Page 15 of Ghosts, Ghouls, and Growls
Jasper and I call one of those cottages home, as do Emmie and Leo just down the winding path from us, and even Georgie has taken up permanent residence in one of the cottages on the other side of the property. It’s our own little community within a community, complete with somewhat nosy neighbors (Georgie and my mother by proxy), and impromptu dinner parties (Emmie), and the occasional dead body (me, apparently).
Today, the rolling lawn in front of the inn has been transformed into a photographer’s autumn dream as hay bales form a rustic backdrop for the massive pumpkins, each one artfully positioned to catch the best morning light—or what passes for light on this particularly gloomy October morning.
A scarecrow with a crooked hat and plaid shirt stands guard over the scene, his stitched-on smile making him look far too pleased with himself for a man made of straw. The scent of apple cider and cinnamon donuts wafts from a nearby table because no photo shoot is complete without bribes for both the children and adults involved, and honestly, after last night, we all need the sugar.
And speaking of bribes, Emmie has outdone herself with a tray of pumpkin spice French toast bites, each nestled in its own little cupcake liner with a drizzle of Maine maple syrup glistening on top like liquid amber. Beside them sits a plate of homemade toffee studded with almonds that looks sinful enough to qualify as a controlled substance, which given my current state of exhaustion, might actually be what I need.
“Taste test?” Emmie offers, holding out the tray with a proud smile. Since resuming her post as manager of the Country Cottage Café after maternity leave, she’s been experimenting with fall-themed breakfast items, and I wholeheartedly approve.
Thankfully, Leo’s mother has been a godsend, watching little Elliot during the day so Emmie can get back to what she loves—feeding people until their pants don’t fit.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” I groan, popping a French toast bite into my mouth and immediately reaching for another, because apparently, I have no self-control when it comes to Emmie’s cooking. “But what a way to go.”
Emmie laughs as she cradles my sweet baby girl. “And if this little cutie gets any cuter, she’ll be the death of Jasper.” She laughs some more while adjusting the tiny red yarn braids attached to Ella’s Dorothy costume. Her ruby slippers are crafted from sparkly fabric and soft-soled for her baby feet, and they catch the morning light, making them look like they truly could take you anywhere in the world with three clicks.
Not that Ella is impressed by this magical power. She’s more interested in trying to eat her own fist, which seems to be her current hobby, along with testing the structural integrity of my eardrums.
“There’s my little munchkin,” Jasper says, appearing beside me with two steaming mugs of coffee. Leaded for him and decaf for me. His hair is slightly rumpled from his early morning inspection of the grounds with Leo, but somehow it only adds to the whole devastatingly handsome vibe he has going on, which just proves even sleep deprivation looks good on some people. “Did she ever go back to sleep after the five AM feeding?”
“Bold of you to assume she slept before that,” I say, accepting the coffee with the gratitude of a woman who hasn’t seen a full night’s rest since summer. “I’m pretty sure our daughter is plotting world domination, and apparently, that requires a lot of nighttime planning sessions.”
“She gets that from you.” Jasper grins, dropping a kiss on my forehead. “The scheming, not the insomnia.”
Leo heads this way with a not-so-happy Elliot as the poor baby cries up a storm.
“Ooh.” Emmie winces. “He sounds good and mad.” Elliot happens to be dressed in an adorable Superman costume complete with a tiny red cape with a giant S. With his shock of thick dark hair, big blueeyes, and dimples you could lose your heart in, Elliot is every bit the superhero heartthrob in training. That is, when he’s not using his lungs to summon aliens from another planet. He really can give Ella a run for her rather loud money.
Jasper takes Ella from Emmie, cooing something about his sweet pea that would absolutely ruin his tough detective reputation if any of his colleagues heard it, while Emmie rescues poor Elliot—and Leo by proxy.
“Where are Hux and Mackenzie?” I ask, noticing the distinct absence of my brother and his wife.
“Fashionably late, as usual,” Emmie replies, adjusting Elliot’s cape. “And I use the termfashionableloosely when it comes to the Mayor of Cider Cove.”
It’s true, Mackenzie’s idea of appropriate attire for any occasion seems to involve power suits that screamI have a board meeting in five minutes—even at family pumpkin patch photo shoots. I’m half expecting her to show up with a briefcase and a PowerPoint presentation about optimizing our autumn aesthetic for maximum social media engagement.
As if summoned by our gossip, a sleek black SUV pulls up the drive, and out steps Mackenzie Woods in all her mayoral glory. Her chestnut hair is styled in a perfect blowout, not a strand out of place, and her pantsuit looks like it was tailored by someone who charges by the thread.
Behind her, my brother Huxley emerges with two-year-old Mack in his arms, the toddler dressed as a tiny scarecrow that matches the one overlooking our pumpkin patch. Last out of the car comes Cane, Huxley’s majestic white Samoyed, who gives himself a good shake before prancing across the lawn as if he owns the place.
Within seconds, Macy’s fluffy white Samoyed, Candy, is making eyes at Huxley’s equally fluffy Samoyed, Cane. Yes, Candy and Cane. Those two have been in a state of perpetual courtship since they met—like a doggy version of a Jane Austen novel, complete with meaningful glances and strategic proximity.
Should we tell them they’re basically related?Fish muses, watching the canine lovebirds as they offer one another a thorough sniffing.
Love knows no bounds,Sherlock replies dreamily, earning an eye roll from Fish that would make a teenager proud.
Mackenzie spots me and her natural snarl turns into an all-out growl.
“Target acquired,” Emmie mutters under her breath. “Brace yourself.”
And here we go.
CHAPTER 8
“Bizzy Baker,” Mackenzie announces as she strides over, her voice carrying the same authoritative tone she most likely uses to make grown men cry during budget meetings.
So much for a family-friendly photo shoot with our children. Nothing says autumn memories like a passive-aggressive lecture before breakfast. Oh heck, this is Mackenzie we’re talking about. She won’t be passive in the least.
“I see you’ve successfully avoided finding any new bodies since last night’s festivities,” she continues. “A personal record.”
