Page 24 of Ghosts, Ghouls, and Growls
“I’m fine,” I manage, dabbing at my mouth with a napkin. “It just went down the wrong pipe.”
A crash from across the store interrupts our conversation, followed by a familiar voice exclaiming, “Oh, sugar honey iced tea!” Georgie’s version of swearing when she’s trying to maintain some semblance of public decency.
Both Buffy and I turn toward the commotion to see Georgie standing amidst the ruins of what was once an elaborate display of Halloween-themed books. Dozens of volumes lie scattered around her feet, and the decorative cardboard cemetery that had housed them now resembles actual ruins. The young employee she’d been flirting with stands frozen in horror, clutching a copy ofPride and Prejudice and Zombiesas if it’s a shield.
“I was just trying to reach that steamy werewolf romance on the top shelf,” Georgie explains to no one in particular, attempting to reassemble the display and only succeeding in knocking over a second, smaller arrangement of ghost story anthologies.
“I should probably...” Buffy begins, half-rising from her chair with the resigned expression of someone who’s dealt with her fair share of customer-related disasters before.
“No, stay,” I say quickly. “She does this kind of thing so often we’ve started a betting pool on how long she can go without destroying property. I think Mom just won this round. I’m so sorry, by the way.” I can’t help but cringe as I say it.
As if summoned by the mention of her name—or possibly by some maternal instinct that alerts her when Georgie’s about to cause an international incident—Mom appears from the children’s section with Ella now awake and peering curiously from her arms.
Mom surveys the scene with the resigned expression of someone who has witnessed this particular brand of chaos many times before. Poor Ella has no idea how long into the future chaotic scenes exactly like this will inevitably stretch out.
“Georgie,” Mom sighs, “this is why we can’t have nice things.”
“It’s not my fault,” Georgie protests, attempting to stack books into a precarious tower. “These shelves are arranged in a way that defies both logic and the average human reach. Besides, James here was going to help me.” She winks at the employee, who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else, possibly including a tax audit or a root canal.
The things I do for a potential date,Georgie thinks as she frowns my way.He’s not even my usual type. Too young, too nervous, and I’m pretty sure that’s a Star Wars tattoo peeking out from under his sleeve. But beggars can’t be choosers in a town this size.
“I’ve got it,” James finally says, finding his voice and gently taking the books from Georgie’s hands. “Really, it’s no trouble.”
“Are you sure?” Georgie bats her eyelashes with the subtlety of a fire alarm. “I feel just terrible about this mishap.”
No, she doesn’t,Fish thinks from her perch on a nearby bookshelf, having somehow escaped Georgie’s destructive literary grasp.She’s about as remorseful as I am when I knock things off counters. Which is to say, not at all. Sorry, Bizzy.She gives a tail wag my way and I wave back before turning back to Buffy, who’s watching the scene with a mixture of confusion and amusement.
“Sorry about that.” I cringe. “Where were we?”
“You were asking about Heath,” she reminds me with a pointed look.
“Oh right.” I nod. “I understand if this is difficult, but do you have any idea who might have wanted to hurt him?”
Buffy’s eyes drop to her mug and her fingers trace the rim. “Honestly? Plenty of people. Heath had a knack for making enemies.”
“Anyone specific?” I press on becauseplenty of peopleisn’t exactly helpful when you’re trying to narrow down a suspect list.
She hesitates for a moment. “Hammie Mae, for one. They’d been arguing about her property for weeks.”
“Her property?” This is news to me, and potentially significant news given that property disputes have motivated more murders than unrequited love and jealousy combined.
“The blueberry farm,” Buffy explains. “Heath was representing some developer who wanted to buy a portion of it for vacation homes or something. Hammie Mae wasn’t interested in selling, but Heath kept pushing.”
That’s what he told you, at least,she thinks to herself as she casts a glance out at the ongoing literary cleanup operation. The thought carries just enough doubt to make me wonder what other version of the story might exist.
“And then there’s Hazel, of course,” she goes on. “They were constantly at each other’s throats about the club’s direction. Hazel wanted more publicity, more drama. Heath wanted actual scientific methods and credibility.”
“What about you?” I ask quietly because sometimes the most important questions are the ones people least want to answer. “Did you and Heath part on bad terms?”
Her expression clouds over like the sky before a storm. “Let’s just say it wasn’t amicable.”He threatened to expose everything.Her thought comes through clear as a bell, making the hair on the back of my neck stand up.He said he had proof.
“Proof of what?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Buffy’s head snaps up, her eyes widening. “Excuse me?”
I suck in a quick breath as I realize I said those words out loud. “Sorry, I meant—proof that you were right? About the club’s direction, or...?”
She stares at me for a long moment, and I have the distinct impression she’s trying to read my mind, not the other way around.
