Our furry entourage has claimed strategic positions around the library with the tactical precision of a small army. Fish has commandeered the top of a bookshelf with her tail swishing regally as she surveys her kingdom from above like a feline surveying her subjects from above.
Hoomans are so strange,she mewls, watching the club members with narrowed eyes.They pay no attention to the actual mysterious creatures living among them—namely, cats—but will lose their minds over a dust particle in a photograph.
Sherlock, ever the opportunist and eternal optimist when it comes to food, has positioned himself near the refreshment table, his eyes tracking every movement of the edibles with the focus of a military strategist.
If I lie very still and look extra cute, someone will definitely drop something on purpose,he strategizes.It’s basic probability. More hoomans plus more food equals greater chance of floor snacks. This is simple math.
He’s so right. Not a lot of people can resist his sweet puppy-dog eyes.
Meanwhile, Fudge trots happily around the room, greeting each club member with enthusiastic tail wags that suggest he thinks this is the best party ever thrown.
Heath loved these meetings!He gives a wistful bark with the thought.He said this was his favorite club in the whole wide world! I’m so happy to be here one more time!
The little Westie’s loyalty squeezes my heart. Animalsalwaysremember the good times, which is probably why they have a sunnier disposition than most people.
Buffy arrives with Skittles, her ginger labradoodle, drawing curious glances from a couple of people who probably recognize her as Heath’s ex. She’s dressed conservatively in a dark green sweater and jeans, her long dark hair pulled back into a simple ponytail. No flashy Halloween adornments for her. And Skittles sports a cute pumpkin collar that jingles softly as she struts by her owner’s side.
“Bizzy, thank you for hosting us tonight,” Buffy says quietly as sheapproaches the refreshment table with the careful steps of someone walking through a minefield. “Especially after... well, everything.”
“Of course,” I say, studying her face for any hint of guilt, deception, or the general look of someone who’s recently committed murder.
“We couldn’t cancel, not with Halloween so close. I think Heath would have wanted the club to continue.”I should never have come back to this town,she frowns with the thought.But I had to know for sure.
Know what for sure? I want to probe, but before I can find a subtle way to do so, Hazel makes her entrance, and subtle isn’t in her vocabulary tonight.
Hazel Hershey bursts through the library doors with all the drama of a Broadway star taking the stage for her big number possibly involving jazz hands. Her spiky red hair seems extra spiky tonight as if electrified by ghostly energy or an unfortunate encounter with a light socket, and she’s traded her usual black ensemble for a deep purple velvet jacket over matching pants that make her look like she raided a magician’s wardrobe. And around her neck hangs an assortment of crystals and pendants that clink together as she moves like a supernatural wind chime.
“Welcome, seekers of the unknown!” she announces with her arms flung wide as if she’s about to break into song. Two assistants trail behind her, laden with equipment bags and looking slightly overwhelmed by her enthusiasm. “Tonight, we gather in the shadow of tragedy, but also in the light of potential discovery.”
I exchange a look with Emmie, who mouths, “Seekers of the unknown?” with a raised eyebrow that suggests she’s questioning Hazel’s sanity as much as I am.
I scan the room one more time, hoping to spot Hammie Mae’s strawberry blonde curls, but she’s nowhere to be seen. But a pang of disappointment hits me—both because I was hoping to casually interrogate her about her potential sisterhood and because she might have insights about Heath’s murder that the others don’t, especially if she’s the killer.
She’s probably at home with baby Matilda. Four-month-olds don’t exactly respect their mother’s paranormal investigation schedules,and honestly, babies are probably scarier than most ghosts anyway.
Still, her absence feels significant somehow, like a puzzle piece that’s fallen under the sofa—not immediately noticeable but making the final picture impossible to solve. And ironically, I have a feeling Hammie Mae might be the missing piece in two of the puzzles I’m trying to put together at the moment. If she is my sister, I certainly hope she’s not the killer. I’d hate to solve two different puzzles with the very same piece.
Hazel calls the meeting to order with three sharp claps that echo through the library like peals of thunder designed to wake the dead—which, given the circumstances, might not be entirely metaphorical.
“Friends, fellow investigators of the unseen—” she begins, her voice dropping to a reverent hush that somehow still carries to every corner of the room and manages to set Fish’s fur on edge. “We gather tonight not only to continue our search for evidence of the afterlife, but to honor the memory of our fallen comrade, Heath Cullen.”
A murmur ripples through the crowd. Several members bow their heads. Someone sniffles audibly, although that could be allergies since half the decorations are probably collecting dust. I should get on that. And in the corner, I can hear Camila and Macy snickering among themselves. So mature.
“Heath was passionate about our work,” Hazel continues with the fervor of someone delivering a eulogy at a particularly spooky funeral. “He believed, as I do, that the veil between worlds thins at this time of year, making Halloween not just a time for costumes and candy, but a genuine opportunity for breakthrough contact with the other side.”
“Hear, hear,” calls out the Einstein-haired professor, raising an imaginary glass.
“In Heath’s honor, we will proceed with our planned Halloween events and investigations,” Hazel announces like she’s revealing the lineup for a supernatural concert tour. “And tonight, I have something extraordinary to share with you all.”
She gestures to one of her assistants, who hurries to dim the lights while the other sets up a projector. A white screen unfurls atthe front of the room with a mechanical whirr that sounds suspiciously ominous.
“As some of you may know, we conducted preliminary investigations here at the Country Cottage Inn following Heath’s…”—she pauses as if she’s trying to find the politically correct term for brutal murder—“passing. What we captured defies conventional explanation.”
The projector flickers to life, and suddenly I’m staring at myself—or rather, a translucent, glowing version of myself—floating in front of the inn’s bay window. The image is so clear, so undeniablyme, right down to the tiny scar on my chin from a childhood bicycle accident, that I actually reach up to touch my face to confirm I’m still solid.
How is this possible?
“Holy haunted doppelgänger,” Emmie whispers beside me.
