Page 8 of Ghosts, Ghouls, and Growls
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. If the veil is so thin, why haven’t any of these ghosts ever offered to help with the dishes?
“I’ll show you the way,” I say, turning toward the inn’s entrance.
Mom and Georgie fall in beside me, Georgie somehow managing to waddle gracefully despite her pumpkin constraints—a feat that defies both physics and common sense but somehow suits her perfectly.
“You know, I’ve always been fascinated by the paranormal,” Georgie says to Heath, batting her false eyelashes so hard I’m afraid they might fly off and hit someone. “I’ve had several experiences myself.”
“Oh?” Heath raises an eyebrow, looking genuinely interested. “What kind of experiences?”
“Well,” Georgie leans in, “there was this one time in my bedroom?—”
“And that’s enough of that story,” I interrupt, shooting her a warning look. “Let’s focus on the inn’s haunted history, shall we?”
Oh, good grief, once Georgie’s proverbial bedroom door opens, there’s no telling where the rest of the conversation might go. Once she regaled us with stories of how she tested out her love potions—at dinner with the pastor and his wife.
“Spoilsport,” Georgie mutters as she straightens her stem hat with wounded dignity as if I’ve personally crushed her dreams of paranormal fame. Sorry, not sorry.
We’re about halfway to the inn’s front porch when a commotion erupts behind us. I turn to see my sister Macy pushing through the crowd with the determination of someone on a mission that probably involves either shopping or revenge, and knowing Macy, possibly both.
She’s wearing a cat costume that’s more runway model than Halloween kitty, complete with a skintight black bodysuit and stiletto-heeled boots that somehow don’t sink into the soft grass because Macy has apparently mastered the art of defying both gravity and practical footwear choices.
“Heath Cullen.” She spits out each syllable as if it’s poison as she storms toward us. Her blue eyes flash with a fury I haven’t seen since I accidentally used her favorite cashmere sweater to clean up a wine spill.
“You had better kiss your shiny hiney goodbye,” Macy snarls at the man and her voice cuts through the festive noise like a knife, “because I’m about tokillyou.”
So much for my murder-free Halloween.
CHAPTER 5
“Isaid you had better kiss your shiny hiney goodbye because I’m about to kill you,” Macy snips once again at the poor man just to make her point loud and clear, because apparently, death threats require repetition for maximum impact.
She’s not one for subtlety.
“Oh, for crying out loud, Macy,” I mutter, instinctively stepping back and tightening my grip on Ella. “Not on Halloween night. Please, not on Halloween night.”
The baby stirs slightly against my chest as if she can sense the tension in the air. Or maybe she’s just picked up on my sudden spike in maternal anxiety that’s threatening to set off car alarms in three counties.
This is not good,Fish yowls as her tail puffs up to twice its normal size.I knew this night was going to end badly. You’d think men would be smart enough to know not to get on Aunt Macy’s homicidal side. But they never seem to learn.
Should I bite someone?Sherlock asks with the enthusiasm of someone who’s just discovered a new career opportunity.I could bite someone. I’m very good at biting.
“Nobody is biting anyone,” I whisper, then realize I’m talking to my pets in front of the paranormal investigators.
Great. Now they probably think I’m the one who’s haunted—orat least in desperate need of professional psychiatric intervention. And at this point in my life, I probably need it.
Heath lets out a hearty laugh, holding up his hands in a calming gesture. “Whoa there, Macy! Easy, tiger. You know you’ve missed me. Admit it, life’s been boring without me around to shake things up.”
He flashes that megawatt smile again, the kind that probably got him out of detention in high school and possibly several court appearances that would have ended badly for less charming individuals.
Then, as if to prove some point just how harmless he is, he pulls what appears to be a butcher knife from his jacket pocket.
My mother, Georgie, and I all gasp at once.
“You better watch your back,” he growls at Macy. “Kidding!Look, it’s just a prop—see?”
He demonstrates by pressing the blade against his palm, and it retracts into the handle with a satisfyingclick.
The wicked-looking blade catches the flickering festival lights, and several nearby festival-goers step away with alarmed expressions. Though I have to admit, while the blade might be menacing, the handle is absolutely gorgeous. Intricate silver swirls wind around what looks like a skull and crossbones design that converges at the edge. It looks every bit like a pirate’s dream.
