under the purple lights, popcorn buckets with Fish and Chip faces are tucked under curious arms, and Halloween sweatshirts and adorable mini backpacks are scattered throughout the crowd.
I spot Nadine standing apart from the others, her face pale and stricken. I make my way over, leaving Ree and Georgie to provide commentary on proper crime scene etiquette to anyone within earshot.
“Nadine, I’m so sorry,” I say, pulling her in for a partial hug.
“I’m so sorry, too,” she says, and when she pulls back, I can see her eyes are laced with crimson and brimming with tears. “I can’t believe she’s gone. We fought constantly, but she was my partner. My friend. My true sister.” Her voice cracks slightly. “I’ll cooperate fully with the investigation. The only thing I want more than anything is to catch whoeverdid this to her.”
“The sheriff’s department will find them,” I assure her, though my gaze drifts to where Savvy stands near the body, her expression unreadable as she watches the coroner get to work. That adorable white standard poodle of hers, Cupcake, sits perfectly groomed at her side, looking like an overgrown cotton ball that’s been professionally fluffed.
And then there’s Delora—Detective Drake’s mother—watching the proceedings with the cool detachment of a woman who’s either in shock or calculating how fast she can take an unexpected trip south of the border.
The whole scene feels surreal. Somewhere in this crowd of Halloween enthusiasts, between the bat spatulas and skull cookie cutters, is a killer with a taste for more than just sugar.
A murderer walks among us,Fish observes from the safety of Ree’s arms,probably sporting our adorable faces on their murder accessories. Nothing says premeditated homicide like coordinated cat-themed gear.
At least they’re supporting small business while committing felonies,Chip adds with twisted logic that my bank account sadly won’t disapprove of.You’ve got to respect someone who prioritizes brand loyalty even during criminal activities.
I watch the organized chaos unfold around me—the sheriff’s department photographing evidence, the coroner examining the body, witnesses being separated for questioning—and can’t shake the feeling that this murder has more layers than a haunted seven-tier wedding cake.
The symposium was supposed to be nothing but sugar and spice, but someone had decided that Savvy’s Rest in Peaches cake needed a real body to complete the theme, and the presentation is absolutely killing the mood.
CHAPTER 5
If caffeine could solve homicide cases, I’d be out of a hobby and the most successful detective in Maine.
Downstairs, the Country Cottage Inn is in full fall mode—pumpkin-spiced everything, plaid flannel throws piled like someone robbed a lumberjack, and about fourteen ceramic gourds grinning from every flat surface. Somewhere in the background, a jazzy version of “Monster Mash” is playing. Because the Country Cottage Inn isn’t just cozy, it’s classy.
Coffee percolates from somewhere behind the reception desk, bacon sizzles from the Country Cottage Café down the hall, and the fireplace crackles with the kind of cozy authority that sayseverything is fineinstead ofyou found another corpse less than twelve hours ago.Honestly, at this rate I should update my LinkedIn to read “Theme Park Owner/Corpse Magnet/Recent Graduate of the Clyde-Did-More-Than-Downward-Dog-With-His-Yoga-Instructor School of Life.”
Fish and Chip trot down the grand staircase beside me, both sporting the shell-shocked expressions of war veterans who’ve seen too much.
Another beautiful morning in Homicide Central,Fish mutters.Should we start charging admission to your crime scenes or just skip straight to the merchandise booth?
I shoot her a look. “You’re a hilarious hairball.”
I vote for hazard pay,Chip adds, his orange fur still doing that thing where it sticks up in seventeen different directions after he rolls out of bed, and apparently down the stairs, too.My fragile nerves can only handle so much trauma before I start stress-eating the centerpieces.
“That makes two of us.”
We make it downstairs where the lobby explodes with autumn as if someone detonated a pumpkin spice bomb. Miniature gourds stage a hostile takeover, maple leaves cascade from copper fixtures, and chrysanthemums the size of dinner plates bloom from pots positioned at every nook and cranny. Clearly, someone decided that if you’re going to do fall, you might as well grab it by the gourd and wrestle it into submission.
“Well, hello there, Maine’s newest murder magnet,” Bizzy calls from behind the marble counter, looking criminally put together for someone whose husband probably got dragged to a homicide scene before his first cup of coffee.
Bizzy Baker Wilder has that annoying morning-person glow that makes the rest of us question our skincare routines and sleep schedules. She’s twenty-something to my fifty-something, her dark hair falls in effortless waves—the kind that cost a fortune to look that casual—and her denim blue eyes sparkle with the sort of mischief that either saves your bacon or gets you arrested. Today’s deep crimson outfit screamsI own a successful inn and my biggest problem is choosing between artisanal jam flavors.
There’s my hooman!Fish purrs with genuine excitement as both cats hop onto the counter.She runs this place like the empire it is. Much better than being home with Jasper’s slobbery mutt, Sherlock Bones. That dog thinks everything is a chew toy, including my dignity.
Bizzy is one of my favorite hoomans,Chip announces, immediatelylaunching into his morning Bizzy-sniffing ritual.She radiates bacon and good decisions.
