Page 16 of Ghosts, Ghouls, and Growls
“Good morning to you, too, Mackenzie,” I shoot back with forced cheerfulness that could power a small carnival—mine. “Don’t worry, I’ve implemented a strictone corpse per festivalpolicy. It’s right there in the fine print next to the cotton candy regulations.”
“How fiscally responsible of you,” Emmie teases.
Mackenzie’s eyes narrow. “This isn’t funny. Does either of you have any idea what last night’s murder is doing to our tourism numbers? The B&Bs in Camden are already running murder-free stay specials on their websites.”
I wince just hearing it because nothing says vacation destination quite like advertising the absence of homicides.
“To be fair,” Jasper interjects, bouncing Ella gently in his arms, “the murder rate in Cider Cove is still lower than the national average for communities our size.”
“That would be comforting,” Mackenzie snaps, “if all those murders didn’t happen within a hundred-yard radius of your wife.”
I’m about to defend myself when Huxley intervenes, setting little Mack down on a hay bale. Huxley looks every bit like our father, same dark hair and blue eyes, the same devil-may-care attitude embedded deep in his soul, too. “Play nice, ladies. This is supposed to be a happy family moment.” My brother, ever the diplomat, shoots me a look that clearly saysplease don’t provoke my wife before coffee. Suffice it to say, he’s developed a healthy fear of her. And believe me, he needs it.
She’s one to talk about damaging tourism,Fish muses while winding between my legs.Ask her how many viewers herMornings with Mackieshow lost when she tried that DIY baby food episode. The one where she almost fed baby Mack something that wasn’t actually edible.
I bite my tongue. The bad blood between Mackenzie and me goes back farther than our adult careers. Way back to when she pushed me into a whiskey barrel full of water at a Halloween party when we were thirteen. That one incident gifted me with a lifelong fear of confined spaces, a phobia of large bodies of water, and the loss of trust in Mackenzie Woods. Oh, and the tiny little side effect of being able to read minds. That, too.
“Where’s the photographer?” Mackenzie demands, already pulling out her phone to set up her own equipment with the efficiency of someone who’s prepared to document every moment for posterity and probably tax purposes. I shouldn’t be surprised. Her YouTube show featuring my sweet nephew has turned into quite the little cash cow. But the moment the cameras stop rolling, she hands him off to my brother or one of their many nannies and gets back to her real passion—marshaling the town into submission through aggressive civic leadership.
Speaking of the poor photographer, she’s already setting up a tripod and arranging the scene to her specifications with the focus of someone directing a Hollywood production rather than a family photo shoot.
“We need more light on this side,” Mackenzie shouts at the poor woman, pointing imperiously at a hay bale. “And those pumpkins need to be at least six inches farther apart. This isn’t amateur hour.”
“Actually, it kind of is,” I mutter under my breath. “Though that’s more a reflection on us than the photographer.”
“I heard that,” Mackenzie snaps. “And for your information, I’m no amateur. I have over fifty thousand subscribers now. That’s more people than live in this entire county. This needs to be a pro job or bust.”
Before I can respond with something that would definitely make my mother wash my mouth out with soap—ironically, probably from Macy’s shop—a familiar blonde bob appears in my peripheral vision. Speak of the devil—my sister has arrived with her arms laden with what appear to be dozens of candles.
“The lighting is all wrong,” Macy announces, setting down her payload on a nearby table. “These pumpkins need candlelight. It’s gloomy as a morgue out here. No offense to the recently deceased,” she adds as an afterthought, glancing toward the woods where Heath’s body was found.Dumb bastard,she muses to herself and I shake my head at my sister’s cold-hearted attitude.
I try never to judge anyone for their thoughts, but Macy always seems to catch me off guard with hers. Besides, she’s essentially a potential suspect in the case—the number one suspect considering she was hovering over the body. I’ll have to warn her to play nice until the real killer is caught. Unless, of course, she is the real killer, then I’ll have to warn her to play nice with the people in prison.
Candy and Cane seem to have forgotten the existence of everyone else, and within seconds they’re racing off toward the fields like furry Romeo and Juliet, joined by Gatsby and Cinnamon who have apparently decided their modeling careers can wait. And Sherlock is in the mix, too. The pack of dogs disappears into the distance, leaving only Fish and Fudge to witness our pumpkin drama.
There they go again,Fish sighs, watching the canine exodus.Always running off when there’s actual work to be done.
What work?Fudge asks, momentarily distracted from his investigation of a particularly suspicious-looking pumpkin.
Crime-solving, obviously,Fish replies with all the condescension acat can muster, which is considerable.Someone has to keep an eye on these hoomans.
My sister sneers my way. “How many corpses do you expect to show up for the shoot?”
“Macy.” I make a face at my sister while gesturing toward the children with the subtle hand signals of someone trying to communicate around small, impressionable ears. “Try to keep all talk about corpses to a minimum.”
Emmie nods in agreement. “Mackenzie has already done enough of that.”
“Please.” Macy rolls her eyes. “Like they have any idea what we’re talking about. But never mind the big dumbo who hit his dirt nap a little early. These candles are from my new Autumn Enchantment line. I’ll need some promo shots for the website.”
Of course, she does. Leave it to Macy to turn a family photo shoot into a marketing opportunity. She’s clearly not above monetizing her loved ones.
She places an entire slew of candles inside the carved jack-o’-lanterns, and I have to admit, the flickering light against the morning gloom does create a magical effect that even my sleep-deprived, murder-addled brain can appreciate. The sky overhead is the color of slate, threatening rain but holding off just long enough for our pictures, because even the weather understands the importance of getting good family photos before the apocalypse. And for that, I’m thankful.
“So,” Macy says, sidling up to me while Mackenzie continues her directorial debut, “I see little Ella inherited the Baker family’s good looks. Lucky girl.” She tilts her head thoughtfully. “Has anyone ever told you she looks exactly like me when I was a baby?”
“No, because you’ve never shown anyone your baby pictures,” I point out. “Including me.”
“Details.” Macy waves dismissively. Facts have never been her strong suit when they interfere with her personal narrative. “The point is, she’s clearly going to be gorgeous. I should probably start her Instagram account now.”
