“It might be worse than witchcraft,” Bo said, his nose still pressed to the glass and his tail accelerating. “That clown looked terrified.”
He wasn’t wrong. The stocky Marcheford’s body language had projected quiet desperation, like he’d made a terrible mistake and was in too deep to back out.
“We should probably get closer,” I suggested reluctantly.
Didi’s mouth thinned. “I don’t know. I feel like we’re about to witness things that might haunt us for eternity.”
I was getting the same vibes but duty called.
“We should conclude our surveillance operation,” I said in my best professional tone.
“We’ll be spying on a clown,” Didi said flatly.
Our earpieces crackled.
“I agree with Abby,” Nigel contributed sheepishly. “Besides, I’m dying to know what that clown is up to.”
“Same,” Bo enthused.
We put it to a vote. Nigel, Bo, and I won the majority.
Didi sighed and killed the engine. We got out of the car and proceeded cautiously toward the property.
We made it halfway down the sidewalk before a golden retriever in the neighboring yard spotted Bo and launched into a frenzy of barking that could have woken the dead. Which, in Amberford, was not always a figure of speech.
Bo froze mid-stride.
“Keep moving,” I hissed.
The retriever threw itself against the chain-link fence, tail wagging furiously. Bo couldn’t resist. He veered toward the fence with the gravitational pull ofa dog who hadn’t socialized with another canine in days.
“Bo,” I warned through clenched teeth, glancing around furiously.
Curtains were beginning to twitch up along the street.
“It’s rude to ignore a greeting,” the Husky protested as he exchanged enthusiastic sniffs through the chain links. The retriever licked his nose.
Gavin’s horns chose this moment to pop out. He slapped them down and ducked behind a trash can that was approximately half his size.
“Subtle,” Didi observed acidly.
Music drifted from the house. It was something upbeat and jingly that sounded like it was being played through a portable speaker at maximum volume. Children’s laughter punctuated the melody. A high-pitched shriek rang out, followed by a chorus of delighted squealing.
The sinking feeling was getting worse.
Bo returned. “Cookie says there’s some kind of party going on. He smelled hot dogs and grilled corn cobs earlier.”
The golden retriever gave us a final woof as we crept along the side of the property. A wooden fence bordered the backyard. It was just tall enough for us to discreetly peer over. I stared.
Didi had been right. This was going to haunt us forever.
The backyard had been transformed into a party zone. Streamers hung from every availablesurface. Balloons in clashing colors were tied to lawn chairs, the fence posts, and what appeared to be some very confused garden gnomes. A banner strung between two trees readHAPPY BIRTHDAY OLIVER!in hand-painted letters that were enthusiastic if not entirely straight. Parents ran after wayward kids like football players about to attempt a touchdown.
The Marchefords were in the thick of it.
Stocky-Clown Marcheford was attempting to twist a long balloon into an animal shape for a cluster of children who watched him with the ruthless expectation unique to six-year-olds. His thick fingers wrestled with the latex like he was trying to strangle a very thin snake. The balloon emitted a pained squeak and contorted into something that resembled no creature, supernatural or otherwise, found in nature.
“It’s a giraffe!” he announced with forced cheer.
