Percy rustles his spectral feathers on top of the dryer and gives a low, unimpressed coo. “That one stirs more than just gravy, dear.”
“Subtle,” I mutter under my breath, adjusting the casserole dish in my hands. “You’re about as cryptic as a neon billboard.”
Carlotta’s right beside me, eyeing the dessert table like she’s planning a heist. She glances over. “You talking to the dead bird or me?”
“Both,” I say, because with my life it’s always safer to assume everyone’s listening—living, dead, or feathered.
Percy sniffs. “I take offense todead bird. I’m a specter of elegance.”
“You’re a specter of something,” I mutter.
Carlotta grins. “I like him. He’s got style, and he knows it. That’s my kind of guy.”
“He’s a peacock who speaks in food riddles.”
“Exactly.” Carlotta winks at Percy. “Gorgeousandmysterious. If you weren’t dead and covered in feathers, I’d ask for your number.”
Percy preens at the thought. “Madam, you flatter me.”
Carlotta nods. “I speak only truth, handsome.”
I close my eyes briefly. “Please don’t flirt with the ghost.”
“Why not? He’s the best-looking male in this room, and he actually listens when I talk.”
“Honestly, he’s miles above some of the men you’ve dated,” I say with a sigh.
Ozzy’s tucked against me in his sling, freshly fed and already complaining. He lets out a grumbly little noise and kicks his chubby legs as if I’ve personally offended him.
“I know, buddy,” I whisper. “Mommy’s about to shake down a suspect. It’s exhausting for all of us.”
He answers with a tiny gurgle, and I can’t help but note that he smells suspiciously like banana pudding. Appropriate. Come to think of it, this entire place is starting to be saturated with the tropical scent. It’s basically banana-based psychological warfare at its best. Midge strikes again. But I’m not gunning for Midge right now.
Dolly spots me approaching, and her laughter hiccups to a stop. Her freckled cheeks go bright pink, and she clutches her punch cup like it’s a life preserver instead of a sugar bomb. She steps our way.
“Lottie.” Her voice lands somewhere between wary and wobbly. “My stars, this hair of yours. You let Blanche at it and lived to tell the tale?”
“I’m a survivor,” I say. “It’s my superpower.”
Carlotta slings an arm around Dolly’s shoulders like they’recollege roommates instead of Daughters of Honey Hollow frenemies. “I gotta say, if my hair ever looked that good, they’d arrest me for being a public menace. You’ve got a dangerous level of style.”
Dolly snorts. “Oh, hush. You look like you walked off the cover of a romance paperback. One of the spicy ones.”
Carlotta pats her curls. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Percy hops from the dryer to the top of a nearby hair station, his ghostly tail fanning in an iridescent arc behind Dolly’s head. He tilts his head, studying her.
“Such bright plumage for someone with such heavy secrets,” he muses.
I plaster on a smile and pretend my life is normal. Lainey strides by and shoves a drink in my hand, and I gladly accept.
“So,” I say, taking a sip of punch that tastes suspiciously like melted sherbet and regret, “how are you holding up? With everything that’s happened.”
Dolly’s fingers tighten around her cup until the plastic creaks. For a moment, I think she’s going to cry. Instead, she sets her mouth in a firm line.
“I keep expecting Vivi to walk through a door and criticize something,” she says. “My hair. My hemline. The temperature of my deviled eggs.” Her shoulders shake on a humorless laugh. “Then I remember she can’t.”
Carlotta tuts. “If she tries, I’ll smack the ghost right out of her.”
