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She raises a good point. Somewhere in my office there’s a liability binder, and not one page of it covers slippery werewolves.

One of the werewolves offers his hand to Delora, who actually blushes before accepting. She’s swept onto the makeshift dance floor, her deerstalker cap slightly askew, looking more delighted than I’ve ever seen her. Good for her. The woman deserves some fun after planning this entire nightmare of a week. Also, I now possess a memory of Delora Drake dancing with an oiled werewolf, and I intend to spend it wisely.

Ree is dancing with a vampire who keeps trying to impress her with his fake fangs. Unfortunately for him, Ree has read approximately four hundred books containing vampires and has opinions.

“The carotid is here.” She taps her neck. “You’re two inches off. Two inches, in your line of work, is the difference between immortality and a very awkward apology.”

Savvy appears at my elbow, fanning herself with her hand. “Sweet mercy, those boys are prettier than a peach orchard! I haven’t seen that much man meat outside a barbecue.”

“Did Georgie arrange this?” I ask, though I already know the answer. Heck, I knew the answer before I finished rounding the corner.

“Sugar, Georgie paid for this out of her own pocket the second we got to the park.” Savvy grins. “She said cozy mystery readers deserved eye candy, and she was going to be the hero who delivered.”

Georgie materializes beside us, looking smugger than a cat with a stolen smoked turkey leg. “You’re welcome, one and all! Consider this my gift to womankind. I believe in giving back. Some people plant trees. I like to give the people what they didn’t know they needed.”

An oiled-up werewolf extends his furry hand to her. Georgie grabs on before he can change his mind.

This is decidedly weird, Fish notes. Although I do appreciate the ones covered in fur.

Chip straightens. Someone dropped a cream puff. Everybody stay calm. I’m going in.

Those men are shinier than a new penny in a pig trough, Cupcake barks, and her Southern drawl somehow makes it sound poetic.

Salem appears, riding in Eulla Bell’s arms as she waltzes past with one of the vampires. What in the name of sweet tea and shirtless shenanigans is happening?

Georgie happened, Fish explains.

That woman is a force of nature, Salem says with something dangerously close to impressed.

That’s the highest praise a cute kitty can bestow. Georgie would frame it if she could hear it.

“Josie!” Ree abandons her vampire mid-critique and hustles over. “You caught the killer! Delora texted me! Tell me everything!”

“It was Felicity,” I say quietly, because even with the chaos around us, this feels as though it deserves some respect. “But she didn’t kill her. It was an accident. Belladonna attacked her first, and, well, she ended up taking a tumble.”

Ree’s whole posture melts. “Oh. Poor Felicity.”

Savvy squeezes my arm. “You did good, hon. That woman’s not a killer. She’s a mama protecting her baby. There’s a difference.”

Acquitted, Fish announces from below. The jury of one finds her guilty of nothing but terrible taste in old friends.

For what it’s worth, I liked her, Chip adds. She smelled like sugar cookies.

“That’s what I think, too.” Felicity Graves isn’t a murderer. She’s a mother backed into a corner by a woman with more venom than sense, and there’s a whole world of difference between those two things.

My phone buzzes against my hip. It’s a text from Bizzy. A string of exclamation points long enough to qualify as its own paragraph, followed something saner.

Bizzy: You are telling me EVERYTHING over a cup of hot apple cider tonight. I mean it. Of course Fish and Chip will need to be present. They’re better at details.

I can’t argue there. They’re also better at interrupting, but that’s a problem for future Josie.

A commotion near the entrance snags my attention. I turn and spot Clyde pushing through the crowd dressed as a cop, complete with aviator sunglasses, a badge that says “Fashion Police,” and a nightstick that’s definitely a pool noodle painted black.

Of course. My ex-husband has never met an occasion he couldn’t make weirder.

“MOM!” McKenna and Riley blow in like a pair of tornadoes in their skimpy costumes, dragging Jack and Emma behind them.

Jack Drake looks like a younger, slightly less brooding version of his father in dark jeans and a leather jacket. Emma’s dressed as a princess of some sort in a purple dress that’s significantly longer than what my daughters are wearing, and I mentally send her mother a thank-you card for teaching her about appropriate hemlines. Then I mentally send myself a sympathy card, because clearly that lesson skipped my house entirely.