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“You’ve got a point,” I say, not only giving up, but giving in just to get out of the conversation.

“And you’ve got two, sister,” Georgie says with a wink.

It’s the very next day after the book club brouhaha, and evening has once again set over the grounds of my sweet yet slightly spooky inn. Everything seems slightly spooky this time of year, but well, with the inn racking up a body count, spooky is sort of an understatement. The Halloween Harvest festival is in full swing with a thicker crowd than we’ve seen all week. The creepy mood music is blaring over the speakers with its organ background, the screams, the creaky stairs, and ominous moaning. The rides have lines snaking around them, the maze and the hayrides are stuffed to the gills, and the scent of all things delicious wafts through the air.

And of course, the festival within the festival, the Scream Queens Showcase, is brimming on this night too.

I head toward the venue where Ghoulia Grimm is about to present “A Deadly History: Poison Through the Ages,” which is either the boldest move I’ve ever seen from a murder suspect or proof that Ghoulia refuses to let a little thing like being under investigation ruin her lecture schedule. But, then again, poison is her brand. There’s not a lot she can do to change that at this point.

The event is ticketed, which means the crowd is packed with women who specifically paid money to hear about lethal substances mere days after someone was poisoned to death at this very festival. The irony is not lost on me, and judging by the nervous energy in the air, it’s not lost on anyone else either.

Ella is with Emmie and Leo, along with Elliot, the two little ones strapped into the double stroller that Emmie and I bought specifically for occasions when we need to attend events together and wrangle multiple small humans at once.

They’re currently enjoying the rest of the fairgrounds, which means I’m free to focus on Ghoulia without worrying about my daughter witnessing a poison lecture that’s probably going to give me nightmares.

The pets are inspecting the food vendors somewhere, which I’m choosing not to think too hard about because if I did, I’d have to go find them and make sure Sherlock hasn’t eaten something he shouldn’t or Fish hasn’t started a territorial dispute with a festival cat—of which we’ve had many. Who knew selling churros, popcorn, kettle corn, and corn dogs would call every stray to Spider Cove? At least there are no food scraps to contend with at the end of the day.

The dessert table next to Ghoulia’s venue is loaded with Halloween treats I haven’t seen before, which is impressive given how many desserts have been circulating at the inn this month. There are poison apple tarts with shiny red candy coating that makes them look both dangerous and delicious. Black velvet cupcakes so dark they seem to absorb light. Graveyard parfaits with chocolate cookie “dirt” and shortbread cookie “tombstones” sticking out at angles that suggest either artistic vision or a drunk gravedigger. Spiderweb cheesecake bites with intricate white chocolate webs that probably took someone hours to pipe. And deadly nightshade macarons in an ominous deep purple that may or may not be a joke about the presentation topic but definitely feels like tempting fate. Each one is labeled with a headstone and looks perfectly lethal.

Macy has set up her candle booth right next to the desserts, because she’s an opportunist and she knows a captive audience when she sees one. She has new inventory specifically for tonight: “Poison & Passion,” “Deadly Nightshade,” and “Arsenic & Romance,” which feels like she’s really leaning into the theme.

I grab a poison apple tart and find a seat near the back where I can watch both Ghoulia and the audience without being too obvious about the fact that I’m here to investigate.

Mom and Georgie are in the front row, because they seem to love the fun zone. Me? Not so much. Although I seem to constantly find myself in the Grim Reaper’s fun zone. I should really do something about that.

The stage before me is glittering with antique Victorian bottles, some of which look like replicas and some of which look disturbingly real, and all of them presumably filled with a toxin ready and willing to stop a beating heart. There’s a display of apothecary tools that I don’t want to think too hard about, and a large chart showing poison symptoms in what looks like Victorian medical illustration style.

The stage lights dip a little, and Morticia Moonstone steps over to the microphone. She looks perfectly magical in a velour plum-colored gown with a high collar and a jeweled spider brooch sitting on her chest. It’s an outfit that says elegant hostess even if her face says woman who has aged a decade in one week. Her headset and clipboard remain in place. Some armor never comes off.

“Good evening, Spider Cove! Good evening, one and all!” The crowd cheers, and she takes a slight bow. “Tonight is a ticketed event, which means every one of you paid cold hard cash to hear about poison, and I have never been prouder of this town’s priorities.”

Laughter rolls through the audience.

“Just a few housekeeping notes before we get started. The bottles on stage are display items only. Please do not touch them, open them, or ask our presenter which one works the fastest. Yes, that question came in through the suggestion box. No, we will not be answering it.” She consults her clipboard as the crowd titters away. “Our guest speaker will take questions at the end, and if a single one of you asks how to land a man on his back, I will end this festival myself.”

More laughter ensues.

Georgie’s hand shoots up from the front row, and Morticia points at her without looking. “Put it down.”

Now it’s me chuckling.

Georgie’s hand goes down, and Mom looks vindicated. As she should.

“And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for,” Morticia continues. “Introducing the mistress of the macabre, the duchess of the deadly, the woman who knows sixteen ways to kill you with whatever is growing in your garden. Please welcome the one, the only, Ghoulia Grimm!”

Ghoulia Grimm takes the stage looking regal and spooky all at once, and she looks as if she owns the night. In the least, she owns the venue.

She’s tall and reed-thin, maybe five-foot-nine and probably one hundred fifteen pounds soaking wet. Seventy-nine years old and moving with a deliberate grace that suggests she’s been performing for audiences since before I was born. Her floor-length black lace dress makes her look like a Victorian widow who showed up to the wrong century, and her silver hair is styled in a severe widow’s peak that would make Dracula jealous.

She’s wearing wire-rimmed spectacles with glittering skulls on the temples, and there’s a rubber bat pinned to her collar like a brooch. The bat’s name, according to the festival program, is Bartholomew.

Her hands are liver-spotted and her knuckles are thickened with arthritis, but she’s holding a silver-topped cane that she absolutely does not need for walking. It’s a prop. Everything about Ghoulia Grimm looks like a carefully constructed performance.

I wonder if they’re onto me? she muses to herself as she surveys the audience. A woman my age has buried far worse secrets than this one.

She doesn’t look upset about this. If anything, she looks amused.

“Good evening,” Ghoulia says, and her voice is like dry leaves rustling across pavement. It commands attention in a way that has nothing to do with volume and everything to do with presence. “Tonight we discuss the most elegant of murder weapons: poison.”