Page 32 of Ghosts, Ghouls, and Growls
And I have a feeling she’s right.
With a friendly wave, Hazel heads back toward the festival entrance, her stride purposeful but relaxed—not at all like someone fleeing a conversation where they’ve just tried to throw multiple people under the bus. Just a busy professional with places to be and spectral evidence to review.
Fudge watches her go with that same intense focus as a low whine builds in his throat like a teakettle about to whistle.
She was always at our house hanging out with Heath,he thinks suddenly.They didn’t always see eye to eye, but she was his friend.
I glance down at him, then back at Hazel who is now lost in the crowd of costumed festival-goers. It’s true, everyone at this festival is wearing a costume of some kind—vampires, witches, superheroes, even corporate pharmaceutical sales reps moonlighting as ghost hunters.
I just need to figure out which mask Hazel is hiding behind, and why she’s so eager to point fingers at Buffy and Hammie Mae while conveniently forgetting to expand upon her own ability to engineer paranormal evidence. If that’s what she meant with the thought.
Speaking of which, I need to find Hammie Mae as soon as possible. If Hazel’s version of events has even a grain of truth to it, there’s a lot more to this story than a simple property dispute or an obsessive ex with a knife collection.
And something tells me time is running out to uncover the truth.
CHAPTER 15
The Fright Night Spooktacular transforms beautifully at dusk like a debutante getting ready for her coming-out ball—if she shopped exclusively at Spirit Halloween stores and had a serious addiction to artificial fog.
The family-friendly carnival atmosphere gives way to something more mystical and decidedly more adult, which I suspect has everything to do with the fact that the parents have finally managed to wear out their sugar-high children.
Strings of orange and purple lights flicker to life against the darkening sky like Christmas lights that went goth, while jack-o’-lanterns glow from every available surface with their carved faces casting eerie shadows across the festival grounds.
The scents have evolved, too—sugary funnel cakes and cotton candy now mingle with savory aromas of chili, cornbread, and mulled cider that’s been spiked with enough cinnamon whiskey to make the grown-ups forget they spent their life savings on carnival games that are definitely rigged.
“I vote for chili in a sourdough bread bowl,” Jasper says, studying the food truck options with the intensity he usually reserves for case files. “But I must admit, the maple bacon grilled cheese is making a compelling argument.”
“You could just get both,” I suggest, repositioning Ella in her stroller. She’s still wearing her pumpkin pie costume, though it’s nowaccessorized with a little spit-up that I’m pretending is part of the whipped cream effect. “It’s a festival. Calorie math doesn’t apply. That’s like, the first rule of carnival physics.”
“Sounds logical. This is why I married you.” Jasper grins, the flickering lights blinking across his face. He looks downright diabolical for a split second before his dimples give him away.
I’m still processing my earlier conversation with Hazel, trying to sort genuine clues from what I’m pretty sure was calculated misdirection wrapped in a paranormal research paper.
Her revelations about Buffy and Hammie Mae seemed rather convenient, and perhaps perfectly packaged to deflect suspicion from herself. And yet, there was a kernel of authenticity in some of what she said—or at least, in what she didn’t say. I knew the part about Buffy anyway.
Fudge sits patiently at my feet, his eyes occasionally tracking movement in the crowd as if searching for something—or someone. Fish has claimed a spot in Ella’s stroller, curled up like a furry black and white stress ball, while Sherlock trots happily beside Jasper, occasionally stealing fallen festival food with ninja-like precision.
These hoomans have no concept of efficient eating,Fish mewls as a nearby man drops half his loaded nachos.So much food is wasted on fancy presentation when they could just eat it directly from the container like civilized beings.
Food tastes better when it’s been on the ground,Sherlock assures her, eyeing the fallen nachos with the blatant interest of someone who’s never met a floor snack he didn’t like.That’s just science.
“Bizzy! Jasper!” a familiar voice calls out over the festival noise, and I turn to see Emmie waving enthusiastically, pushing Elliot’s stroller through the crowd with Leo following close behind like a devoted bodyguard. Gatsby and Cinnamon trot alongside them, looking remarkably well-behaved compared to our motley crew of furry half-starved misfits.
“There’s our favorite fellow inmates of baby jail,” I say as they reach us, leaning in to give Emmie a quick hug that has to navigate around both of our strollers and the reality that we’re both operating on approximately three hours of sleep. “How’s life on the outside, stranger?” I ask as if I hadn’t just seen her this afternoon.
“Sleep-deprived and covered in unidentifiable sticky substances,” Emmie replies with a laugh that sounds only slightly hysterical. “So, basically the same as yours, but with different stains.”
The babies spot each other and immediately begin what can only be described as a wiggle-off, their tiny limbs flailing with the excitement of two people who’ve found their intellectual equals. At five months, Elliot has mastered the art of the drool bubble, which he demonstrates with impressive volume while grinning at Ella like he’s just discovered the secret to world peace.
“Looks to me like they’re flirting,” Leo points out with a laugh while clapping Jasper on the shoulder. “You should start saving for the wedding now.”
“Funny,” Jasper growls. “Or at least for the therapy they’ll need when they see these Halloween costume photos fifteen years from now,” he says, gesturing to Ella’s pumpkin pie ensemble. Which for the record, I think Ella will appreciate at all ages. She’s just that cute.
Elliot is once again dressed as the world’s tiniest Superman, complete with a red cape that matches the one Sherlock wore earlier. The coordination is either adorable or slightly concerning, depending on how you feel about people who plan family costume themes that include their pets—or other people’s pets for that matter.
“Any progress on the murder case?” Emmie asks, lowering her voice despite the festival noise, which is probably unnecessary since we’re currently surrounded by people dressed as zombies and werewolves discussing their candy corn preferences. “Your mother told me you were talking to Hazel earlier.”
“I may have gained some interesting leads.” I wrinkle my nose her way. “Nothing definitive yet. But speaking of progress—” I turn to Leo with sudden suspicion. “Aren’t you supposed to be enjoying your day off? Jasper mentioned you were determined to spend quality time with Elliot today. I hope you did that.”
