Page 11 of Ghosts, Ghouls, and Growls
“So the rumor has it.” I nod, seeing that this is the second time I’m hearing about this veil in one night.
“Anyway,” Heath interrupts, clearly sensing the tension before anyone decides to toss a real knife his way. “I’m not just here for the paranormal stuff. I’m also scouting properties for potential development. This area has a lot of untapped potential for high-end vacation homes.”
Hammie Mae stiffens beside me as if someone just walked on her grave. I don’t know what passes between them in that silent exchange, but it’s clear there’s something brewing beneath the surface—something that has nothing to do with ghosts or ghouls.
Is Hammie Mae interested in Heath? Because honestly, if he’s a castoff of my sister’s, Hammie Mae can do so much better.
I wish them happy hunting and take off, spending the next half hour overseeing the bobbing for apples competition (which Georgie is dominating despite her pumpkin constraints) and making sure the cider doesn’t run out. As I’m crossing back toward the inn, I spot Heath with Hammie Mae in a shadowy corner, and by the look of it, they’re arguing. Their voices don’t carry, but their body language speaks volumes. He’s leaning in aggressively, and she’s backed against a tree.
I do my best to boot-scoot in that direction just in time to catch a few words.
“I know what you did,” he howls in her face. “Either you pay me or everyone else will know, too.”
Hammie Mae’s face drains of color before she pushes past him and disappears into the crowd.
That didn’t look very friendly,Fish observes, appearing at my feet.
Should we follow her?Sherlock gives a soft woof with his cape now slightly askew.
“Let’s give her a minute,” I whisper, not wanting to embarrass her further.
What in the world could Hammie Mae have done? Although, whatever it is, it’s none of my business. Heaven knows I have enough mysteries to solve at home, like how to get my baby to sleep for more than twenty-minute intervals.
I continue my rounds at the festival, handing out candy to kids and redirecting a group of teenagers who think the antique rose bushes would make a great hiding spot to polish off their flask of what definitely isn’t apple cider.
About twenty minutes later, I spot Heath again. This time he seems to be confronting Buffy about something near the haunted house. Her green antennae are practically vibrating with anger as she spits words back at him with one hand firmly restraining Skittles, who looks ready to live up to her spooky costume and take a bite out of Heath’s ankle, a reaction that suggests even the four-footed among us think he’s crossed some kind of line.
Whatever is going on with Heath Cullen, he’s certainly makingthe rounds himself and alienating just about every woman at the festival, which is either a very specific talent or a very dangerous hobby. My guess is both.
After another check-in with the vendors, I decide it’s time to sneak back to my cottage and peek in on baby Ella. As much as I trust Gwyneth and Dad, maternal instinct is a powerful override to rational thought, and I’ve reached my limit for how long I can go without verifying that my daughter is still breathing and hasn’t been kidnapped and whisked off to a cruise ship by well-meaning grandparents.
Fish and Sherlock tag along, probably hoping I’ll sneak them treats away from the crowd. And knowing me, I most certainly will.
We decide to cut behind the haunted house, which is a shortcut to my cottage that avoids the main festival chaos, when I spot a small white cutie pie darting through the artificial fog creeping across the ground.
It’s Fudge, Heath’s Westie, but his playful yips from earlier are gone, replaced by the kind of frantic growls that suggest something is very, very wrong.
He races in spastic circles before disappearing around the back of the structure.
“I think we should follow him,” I say to Fish and Sherlock. “Something doesn’t feel right.”
The three of us navigate through the fog, which curls around our ankles like ghostly fingers. The sound of the festival fades as we move behind the haunted house, replaced by an eerie silence broken only by the occasional recorded moan or scream from the attraction.
That’s when I see her—Macy, standing perfectly still, staring down at something on the ground. Even in the dim light, I can tell from her posture that something is very wrong. She’s got that frozen quality that people get when they’ve witnessed something their brain can’t quite process and she looks darn right mad.
“Macy? What are you doing back here?” I call out, rubbing my arms to ward off a sudden chill as the ground fog licks at our heels.
But Macy doesn’t answer. Instead, she lifts her foot and gives a swift kick to whatever she’s looking at.
I move closer, and my breath catches in my throat. The fog clearsjust enough for me to see. Lying on his back, with what appears to be a knife protruding from his chest, is Heath Cullen. His eyes stare sightlessly at the stars, and the pool of darkness spreading beneath him is definitely not part of the Halloween decorations unless the festival has taken a very dark turn toward authentic gore.
Something green and glittery catches the light on his sweater—tiny sequins reflecting the festival lights like miniature stars.
“Macy,” I whisper, frozen in place. “What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything,” she says, her voice oddly calm for someone standing over a corpse. “I found him like this.” She gives the body another swift kick. “Although I can’t say I’m sorry.”
Heath won’t have to worry about tracking down ghosts at the inn. He’s just become one.
