Page 10 of Ghosts, Ghouls, and Growls
He wraps an arm around Macy’s waist and gently extracts her from Heath’s personal space. “Easy there, killer,” he says to my sister with a little laugh—a nervous one. “Let’s save the homicide for after the hayride, okay?”
He turns to Heath with an apologetic grin that somehow manages to be both friendly and slightly threatening at the very same time. “Sorry about that, buddy. My girlfriend gets a little passionate about intellectual property rights. No hard feelings, and no need to press charges, right?”
Heath straightens his jacket, his smile returning but noticeably cooler. “No problem. I understand completely.”His girlfriend? So this is the goof Macy settled for?
I press my lips tight with the slight to keep from laughing. Jordy is far from a goof. Well, most of the time.
“Great,” Jordy says, steering Macy away with the determination of someone who’s preventing an international incident—or a felony. “Let’s hit the hayride. You can let off some of that pent-up steam.”And maybe channel some of that aggression into more productivepursuits later...he thinks with a private smile that makes me want to bleach my brain and possibly my eyeballs.
“Heath!” a woman calls out in an irate voice that cuts through the festival noise like a chainsaw through butter. Sure enough, my old friend Hammie Mae Westoff appears from nowhere with her red curls bouncing with every determined step like angry rusted springs.
I’ve known Hammie Mae since way back when, and I’m about to say hello when she dusts off Heath’s shirt with swift, not-particularly-gentle motions that suggest she’s either punishing him or conducting a very aggressive lint inspection.
“Pull yourself together,” she hisses at him. Then, turning to the scattered paranormal team, she calls out, “Everyone meets back here in twenty minutes! We have ghosts to hunt!”
The crowd disperses like fog under a heat lamp as the Beyond Belief Paranormal Club members wander off to enjoy the festival while they can. Only Hammie Mae remains, watching Heath march off with an expression that I can’t quite decipher.
“Hammie Mae?” I call out, and her face transforms instantly into a warm smile as she spots me.
“Bizzy Baker Wilder!” She rushes over for a rocking hug, as her arms envelop me like we’re old war buddies. Up close, her cinnamon-colored curls frame a face sprinkled with freckles that somehow make her look both twelve and thirty-two simultaneously.
Hammie Mae—real name Hameline Margaret—has been running her family’s blueberry farm and artisanal chocolate factory (housed in one of their converted barns) since she took over from her father years ago. Their chocolate-covered blueberries are the stuff of local legend and a major reason why tourists flock to Cider Cove, or Spider Cove, as we’re calling ourselves for the month of October.
“Look at you!” she exclaims, stepping back to survey me. “By the looks of it, you finally had that baby!”
“I sure did.” I laugh. “I guess miracles still happen. In fact, she’s just over a month old now. We’re calling her Ella.” I gesture toward my now baby-less carrier still strapped to my chest. “And how is little Matilda?”
“Four months and fabulous.” Hammie Mae beams with maternal pride. “My mother is sitting tonight. She watches her for me when Iventure out to do adult things—like chase the local ghosts.” We share a laugh that feels genuine despite the weirdness of the night so far.
Fun fact: Hammie Mae named her sweet baby girl after her mother, and I can’t blame her. Matilda is a gorgeous name that somehow manages to be both classic and distinctive.
“So how did you get involved with the Beyond Belief crew?” I ask as I set down the carrier next to the porch and we stroll past a ring toss booth where kids are trying and failing to land plastic pumpkins on witch hat pegs—a game that’s probably designed to be impossible but keeps people coming back for more punishment. All proceeds go to the local food pantry so it’s a win-win for everyone, except maybe for the ones that don’t actually win a stuffed ghost that glows in the dark. I won’t lie. I want one, too.
“Oh, it started as a distraction after Matilda was born. Postpartum is no joke, and I needed something that wasn’t just about being a mom, you know?” She shrugs. “I saw their flyer at Bean There, Done That Coffee Shop, and thought, why not? I’ve been hearing things go bump in the night at the farm ever since I was a kid.”
“Well, I met the group and they’re wonderful—including your canine participants.”
She belts out a laugh. “Fudge and Skittles are great. I used to have a labradoodle when I was kid, and boy, do I miss her. In fact, there’s a breeder right here in Spider Cove, and I’m on the wait-list for a puppy. I’m just counting down the days.”
I’m about to say something just as the rest of the paranormal team materializes around us as if summoned by the mention of things going bump in the night. Hazel’s orange pumpkin antennae bobble as she approaches, while Buffy’s green ones catch the flickering lights from a nearby jack-o’-lantern display like tiny disco balls.
Heath trails behind them, looking slightly less kempt than before his encounter with Macy, as if he’s been through a small but significant natural disaster. And let’s face it, he so has.
“We’re documenting haunted locations all along the Eastern Seaboard,” Hazel explains, pulling up what looks like architectural plans of the Country Cottage Inn on her tablet. “Your inn has quite the reputation, you know.”
“For hospitality, yes. For ghostly tenants, that’s news to me.” I raise an eyebrow. “Unless you count the guests who skip out without paying their bill.” And honestly, that’s almost always an oversight on my part. I can thank my pregnant brain for that, and my sleep-deprived brain now that the baby is here.
“There have been reports,” Buffy chimes in, her blue eyes wide with enthusiasm. “Footsteps in empty hallways, doors opening on their own, even a woman in white seen passing through walls in the east wing.”
“That was probably just my sister Macy after too much wine,” I joke, but nobody laughs, not even Heath.
“We take our investigations very seriously,” he says, his tone suggesting I should do the same. “We never fake evidence, unlike some teams in the field.” He shoots Hazel a pointed look that could puncture steel.
The tension between them instantly thickens to something you could cut with a knife, which, given Heath’s propensity for carrying prop weapons, might not be entirely metaphorical.
Hazel’s jaw tightens and a muscle in her cheek twitches, but she doesn’t respond. Something clearly happened between these two that goes well beyond professional disagreement.
“Well, we should let you get back to your festival,” Buffy interjects as if she’s attempting to defuse the situation. “We need to set up our equipment before midnight. That’s when the veil between worlds is thinnest, you know.”
