Page 9

And there he is. Mr. Whiskers is sitting on the counter. On the floor below him is the plastic pumpkin bucket full of lollipops I keep beside the register. The lollipops are strewn everywhere, and he looks quite pleased with himself as I bend down to pick them up.

“You know,” I say, tossing the lollipops back into the plastic bucket, “it’s things like this that make me wonder if you’re the reason my recipe book is missing.”

I haven’t been able to find it in days. Considering I’ve written nearly every pie recipe I’ve ever created in the orange Moleskine notebook before I digitized them on my laptop, I’m more annoyed that it seems to have disappeared because of the sentimental value it has to me. I’m convinced he must have played ‘fling’ with it when I wasn’t paying attention, and no matter how many times I’ve gone looking for it—or deep-cleaned my kitchen while keeping an eye out for it—it’s gone.

I asked Mr. Whiskers what happened. He lifted his paw to his mouth, licking it with his adorable pink tongue, then batted at one of his triangle-shaped ears.

I took that to mean ‘no’, and if he did, he wasn’t telling me.

Cats, huh?

While I wait for him to show some sort of penitence, Mr. Whiskers leaps off the counter and struts toward the window. He rises up on his back paws, pressing his front paws to the window, peering out at Shadowvale as the sun begins to climb.

I shake my head. “I swear, you’re lucky you’re cute.”

His ears perk up as though he understood me. His tail lashes wildly, a sure sign he agrees.

I can’t resist the tug I feel toward my new buddy. Once I’ve picked up the last of the lollipops, I scurry over to Mr. Whiskers. I heft him up, smack a kiss to the space between his ears, then rub his fuzzy belly before lowering him back to the tile so that I can return to the kitchen and my pies.

And if he meows a little in protest, that’s okay.

We’re just getting to know each other, after all.

In October, Shadowvale looks like a Hallmark movie threw up orange glitter all over it.

It’s one of the reasons I scouted the small town out when I was looking for a place to settle down and start my business. Rent was cheap, it has a real neighborly vibe to it, and if there are rumors that the powerful twin businessmen running the town have a personal cemetery on their large property, I can deal with that because Shadowvale really leans into the holiday spirit every Halloween.

Right now, there are fake cobwebs on the lampposts, pumpkins on every doorstep, and at least three inflatable ghosts doing an entertaining dance in the wind along the closed-off Main Street. I should love it. Last year, shortly after I moved to Shadowvale and opened up The Pie Chart, I did. But today’s the day before Halloween. It’s the annual Fall Festival, including the Harvest Pie Bake-off, and my main competitor—Cindy Hargrove of Artful Oven Bake Shoppe—is already strutting toward the judges’ with a catlike grin on her face.

No. I shouldn’t say that. It’s an insult to all the great kitties like Mr. Whiskers, but, oh, would I like to wipe that smirk right off by winning today’s contest.

I had barely heard of her snooty bakery when I put my name down to compete in the pie bake-off last year. I sure learned quickly. Cindy had won the previous two years. Artful Oven Bake Shoppe has been in town for far longer than The Pie Chart, and from the way she acted when we first met, I think she expected me to know exactly who she was.

I didn’t, and then I beat her sweet potato pie with my pecan delight. She’s known exactly who I am ever since.

I don’t approach the table just yet, and when I finally do, I keep an eye out for the statuesque Cindy with her shoulder-length black hair and piercing blue eyes. She can bake and she’s a looker, too, and I would prefer not to run into her and have a faux friendly conversation while I’m nervously carrying the pie box holding my cherry pie.

It seems like the whole town has been out for the week-long festival. This evening, there are vendors in witch hats, kids with painted faces, plus the high school band tuning up for the evening parade, a second run for those who missed them marching down Main earlier during lunch. A booth three stalls down from where I enter the street is selling maple-candied pecans that make my mouth water, and the air smells like sugar, smoke, and absolute mischief.

The festival takes place along the full stretch of Main Street, both sides of the street. The road’s closed to cars, though the businesses seem to be getting even more customers than usual with all of the locals and tourists who’ve come to check it out. Last night, there was the adult costume contest. Tomorrow will be the kiddies, with today focusing more on crafts and treats.

It’s a pet-friendly zone, and I see countless dogs on their leashes. One is dressed up as an actual hot dog. Another is Piglet, trotting alongside their owner, dressed as Winnie the Pooh. There’s even a black cat wearing a Dracula-inspired cloak that makes me wish I’d brought Mr. Whiskers with me. I didn’t, though, and for two reasons. One? According to the vet, he’s been a stray a long time. He’s used to the outdoors, and I don’t want to remind him what it’s like after he’s gotten so good at being an indoor cat. And two? Mr. Whiskers is a hefty beast, and I need both of my hands to hold tightly to my cherry pie so that I don’t accidentally trip and fall and drop it before I make it to the entry table.

I finally do, and with a soft sigh of relief, I place it down on the gingham tablecloth. I fill out the card with my name, my business, and the flavor of my pie. Then, that done, I check the time on my phone. Judging won’t be for another hour, and there’s nothing left to do but wait.

I decide to distract myself by stopping in at the local café so I can grab a pumpkin spice latte to nervously drink. One of the vendors on the street is Bonnie, the woman who owns the souvenir shop on the same strip as The Pie Chart. She’s wearing a long, flowing midnight blue dress with silver stars embroidered over the bodice. Her salt-and-pepper hair is curled and tucked beneath one of the witch hats she sells at her store.

She’s advertising a palm reading service. For ten bucks, she’ll look at your hand and tell you your future.

Figuring ‘what the hell’, I drop a ten in her cauldron-shaped money collector and offer her the hand not holding tightly to my to-go cup.

TWO

BLACK RIBBON

Bonnie frowns as she peers down at the lines. “It looks like you have a new man in your life. But that he is not what he seems.”

He’s a cat, and I’m pretty sure that’s all I can expect from Mr. Whiskers. “Okay.”