Page 18 of Ghosts, Ghouls, and Growls
If only I knew how to change my number.
CHAPTER 9
She’s going to kill us if we’re not at the inn by the time she gets there. We’re a very important part of Bizzy’s investigations,Fish yowls through the crisp morning air as she races ahead of Sherlock and Fudge, her paws barely touching the ground like a feline superhero late for a very important supernatural date.
The autumn breeze carries the scent of cinnamon, maple, and just a hint of woodsmoke—the olfactory equivalent of a cable-knit sweater wrapped in a warm hug as Fish, Sherlock, Fudge, the baby, and I make our way to the inn. We’ve just finished up with the family photo shoot, and now it’s back to the real world for me. It’s time to run the inn, while trying not to run it into the ground.
I don’t think Bizzy is capable of killing anything,Fudge pants, his little legs pumping twice as fast to keep up with the others.Does she kill spiders? Heath was afraid of spiders.
She won’t actually kill us—or a fast-moving arachnid,Sherlock barks with his pumpkin bandana now slightly askew.It’s just an expression. Like when hoomans say they’re dying for chocolate, but they’re still very much alive to eat chocolate another day.
Speak for yourself,Fish retorts with the disdain of someone who’s witnessed my domestic fury firsthand.I’ve seen the way she looks when we knock things off the counter. Definitely homicidal thoughts.
I quicken my pace, pushing Ella’s stroller over the leaf-strewn path toward the inn. The trio of animals disappears around thecorner just as Emmie jogs up beside me, carrying a tray that smells like heaven wrapped in butter and cinnamon, basically my love language in edible form.
“Heading to the kitchen to make more French toast bites,” she says, matching my stride. “These disappeared faster than my pre-pregnancy jeans. Could you deliver this plate of toffee to the front desk? Grady’s been eyeing it all morning.”
“You bet,” I reply, accepting the plate with my free hand while simultaneously marveling at how motherhood has turned me into a master juggler of babies, toffee, and various mysteries involving the dead. “Although I can’t promise it’ll make it there intact. This baby brain of mine might convince me it’s a personal delivery to my mouth.”
“Ha-ha, very funny! Eat them all—I dare you.” Emmie laughs, already peeling off toward the back entrance that leads to the kitchen.
“You dare me?” I mutter as I pop one into my mouth because Emmie knows better than to dare me to do anything. It’s basically a character flaw at this point. Although let’s face it, it’s more or less a manipulation tactic, and I’m falling for it, hook, line, and toffee-flavored sinker.
The double mahogany doors of the inn are festooned with glorious fall wreaths laden with pumpkins, and as soon as I step through the entry of the Country Cottage Inn, the scent of pumpkin spice and apple cider hits me, mingling with the aroma of fresh-baked muffins and the faintest hint of lemon furniture polish.
The grand entrance hall gleams with warmth and seasonal cheer. Autumn has truly moved in and made itself at home here.
Garlands of preserved fall leaves in brilliant oranges, reds, and golds drape elegantly along the banisters and doorways, while orange twinkle lights wink merrily from strategic locations like fireflies caught in amber. The décor walks that perfect line between festive and sophisticated—jack-o’-lanterns with intricate carvings rather than goofy faces, tasteful vampire fangs incorporated into floral arrangements, and ghostly silhouettes dancing across the walls courtesy of artfully placed projectors.
The lobby’s centerpiece is the reception area with its gleamingwhite marble counter, a stark contrast to the distressed gray wood floors that run throughout the main level.
To the right, a wrought iron staircase sweeps dramatically up to the second floor, its railings adorned with more of those twinkling orange lights and the occasional plastic spider that are realistic enough to have caused at least one genuine shriek this morning. Okay, so I’ve shrieked once or twice, too.
And to the left there is an entire wall of bay windows that floods the space with natural light, illuminating what can only be described as an indoor pumpkin patch. Complete with an actual scarecrow who looks suspiciously like the one from our photo shoot (perhaps they’re related?), the display features dozens of pumpkins in every size, interspersed with cheerful pots of yellow and orange mums.
Those flowers are my favorite décor, and I’m always sad to relegate them to the back of the property come the day after Thanksgiving when Christmas takes over.
Guests mill about with the contentment of people who’ve found exactly the kind of fall experience they were hoping for—some with coffee cups in hand as they head toward the cozy lending library with its floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, others making their way to the formal dining room where breakfast is still being served and usually involves more carbohydrates than any reasonable person should consume before noon. The commons room behind the reception counter buzzes with the sound of lively conversation and laughter that suggests our guests are blissfully unaware that they’re staying at what’s apparently becoming Cider Cove’s unofficial murder headquarters.
I head straight for the counter and plop down the tray of sweet treats.
Grady Pennington and Nessa Crosby—Emmie’s cousin—man the front desk, both of them looking far too perky for people who probably heard about last night’s murder before they’d had their morning coffee. They’re both fresh out of college. Grady is a tall, dark, and handsome Irish looker, while Nessa has the requisite dark hair and gorgeous features that the Crosby genes require by law.
The two of them have been dating hot and heavy, emphasis on the hot. I’m too embarrassed to count how many times I’ve caughtthem in an empty room doing things that employees should normally get fired over. They’re lucky I happen to like them. And what’s the deal with the fact they’re always in too big of a rush to lock the doors? Are locked doors a thing of the past? Or does the risk heighten the thrill factor? On second thought, I don’t want to know.
“Good morning, Bizzy,” Grady calls out. His dark hair is artfully tousled in a way that suggests either an expensive stylist or a complete lack of mirror access. “Is that toffee I spy?”
“With your eagle eyes? You’re right on the toffee money,” I reply, sliding the plate across the counter. “Direct from Emmie’s kitchen to your sugar addiction.”
“Bless that woman,” Nessa says, already reaching for a piece. Her dark hair is twisted into a neat bun, and she’s wearing a sweater the exact shade of the pumpkins in our display. “She’s single-handedly ensuring none of us fit into our Halloween costumes this year.”
I’m about to respond when I spot Hazel wrapping up a conversation with several men near the entrance, all of them carrying what looks like expensive camera equipment.
“Oh, Bizzy!” Hazel waves, excusing herself from the group and heading my way. With her spiky red hair, sharp features, and slim build, she reminds me of a friendly pixie—albeit one dressed in a perfectly seasonal burnt orange sweater and dark jeans. “Just the person I was hoping to see.”
“Good morning,” I say, adjusting Ella’s stroller as she continues her power nap with the dedication of someone who’s figured out that sleeping through chaos is a valuable life skill. “How are you holding up?”
“Thank you for letting us stay late last night,” she says, her voice dropping to a more confidential level. “And for not minding that we came back early this morning for more footage.”
