“Exactly. That would’ve hurt more.”
“They probably don’t even know what a scone is.”
“That’s right, Lot.” Carlotta howls out a laugh. “Take it out on some bread dough later. Punch it. Knead it. And shape it like the Pickens gang. I’ll help you bite their heads off.”
“Funny.” I frown, and for a moment. I take in the visual, too.
We push through the front door into the B&B, and the interior wraps around us like a warm hug dipped in spooky Gothic vibes.
The place is a study in elegant excess. To my left, there’s a larger-than-life painting of my mother looking as sultry as can be, and to the right, a wrought iron staircase leads to the moody second floor—think damask wallpaper, flickering sconces, and thick emerald carpet with a fleur-de-lispattern. The creamy marble reception counter is brimming with vases filled with enough light pink peonies to cover all of Honey Hollow. And the dark wood floors on the main level add just the right amount of contrast.
The B&B might be cozy in theory, but it’s mammoth in every other capacity. There’s a formal grand room to the left, a main dining room to the right that serves dinner nightlyto guests, and at the back, a colossal glass conservatory that my mother added five years ago specifically for hosting events.
But today’s event is taking place in the back garden.
We head that way, weaving through clusters of women in vintage dresses who are already arriving in droves, and that’s when I see some of my favorite spooks.
Percy is holding court near the French doors that lead to the garden, and he’s not alone.
Greer Giles stands beside him, looking like she stepped out of a Gothic romance novel. She’s a brunette stunner—about my age, early thirties, with dark hair that seems to glow like an onyx solar system. She’s wearing the white ruched gown she died in, the one with the crimson stain near her heart where the bullet made its exit on Valentine’s Day, a few years back. Of course, I helped solve her murder, and she’s been a supportive presence ever since.
Next to her is her handsome hubby, Winslow Decker. Winslow used to be a pig farmer in life, and he happens to be a dirty blond hottie in death. He’s got his arm around Greer’s waist, and they’re both watching little Lea with the fond exasperation of parents who know their child is about to do something questionable.
Little Lea is six years old forever, with long dark hair combed over her face so you can’t quite tell if she’s coming or going. She wears a dirty pinafore, scuffed Mary Janes, and in her tiny hand she wields a machete. Yes, a machete. Apparently, her family was slaughtered on the grounds, and she’s spent decades upon decades looking to avenge their deaths.
Lea just so happens to be crouched down talking to Thirteen, the feisty black cat who also happens to have used up all nine of his lives. And right now, Thirteen is yowling at Percy as if they’re in the middle of a very important debate.
“Look at this, Lot,” Carlotta says, spotting them. “We’ve got more dead people than the living here.”
“Lottie Lemon! Carlotta!” Percy looks up, his tail feathers fanning in greeting. “How lovely to see you both looking so ridiculously vintage.”
“Thanks, Percy,” I say. “You’re really capturing that festive spirit.”
Greer turns, and her dress shimmers as she moves. “Happy Mother’s Day, Lottie. You look adorable in an old school kind of way.”
“Thanks, Greer,” I say, giving her a quick hug. I’m not sure why, but the dead can feel nice and solid when they want to. “You look eternally gorgeous.”
“It’s the death glow.” She chortles. “Very in right now.”
I wish she were kidding.
“Well, happy Mother’s Day to you, too,” I say, giving her one more quick hug. Greer and Winslow have all but adopted Little Lea.
“Thank you, thank you.” She chortles and coos. “Being a mother has made all of my dreams come true. Which just goes to show that even when your dreams don’t come true while you’re living, there’s still a chance they’ll show up after you’re dead. Death, surprisingly, is full of second chances.”
“Hello, ladies.” Winslow tips an invisible hat our way. “Happy Mother’s Day to you both.”
Greer pops her hand to her mouth. “I keep forgetting you’re a mother, too, Carlotta.”
“That’s all right,” she answers back. “I keep forgetting it myself.”
I nod. “There are no truer words.”
Little Lea stomps forward, her face mostly hidden behind her long, dark, stringy hair. “I can’t wait for Mother’s Day to be over. I hate people. And there are far too many in the backyard.”
“I won’t argue with you there,” I say, peering out into the garden that’s already teeming with bodies. I spot Lily and Suze bringing in the last of my dessert platters, and peopleare already lining up to grab a few for themselves. “There are certainly far too many bodies for my comfort as well.”
“Though I must say,” Percy fans his tail out—the entire glorious six-foot expanse—and a smattering of tiny blue stars emits from it, “the living do have their charms. Particularly the ones who appreciate my magnificence. That woman in the purple hat has excellent taste. She’s been staring at me for the last ten minutes.”
