The meeting descends into controlled chaos after that, like a very polite stampede—sans Camila and Macy who darted out the door as if a sample sale for designer shoes were taking place just outside the inn.
Half the club members rush to set up equipment near the window with the urgency of paparazzi chasing a celebrity, while others frantically scribble notes or take photos of the empty space where my spectral twin briefly appeared.
Hazel holds court in the center, directing activity like a paranormal orchestra conductor trying to capture a haunted symphony from the beyond.
Buffy has gone pale. I watch as she gathers Skittles’ leash with trembling hands and begins edging her way toward the door. Without a word, she slips out of the room while Hazel is distracted with her ghost hunt, and Skittles trots obediently at her heels as if they were fleeing a crime scene.
Which, given recent events, might not be entirely inaccurate.
As the excitement gradually subsides with no further appearances from my transparent twin (much to everyone’s disappointment and maybe even mine), the meeting breaks into smaller discussion groups that sound like a mix of scientific conference and supernatural support group.
I find Emmie by the refreshment table, where she’s arranging the few remaining almond toffee pieces into a smiley face, because apparently, even ghost encounters can’t stop her from being adorable.
“So,” she says, popping a piece into her mouth, “on a scale of one to call in the professional ghostbusters, how freaked out are you right now?”
“I’m hovering somewhere between mildly unsettled and considering an exorcism for the whole building,” I admit, reaching for my own piece of toffee because sugar feels like an appropriate response to spectral doppelgängers and an existential crisis. “You don’t think I’m actually haunted, do you?”
“Bizzy Baker Wilder, in the three decades I’ve known you, you’ve been many things—stubborn, nosy, occasionally reckless, and prone to finding trouble in the most unlikely places—buthauntedwould definitely be a first.” She tilts her head, considering this as if she’s analyzing a particularly complex recipe. “Though it would explain a lot about your uncanny ability to find corpses with the consistency of someone who has a GPS for dead bodies, or a supernatural curse.”
“Hey! I resent that characterization of my detective skills,” I protest with mock indignation, though let’s face it, she’s not entirely wrong. “Finding bodies is a talent, not a supernatural curse. It requires skill, intuition, and an unfortunate amount of practice.”
“A talent you could probably list on your résumé at this point,” Emmie points out with the brutal honesty that only best friends can deliver. “Under special skills—mind-reading, pet-whispering, and corpse-discoverer extraordinaire with a side of ghost manifestation.”
“That would definitely liven up the old LinkedIn profile.” I glance around at the club members still buzzing with excitement. “But all kidding aside, I think this ghost—whatever or whoever it is—might be trying to tell us something.”
“About Heath’s murder?”
“Maybe.” I lower my voice. “Or who knows? Maybe about my mystery sister. The timing of all this feels significant somehow. Plus, she looks just like me. This feels personal.”
“Well, there’s really only one way to find out,” Emmie says, slipping into her jacket as the meeting begins to wrap up with the reluctant energy of people who don’t want the party to end. “We need to keep digging. And honestly? After what we just saw, I’m convinced this isn’t just some Halloween prank or optical illusion created by bored college students. This is the real deal, Bizzy.”
“I think you might be right,” I agree, collecting our pets as we prepare to leave this supernatural circus behind. “And if there’s one thing I know about Cider Cove, it’s that nothing—not even a ghost that looks exactly like me and has apparently been taking tours of my inn—happens by coincidence.”
We help clean up after the meeting concludes, and I can’t shake the image of my ghostly self watching from the window. Was she trying to tell me something? Warning me, perhaps? Or guiding me toward a truth I haven’t yet uncovered like the world’s most cryptic GPS?
One thing is for sure—between murderous suspects, family secrets, and a spectral doppelgänger, this Halloween is shaping up to be the spookiest one yet.
CHAPTER 17
The October sun hangs like a shiny copper penny in a sky so blue it hurts your eyes to look at it directly.
Westoff Farms is bathed in a golden autumn light that turns the rolling fields into a patchwork quilt of harvest colors—the deep green of late-season blueberry bushes, the russet brown of freshly tilled earth, and the fiery orange of pumpkin patches scattered across the landscape like polka dots on Mother Nature’s favorite dress.
“I still can’t believe we’re doing this,” I mutter to my mother while wrestling with Ella’s stroller as we navigate the gravel parking lot that’s apparently designed to test the structural integrity of baby equipment. My one-month-old daughter is mercifully asleep, bundled in a pumpkin-themed onesie with a matching hat that makes her look like the world’s cutest gourd. “And I especially can’t believe we brought Georgie along.”
Ella was a given, but Georgie had to beg, borrow, and well, commit to dressing in costume in order for us to let her tag along.
Georgie, who is currently adjusting what has to be the world’s most unconvincing disguise—a bushy fake mustache that appears to have been stolen from a community theater production ofThe Three Musketeersthat went very, very wrong, paired with a deerstalker cap straight out of Sherlock Holmes, and sunglasses large enough to house a family of four. The whole ensemble screamsI am definitely not trying to sneak into a place where I’ve been banned for life.
“What?” Georgie asks, her mustache tilting alarmingly to the left as she speaks, giving her the appearance of someone having a facial hair emergency. “You don’t think I look convincing as... what was my name again?”
“Professor Whiskerton,” Mom says helpfully, straightening the mustache with the patience of someone who’s clearly done this before—and knowing the two of them, she has. “You’re a visiting scholar of agricultural economics from Miskatonic University.”
“That’s not even a real university,” I protest. “It’s from H.P. Lovecraft. You know, tentacle monsters and cosmic horror?”
“All the better,” Georgie says with a sage nod. “No one can check my credentials.”
“Not unless they know their way around literature—or tentacle monsters and cosmic horror,” I muse.
