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Mackenzie might be an explosive situation all on her own, but why do I have a feeling that before the night is over, one of these horror divas is going to make her final exit, and the festival I’m standing in will soon become a crime scene?

Because I’ve seen it all before, that’s why.

And honestly, around here, Halloween doesn’t really begin until somebody winds up dead.

CHAPTER 3

Mom and Georgie head toward the stage entrance where Mackenzie and a clipboard-wielding woman look like they’re coordinating a vampire convention with a map to people’s jugulars. Honestly, that might have been easier—and maybe safer.

I follow as the pets emerge from the woods and fall in behind me like they’ve been summoned by snacks. And knowing Georgie’s propensity to have a pocket full of bacon at all times, they just might have been.

Why are there so many feet? Fish grunts, weaving between legs with feline grace. This is a nightmare for anyone with a tail.

But there’s FOOD, Sherlock counters, his nose working overtime. Turkey legs. Kettle corn. Something that smells like burnt sugar and regret. This is the best night of my entire life. Also, I think Georgie is jingling the bacon stash she keeps in her pockets.

Knew it.

We reach Mackenzie just as she’s smoothing the front of her sparkling black blazer and checking her watch with an attention to detail that suggests she’s been timing our arrival, or our execution.

“Ree. Georgie. Bizzy.” She says our names like it’s a legal summons. “There are people you need to meet.”

She gestures toward two women standing next to her, and I take them in quickly with a polite smile.

The first is tall and striking in a floor-length black velvet gown with a slit that makes it clear she has both legs and isn’t afraid to use them. Her dark hair is swept up in an elaborate updo secured with what appears to be an actual tiara made of small silver skulls, and she’s holding a crystal champagne flute like it’s a scepter.

A gray British Shorthair kitty with enormous amber eyes is draped over her shoulders like a very expensive living accessory, and the whole effect is somewhere between royalty and a really upscale funeral. I’m sort of loving it.

The second woman is shorter, mid-forties, wearing a sleek black pantsuit and sensible heels. She’s got auburn hair pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail, tortoiseshell glasses, and an energy that suggests she’s already put out six fires today and is bracing for seven more. She’s holding a clipboard and a headset like they’re extensions of her nervous system.

Mackenzie straightens. “This is Morticia Moonstone, our festival coordinator,” she says as she nods to the woman with the clipboard before turning to the raven-haired woman, “and this is Countess Clawdia Noir, host of Midnight Mausoleum and this year’s showcase headliner.” She turns to them with a mayoral smile—all teeth, zero warmth. It’s a look Mackenzie has spent decades perfecting. “And ladies, this is my mother-in-law Ree, her best friend Georgie, and, well, Bizzy Baker—Bizzy owns the Country Cottage Inn. If you have any problems this week, you know where to go.”

And I’ll be sure to document each one of those problems for the next town council meeting, Mackenzie thinks to herself, smiling like she’s about to make someone’s week considerably worse. Namely mine.

I resist the urge to respond to her twisted internal musing and instead focus on the two women in front of me.

Morticia extends a hand my way. “Bizzy, it’s so nice to finally meet you in person. Your festival setup is gorgeous.” Please let this week go smoothly. No scandals. No disasters. No one requiring a chalk outline.

I sigh at the thought. If only she knew about the inn’s homicide statistics. But then if she did, she probably would have picked another location.

Her handshake is firm and professional, and she seems nice enough.

“So nice to meet you both,” I say.

Countess Clawdia offers a limp hand next, and I’m briefly uncertain if I’m supposed to shake it or kiss it. I go with a shake.

“How delightful,” she says, her voice low and smooth with just the faintest hint of an accent I can’t quite place. “A family-run establishment. So very rustic.” Small-town inn. It’s charming—if by charming you mean quaint desperation.

I give a short-lived gasp at the catty commentary.

Speaking of cats, the British Shorthair kitty on her shoulder—who I’m guessing is not just a prop—blinks slowly at me with those enormous amber eyes and manages to look both regal and vaguely judgmental. In other words, typical feline behavior.

Look at all this wicked happy Halloween revelry, she mewls as she takes in the scenery. I can’t believe Clawdia called it nonsense. We haven’t had this much fun in years. I wish we could live here.

I can’t help but coo at the tiny cutie. “You are so sweet,” I say, giving her furry head a quick pat.

“This is Duchess,” Clawdia adds, stroking the cat’s head. “She’s very particular about accommodations.”

I’m particular about everything, Duchess mewls my way. Especially about being draped over humans like a shawl. She lashes her tail at Clawdia’s head as if to prove her point.