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I glance at him. “Lead homicide detective?”

“Of Seaview County, no less.” He grins at me, and I can see Emmie trying not to laugh. Come on, Bizzy. You know you’re better than what the sheriff’s department has to offer. He laughs along with the thought, and I can’t help but lift a brow at him.

Leo has the same ability I do. We’re both what’s called Transmundane, which sounds way more impressive than it actually is. Specifically, we’re telesensual, which means we can read thoughts. It’s more of a curse than a gift most days, but I’ve gotten so used to it that I’m not sure what I’d do without the constant entertainment of people’s ridiculous inner monologues. And I’d be absolutely devastated if I couldn’t hear what my fur babies have to say.

Jasper has been mentally composing love poetry about that corset all night. Leo nods my way with the thought. Something about ‘velvet curves’ and ‘moonlight on skin.’ It’s very Romantic with a capital R. He knocked it off as soon as you stepped on the sand. I bet he’s saving the best parts for later.

“Very funny.” I offer a playful frown even though I’ve been trying to keep Jasper’s wandering thoughts to myself—and save them up for later.

“You’re the best detective in Maine, Bizz.” Emmie is quick to sing my praises.

“I agree.” Jasper doesn’t miss a beat before eating his marshmallow right off the stick, no crackers or chocolate for him this round.

“I’m not a detective.” I wink at him, sandwiching my marshmallow between two graham crackers with way too much chocolate. “I’m an innkeeper with a body-finding problem.”

“Semantics,” Emmie says.

Jasper shifts slightly, pulling me closer. “How did it go with Ghoulia?”

I take a bite of my s’more and immediately regret it because the marshmallow is still molten-lava hot, and now I’m trying to answer a question while my mouth is on fire. I manage to swallow without burning my entire esophagus and reach for the hot cocoa.

“She confessed to murdering her husband,” I say once I can speak again.

Leo pauses mid-marshmallow-roast. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Floyd. 1983. On a Wisconsin farm. He was abusive, she poisoned him, his body was never found, and she raised her daughter alone and never regretted it.” I’m assembling another s’more while I talk because apparently one brush with death by marshmallow wasn’t enough. “She called it premeditated self-defense.”

“That’s horrifying,” Emmie says.

“That’s Ghoulia,” I say. “She told me about it like we were discussing a recipe. It was all very matter-of-fact. No guilt whatsoever.”

Jasper inspects me for a moment. “Do you think she killed Clawdia?”

“I think she wanted to.” I take another bite of my s’more, and this time I’m ready for the molten center. Chocolate and marshmallow squish together in one hot, gooey, slightly charred mess that has no business being this good. I’m pretty sure I’ve already exceeded my recommended daily allowance of sugar, but I’ve never been a quitter. “She despised Clawdia for stealing her streaming show fifteen years ago, then swooping in and taking the Hall of Fame induction this year. It was the same grudge and the same knife. But when I read her thoughts, she distinguished between Floyd and Clawdia. Floyd got what he deserved. Clawdia didn’t.”

“So she didn’t kill Clawdia?” Leo asks.

“She didn’t confess to it. But she also didn’t deny it in her thoughts. She was filled with so much rage and bitterness. There was no admission either way.” I lick chocolate off my thumb. “She’s still a suspect, but she pointed me pretty hard at Miss Kitty.”

“The pink one?” Emmie asks.

“The very pink one.”

I tell them about the documentary. About Miss Kitty filming everyone in the horror hosting community for months, capturing all their secrets and vulnerabilities on camera. About Clawdia mentoring her and then betraying her, threatening to turn the loving tribute into an exploitative exposé that would destroy everyone’s careers and relationships.

“Clawdia had copies of the footage,” I explain, watching my third marshmallow catch fire and pulling it back to blow it out. “Kitty begged her not to release it. She offered to destroy everything. Clawdia refused. Said she was going to shop it to streaming platforms.”

“When was this?” Jasper asks.

“Two weeks before the festival.”

Leo lets out a low whistle. “That’s recent. And specific.”

“Very specific and very personal,” I say. “Also, it was very much a reason to commit murder. All of those women had something they wanted to hide.” I sandwich the marshmallow with more chocolate than is strictly necessary and don’t regret a thing. “According to Ghoulia, Kitty went from excited about the project to completely silent about it right before everyone came to Cider Cove. And apparently, she looked sick whenever anyone mentioned it.”

“I ran into Vampyra near the candle booth,” Leo says. “I caught more than a few stray thoughts from her, too. And her thoughts were exactly as dramatic as you’d expect. All exclamation points and emotional upheaval about how Clawdia ruined her life and now everyone thinks she did it and her career is over.” He shakes his head. “Zero actual planning. Just panic and performance.”

“There’s something else I learned about Vampyra,” Jasper says, and I hear the detective slide back into his voice. “We got the background checks on all the headliners today. Her husband passed away twelve years ago. He had a heart attack in his sleep. No warning. And she inherited a sizable estate.”