Page 14

Georgie perks up. “Does that mean one of those hot sheriff’s deputies gets to slap the cuffs on her? Because if so, I volunteer to have the cuffs slapped on me as well.”

Mackenzie ignores her completely. “And don’t you dare think about pulling off another homicide before Halloween.” She gestures wildly at the festival, at the decorations, and then finally at the crowd. “You’re living out your serial killer fantasies right before the spookiest day of the year, and I will not have it ruin my festival!”

“I didn’t kill anyone!” I’m quick to protest.

“That’s what you said last time!” She snarls. “And the time before that! And that time before that!”

Jasper makes his way over, putting himself slightly between Mackenzie and me. “Mackenzie⁠—”

“Don’t Mackenzie me, Jasper Wilder. Your wife is a magnet for corpses, and it’s becoming a municipal problem!” This is a disaster, she thinks to herself. An absolute PR nightmare. The festival is ruined. My reputation is ruined. Bizzy is somehow involved and maybe—just maybe—if she ends up taking the fall for this, it solves more than one problem for me. In fact, a nice long stay at the State Bed & Breakfast would solve a lot of problems and keep the general population a heck of a lot safer.

She stalks off, already on her phone, and I can hear her snapping at someone on the other end about damage control and press releases.

Okay, so she might be onto something with that whole removing me from the general population being a good safety measure, but it doesn’t mean I’d ever go along with it. Thank goodness my brother is a lawyer and my husband works for the sheriff’s department. A corpse collector like me could really use the entire legal system in her back pocket.

Finally. After all these years. Another voice drifts from the crowd, cold and matter-of-fact. She won’t be stealing my spotlight anymore.

I glance around but I can’t put a face to the morbid thought.

Emmie appears through the chaos, looking worried and a little out of breath. “Bizzy, are you okay? Do you need to sit down?”

“I’m fine.” I’m so quick with the lie, I almost believe it.

Georgie is still clutching Mom’s arm. “She needs a stiff drink. I need a stiff drink. Does anyone have a stiff drink that’s not glowing purple and laced with homicide?”

Mom groans. “Georgie, a woman is dead.”

“And I’m traumatized! Alcohol is medicinal! Also, is it too soon to ask if any of those sheriff’s deputies are single? Because that one over there looks like he could bench-press a horse.”

Fish appears at my feet, weaving around my ankles with her tail high. This is exactly why I don’t trust large gatherings.

Sherlock skids to a stop beside her, panting, his tongue hanging out. Is the dead lady okay? Can I still have turkey legs?

I’m about to answer them when I spot her.

Duchess, Clawdia’s gray British Shorthair, is sitting beside her owner’s body with her tail wrapped neatly around her paws. She’s staring down at Clawdia with those enormous amber eyes, and she lets out the most pitiful meow I’ve ever heard.

My hooman is gone. Forever gone!

My heart aches just hearing it.

Jasper pulls me aside, keeping his voice low and professional. “Walk me through exactly what happened. Every detail.”

I take a breath and try to organize my thoughts, which is harder than it sounds when there’s a dead body five feet away and my sister-in-law just accused me of being a serial killer.

“Clawdia was holding The Queen’s Kiss cocktail. She was walking toward me through the crowd. She started thanking me for something. Then she stopped mid-sentence, pressed her hand to her chest, and said, ‘Forgive me.’ Countess Clawdia Noir apologized to me, Jasper. That’s when I knew something was wrong. Then the gagging started. Her eyes went wide. She clutched her throat with one hand, and the glass tipped forward and spilled all over my sweater.” I look down at the purple stain spreading across my front. “Then she grabbed onto my shoulders and pulled me into this weird, slow dance. And then her knees gave out and she collapsed.”

Jasper casts a quick glance to the glowing purple liquid soaking into the grass. “Did she say anything? Anything at all?”

“No. She tried, but she couldn’t get any more words out.”

He nods, already pulling out his phone to call someone. “This was her signature cocktail. Everyone on stage had one. We need to test the contents and we need to account for every single person who drank from those glasses.”

“You think it was poisoned.”

“Based on the symptoms? And the fact she was drawn to you?” His brows arch as if he’s making a point. “Something nefarious happened here tonight. But we’ll know more once the medical examiner arrives on the scene.”

This is terrible. Or is it? Another thought slices through the mental noise, cold and deliberate and coming from somewhere I can’t pinpoint. This is so terrible. But also... does this mean I’m the headliner now?