Page 4 of Ghosts, Ghouls, and Growls
“She’s perfect,” Jasper breathes, leaning over us with an expression I’ve never seen before. My tough-guy homicide detective husband—the man who can stare down hardened criminals without blinking—looks as if he’s been sucker-punched by love and is enjoying every second of it. I know I am.
The baby gives another indignant wail as if to say,Perfect? I’ll show you perfect when I figure out how to use my lungs properly with some serious vocal gymnastics.
Soon enough, our little hospital room turns into Grand Central Station during rush hour, if Grand Central Station specialized in baby worship and had a gift shop that exclusively sold pink balloons.
Emmie and Leo arrive first, with baby Elliot snoozing peacefully in his carrier—the picture of angelic behavior that I can only hope our daughter will eventually embrace, preferably before she turns eighteen.
Mom and Georgie burst through the door with enough balloons to achieve liftoff, followed by my sister Macy, who already has her phone out and is clearly planning to document every second for her social media empire, because apparently, nothing saysfamily bondinglike optimizing content for maximum likes. Not that I mind. My precious peanut is so preciously perfect, I think the entire world should be apprised of her beauty.
“So,” Emmie says, settling on the edge of my bed while gazing at our freshly minted daughter, who’s now been cleaned up and swaddled tighter than a yummy burrito. “What are we calling this little angel?”
I look down at my sweet girl, who’s finally decided that maybe the outside world isn’t so terrible after all. “Well, we were toying with naming her Elizabeth if we had a girl. It seems fitting, all things considered.”
“Hello, Elizabeth.” Jasper smiles down at her with tears in his eyes.
“Elizabeth,” Mom repeats, and something flickers across her face—an expression I can’t quite read. It’s gone so quickly I almost think I imagined it, like a cloud passing over the sun. “It’s always been my favorite name.” She glances at Macy, who’s busy finding the perfect selfie angle. “Although I have to admit, your sister looked like a Macy from the moment she arrived.”
“Lucky me, getting the hand-me-down name,” I tease, but Mom’s expression suddenly grows serious. She closes her eyes for a moment, and when she opens them, they’re glassy with tears.
The room goes quiet. Even Macy pauses her photo session.
“Mom?” I prompt. “Are you okay?”
She nods, dabbing at her eyes. “It’s just that—my baby had a baby. It’s a lot.”
I’m not sure why, but it feels as if there’s something else, something she’s not saying, but I’m too exhausted and too blissed-out to dig deeper right now.
“She’ll need a nickname.” I grin up at Jasper. “Any thoughts?”
“How about Ella?” Leo suggests, gently bouncing his sweet son. “Goes well with Elliot. They could be a matching set.”
I glance at Jasper. “But that’s your sister’s name. Would that be weird?”
“Eleanor is her formal name,” he says as his finger traces our daughter’s tiny cheek. “I think she’d be honored. And I love it.”
“Then it’s settled.” I feel tears prick my eyes again. Apparently, childbirth turns you into an emotional faucet that someone forgot to turn off. “Welcome to the world, Elizabeth Georgie Ree Wilder.”
The room erupts in cheers. Mom and Georgie immediately start sobbing as if someone just told them they’d won the lottery, which I suppose, in a way, they have.
“You named her after us?” Georgie manages between sniffles as her kaftan sleeves become impromptu tissues.
“The middle names were already picked out,” I tell them. “I’m just glad I got to use these particular ones.”
What follows is a beautiful chaos of cooing, crying, and enough photo taking to fill several albums—or create a documentary seriesabout the first hour of Ella’s life outside the womb. Eventually, a nurse takes pity on me and kicks everyone out with the authority of someone who’s dealt with overly enthusiastic families before, explaining that new mothers need rest—a concept that sounds absolutely divine right about now and probably mythical in practice.
Jasper settles into the torture device masquerading as a recliner beside my bed. “Can you believe we made her?” he whispers, staring at our sleeping daughter like she might disappear if he blinks.
“Well, I did most of the heavy lifting,” I point out, but I’m smiling too hard for it to sound like a real complaint.
“You were incredible.” He leans over to kiss my forehead. “I can’t wait to bring you both home.”
I close my eyes, picturing little Ella meeting Fish and Sherlock, then imagine her taking her first steps across the polished floors of the Country Cottage Inn. “She’s going to love it there.”
“I’m going to make sure nothing dangerous ever happens at the inn again,” Jasper says as his voice takes on that protective tone I know so well.
I want to agree with him, I really do. But as I drift toward sleep, that familiar chill creeps up my spine—the one that’s become my personal early warning system over the years. A harbinger of things to come. Very, verybadthings.
The Country Cottage Inn has been a magnet for murder since the day I took over, attracting homicides like a beacon for the criminally inclined. Between my mind-reading abilities and our property’s apparent open invitation to killers, I’ve solved more homicides than some detectives see in their entire careers.
