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“Exactly,” Georgie says. “Do you know how hard I’ve trained to be a bad influence? And how many more chances are we going to get to go to a haunted castle? We could die tomorrow, Red. We should live while we can. Before we’re the ones doing the haunting.”

“We’re not going to die tomorrow,” Mom says, although she doesn’t sound too convinced of this.

“You don’t know that,” Macy counters. These women are of a certain age. Death is probably stalking them right now. “Ooh, I just thought of another great name for a candle!”

I check the itinerary over Georgie’s shoulder before she can put it away. The event is called Graveyard Glamour: Horror Hosting from Beyond, which is very in character for Miss Kitty, and it starts in two hours.

Two hours to get to Rose Glen. Two hours to find a sitter for Ella. Two hours to change into something appropriate for interrogating murder suspects at a haunted castle.

I look at Mom and Georgie, who are now fully arguing about whether haunted castles are appropriate destinations for octogenarians. I look at Macy, who’s waving a Werewolf Bait candle at a customer and promising it’ll make her love life wild in all the right ways. And I look at Ella, who’s laughing in her stroller while Fish and Duchess sit on either side of her looking long-suffering and Sherlock stares hopefully at a woman eating a cookie.

Miss Kitty better have answers. Because I’m running out of patience, leads, and time. Halloween will be here before we know it, and if I don’t catch the killer by then, somebody else might not live long enough to carve a pumpkin.

CHAPTER 11

Gwyneth and Dad took Ella for a beachside stroll and then dinner at the cafe, which means I’m standing in the parking lot of Ravenswood Manor with Fish and Duchess poking out of a tote bag and Sherlock on a leash that Georgie insisted on holding.

I called ahead to make sure they allow pets, just to be sure, and the woman on the phone said, “The spirits love animals,” which was either very charming or deeply unsettling depending on how you look at it. And depending on what happens next.

Ravenswood Manor is a gothic stone castle perched on a hilltop in Rose Glen, and it looks exactly like the sort of place where someone gets murdered in the third act of a horror movie. There are turrets, gargoyles, iron gates that creak when they open, and fog rolling in that I’m pretty sure is half natural and half from fog machines someone strategically placed in the bushes.

Thankfully, Rose Glen is only twenty minutes away from Spider Cove, so we won’t have a long trek once we decide it’s time to pick up our velvet hoop skirts and boot-scoot the heck out of this haunted house in a hurry.

“This place is perfect,” Georgie announces, winking up at the gargoyles as if she’s flirting with them. And we all know she is. “But if we don’t see at least three ghosts tonight, I’m asking for a refund.”

“We’re not getting a refund, Georgie,” Mom says, adjusting her cape.

“Not with that attitude we’re not.” Georgie shrugs. “Have it your way, toots. Then I’m haunting the place myself. And I won’t charge a dime.”

Wonderful.

Knowing Georgie, the ghosts will be asking for a refund soon enough.

Orange twinkle lights are wrapped around everything, which softens the whole impending doom aesthetic slightly, and the parking lot is absolutely packed with women in horror diva costumes who are buzzing with excitement about seeing Miss Kitty Cadaver.

Mom and Georgie have upgraded their costumes yet again. Mom’s cape now has actual bat wings attached to the back, and Georgie is wearing a corset covered in sequined spiders and platform boots taller than before that make her approximately seven feet tall. It’s a disconcerting look.

I went with a simple black dress and boots, because I’m here to interrogate a murder suspect, not win a costume contest.

“You look very boring, Bizzy,” Georgie says, eyeing my outfit. “Where’s your sense of sparkle? You look like you’re going to your own funeral.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“I’m aware. But if tonight goes the way I think it will, let’s just say I’m dressed for the right occasion.”

This place smells like a wet dog, Fish announces from the tote bag, her furry head poking out over the edge.

That’s just old stones and mildew, Duchess corrects, her head emerging next to Fish’s. And possibly actual ghosts.

Ghosts smell like a wet dog? Sherlock asks, sniffing the air.

You smell like a wet dog, Fish counters.

We push through the crowd and make it to the entrance, where a staff member in full Victorian costume takes our tickets and waves us through into the grand entrance hall.

The interior of Ravenswood Manor is even more dramatic than the outside. Vaulted ceilings stretch up into darkness, chandeliers hang from chains and flicker in a way that’s either atmospheric or a sign that someone needs to check the wiring, and portraits line the walls with eyes that seem to follow you as you walk.