Page 54

Mom opens her mouth, closes it, then tries again. “You’re old, that’s why.”

“Exactly! Which means statistically I could drop dead tomorrow, and then what? I’ll have missed my chance with an entire venue full of eligible vampires.” Georgie takes a bite of a cookie. “These shortbread tombstones are delicious, by the way. Very realistic angle on the graveyard dirt. I bet a certain undead prince wouldn’t mind rolling around in it.”

Mom looks at me like I’m supposed to help.

I give a little shrug instead. “I’m staying out of this.”

“Smart woman,” Macy says. “Also, Georgie has a point. When you’re in your eighties, every day is a gift. Might as well unwrap it with a hot vampire.”

Mom makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a cry. “I cannot believe I’m having this conversation. At a murder investigation. While eating dessert shaped like graves.”

“Welcome to the Spider Cove Halloween Harvest Festival,” I say, grabbing a poison apple tart. “Where the dead outnumber the living and nobody knows which category they’re in.”

I excuse myself before Mom can draft me into vampire-prevention duty and make my way to where Ghoulia Grimm is standing near the edge of the venue, still holding her cup of steaming cider. I’ll admit it looks delicious. It smells of caramel, is topped with copious amounts of whipped cream, and has a cinnamon stick protruding from it.

It’s dark out, the stars are doing their thing, the festival is hitting its pinnacle, and it’s sheer chaos all around us.

There are women dressed in horror diva costumes everywhere—sequined spider corsets, elaborate vampire gowns, zombie makeup that probably took hours to apply. The dessert table is being swarmed by people grabbing every Halloween-themed treat—the poison apple tarts and black velvet cupcakes are going fast. Twinkle lights are strung overhead, casting everything in a warm glow that contrasts sharply with the fog machines puffing artificial mist across the grounds. Jack-o’-lanterns line the walkways, their carved faces flickering with battery-operated candles.

The scent of churros and funnel cake is taking over, with an underlying note of fall leaves and wood smoke from somewhere nearby. Spooky Halloween music is playing in the distance, punctuated by laughter and the clinking of plates and the general sound of two hundred women having a raucous good time at a murder-themed event.

Fish, Sherlock, and Duchess appear from wherever they’ve been exploring, weaving through the crowd with a confidence that suggests they’ve been causing minor chaos and getting away with it.

There are far too many people here, Bizzy, Fish grouses. Someone stepped on my tail. I think we should cancel Halloween and call it a day.

I found a cupcake wrapper, Sherlock barks proudly. It was empty but it smelled amazing. If I don’t score a sweet treat soon, I might just knock over the churro cart for the fun of it. Of course, I’ll head the cleanup detail.

We’re supposed to be investigating, Duchess reminds them. Not scavenging. Poor Clawdia’s killer is still running around on the loose. It doesn’t seem fair. They’re not getting their proper recognition. I bet there are at least a dozen women who would love to pat them on the back.

She had me until that whole proper recognition thing. Although, the Seaview Sheriff’s Department wouldn’t mind giving them a little recognition too, by way of the law. And how I would love to play a small role in that endeavor.

Ghoulia sees me approach with that same amused expression she’s been wearing since I first walked over.

“You want to know if I killed her,” she says before I can open my mouth.

I’m caught off guard by the directness. “I⁠—”

“I’m seventy-nine years old, Mrs. Wilder. I don’t have time to dance around questions.” She takes a sip of her cider. “Ask what you came to ask.”

I regroup quickly. “Your relationship with Clawdia seemed complicated.”

“That’s not a question.” She looks as annoyed as she is amused.

She thinks this is a joke. And the joke just might be on me.

“How complicated?” I reframe it for her.

“I can assure you, it was nothing more than professional respect that turned bitter.” Ghoulia watches the crowd, her pale watery blue eyes scanning the costumed women as if she expects the dead to show up too. “Clawdia stole the Hall of Fame induction. It was supposed to be mine. Everyone in the horror hosting community knew it. The honor of inaugurating the Hall was going to the oldest living hostess still active in the scene. That was me.”

I tip my head to the side. This is the first I’m hearing about the Hall of Fame. And here I thought Miss Kitty gave me the full tour of Ghoulia’s grudges back at the inn, and yet this one never came up. Either it’s too new to be common knowledge, or Ghoulia keeps her deepest wounds off the gossip circuit.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Her people staged a hostile takeover of the selection committee. Suddenly the criteria changed. We’re talking cultural impact, audience reach, and metrics that conveniently favored exactly one person.”

“I’m so sorry to hear it,” I say before clearing my throat. “And the streaming show—I heard she got that canceled too.”

“You’ve been doing your homework.” Ghoulia doesn’t sound bothered by it. She sounds almost thrilled, like a teacher whose student finally cracked the assignment. “The show was the first theft. And the Hall of Fame was the last. They were fifteen years apart, but it was the same knife. She told the network I was difficult to deal with, and she told the committee I was irrelevant, and both times a room full of cowards believed her.” She glowers out at the festival. “Do you want to know the difference between me and whoever killed her? I had fifteen years to do it and didn’t.”