Page 23 of Ghosts, Ghouls, and Growls
“Follow me,” she says while doing her best to balance the tray. “There’s a cozy spot by the fireplace where we can talk without being disturbed.”
I follow her through a maze of bookshelves to the back of the store, where a stone fireplace dominates the wall. It’s not large, but the cheerful flames dancing within cast a warm, flickering light that makes the small seating area feel like a private retreat.
Two oversized armchairs upholstered in worn leather flank the hearth, with a small table between them. The mantel above is decorated with more miniature pumpkins, interspersed with vintage-looking leather-bound books and brass candlesticks holding black tapers.
Buffy sets the tray down and sinks into one of the chairs, motioning for me to take the other. I settle in, accepting the steaming mug she offers. The whipped cream wobbles precariously, topped with a sprinkle of what the menu callsgrave dust,but is actually glorious cinnamon and nutmeg.
A commotion from across the store draws our attention momentarily. Sherlock has positioned himself protectively near Georgie, standing at attention like a furry security guard.
I’m going to protect Georgie from these books.He gives a soft woof with all the seriousness of a dog who truly believes literature is a potential threat.They might fall on her head!
That’s more or less a given at this point.
And I’m going to protect the books from Georgie,Fish counters from her higher vantage point.Someone has to preserve civilization around here.
As if sensing our conversation is about to begin—or possibly drawn by the scent of cupcakes, because let’s be honest, that’s a powerful motivator—both Fudge and Skittles trot over to join us by the fireplace.
The two dogs make an adorable pair—Fudge with his bright white coat that makes him look like a furry cotton ball with legs, and Skittles with her ginger-colored curls that catch the firelight like spun copper. I reach down to scratch Fudge’s ears while Buffy doesthe same for Skittles, and for a moment we look like a perfectly normal gathering of dog lovers, not a suspicious interrogation disguised as coffee time.
“Hello there, Skittles,” I coo at the oversized cutie, who responds with the kind of tail wag that suggests she’s either very friendly or plotting world domination through strategic charm deployment. Probably both.
“Oh, you have Fudge!” Buffy exclaims, and her eyes immediately well up as she scoops the little Westie into her arms like she’s reuniting with a long-lost friend. She plants a kiss on his black button nose, and he responds by licking her face silly while his little tail wags away at warp speed—a canine love-fest that’s either genuinely sweet or an excellent cover for emotional manipulation. “He’s such a sweetheart.”
Buffy settles him on her lap, continuing to stroke his fur with tenderness and care. “I’d offer to keep him, but my landlord hardly tolerates Skittles. I had to beg and offer an extra hundred dollars a month in pet rent.” She glances down at her labradoodle with obvious affection. “She’s my baby, though. I’d do anything for her.”
The genuine emotion in her voice catches me off guard. Honestly, this doesn’t sound like someone callous enough to commit murder, but then again, I’ve learned the hard way that loving dogs doesn’t automatically grant you a get-out-of-jail-free card.
I bet most of history’s monsters probably went home and cuddled with their pets, too. There is something about watching a person with animals, though. It’s like catching a glimpse of their unguarded self, the version that exists when no one is watching. And Buffy’s unguarded self seems genuinely tender.
“Yes, I’m happy to keep Fudge until I can find someone close to Heath who could take him,” I say, watching as the little Westie settles contentedly in Buffy’s lap. “Or in the event that doesn’t happen, I’ll be happy to make a home for the furry little cutie. He and Sherlock are already becoming fast friends.” I’ll leave Fish out of this for now as I slice her a look. A moment of silence thickens the air. “Speaking of doing anything for someone you care about,” I transition carefully, “that’s actually why I wanted to talk. About Heath, specifically. I understand you were close?”
Her eyes do that flickering thing again, and it’s gone so quickly I almost think I imagined it.
“We were,” she says as her voice softens. “For a while, at least.” She turns her mug in her hands, watching the steam rise in wispy tendrils. “It ended about two weeks ago.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, and I mean it. Breakups are hard enough without adding murder to the mix. “That must make this even more difficult for you.”
“Difficult is an understatement. It’s complicated,” she admits, not quite meeting my eyes in the way people do when they’re about to reveal something they’d rather keep buried. “Heath was charming when you first met him, but he could be...” She trails off, searching for the right word like she’s flipping through a mental thesaurus of diplomatic ways to saymy ex was a nightmare.
“Difficult?” I suggest.
“Moody,” she decides, which is probably the polite way of sayingemotionally unstable with controlling tendencies.“One minute, he’s the most supportive person you’ve ever met. The next, he’s digging into your past like he’s looking for buried treasure. Or skeletons.”And he found mine. Her thought comes through crystal clear, sending a chill down my spine despite the warmth from the fire.
“What do you mean?” I press gently. As much as I’d like to solve this case and get back to changing diapers, I know for a fact these things can’t be rushed.
“I had nothing to hide.” She shakes her head as if trying to dispel an unwanted memory or convince herself of the fact. “He just had a way of making everything about him. Even other people’s stories.”
“You’re new to Cider Cove, right?” I change tack, hoping a less direct approach might yield more information—or at least a skeleton or two, metaphorical or otherwise. Sometimes the scenic route through a conversation gets you to more interesting destinations than the highway.
“Relatively.” She nods. “I moved here about six months ago. I needed a fresh start after...” She hesitates. “After some family issues back home.”
“How did you meet Heath?” I take a bite of my cupcake, the sugar web dissolving instantly on my tongue. Oh my word! My eyes closeinvoluntarily—pure bliss that briefly makes me forget we’re discussing potential murder motives. How am I just now indulging in these? I picked a fine time to try to shed some baby weight.
“I met him right here, actually,” Buffy says, gesturing around the bookstore. “Sea Beans and Books hosts the Beyond Belief Paranormal Club meetings every month. It has for years, apparently. When I took over managing the shop, I decided to keep the tradition going.” She gives a faint smile. “It’s good for business, and I’ve always been fascinated by the unexplained.”
And it helped to keep an eye on him,her thought cuts through, sharper than the previous ones and I nearly choke on my latte.
“Are you okay?” she asks as genuine concern replaces that guarded look she’s been sporting.
