“Husband-freeandchild-free?” she teases as she continues to stride by. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she warns with a smirk that suggests she knows exactly how much latitude that gives me.
“That still leaves plenty of options on the table,” I say, already plotting my route to intercept Buffy while mentally calculating how much trouble I can get into in the time it takes Jasper to review phone records.
Because something is definitely off about our resident bookworm. And with this new information about her potential secret identity, I need to figure out who’s hiding what—before someone else ends up dead.
CHAPTER 22
The Fright Night Halloween Spooktacular is in full swing as I weave through the crowd in search of Buffy, feeling like a detective in a very elaborate costume party, which, let’s face it, pretty much describes my entire life at this point. Happy Halloween, indeed.
My towering Bride of Frankenstein’s hair proves surprisingly useful as a beacon, allowing people to spot me from three zip codes away while simultaneously ensuring that low-hanging decorations become my natural enemy.
The haunted house looms ahead with its facade transformed into a decrepit Victorian manor complete with boarded windows, creepy vines, and an impressive array of special effects—flickering lights that suggest restless spirits, groans that emanate from hidden speakers with all the subtlety of a dinner theater production, and a fog machine working overtime to create the perfect spooky ambiance that makes everything look like a music video from the 1980s.
A nearly full moon hangs overhead like nature’s own spotlight, its silvery light competing with the festival’s artificial illumination in what appears to be some kind of celestial lighting war. The temperature has dropped just enough to add a chill to the air that has nothing to do with Halloween effects and everything to do with Maine inOctober, reminding us that winter is coming whether we’re ready or not.
Costumed festival-goers swirl around me like autumn leaves caught in a breeze—zombies and superheroes and more than a few provocatively dressed cats mingling with princesses and pirates and at least three people dressed as avocado toast, because apparently, nothing is sacred anymore.
I spot Buffy outside near the back of the haunted house, standing eerily still in her librarian-turned-zombie costume. Her normally sleek dark hair has been teased into a wild mess, and her makeup gives her a convincingly undead pallor, complete with artificial wounds that look disturbingly realistic. And she happens to be staring at the exact spot where Heath’s body was found. Her expression is unreadable beneath all that zombie makeup.
My feet whisk me in that direction just as Fish, Sherlock, and Fudge materialize beside me, having apparently decided that following me is more interesting than begging for treats from festival attendees. Sherlock’s Dracula cape has slipped sideways, making him look more like he’s wearing a particularly fashionable black bib than embodying the terror of Transylvania. And for all purposes, a bib is far more practical on him.
Are we sneaking up on someone?Sherlock barks while crouching low in what he clearly believes is stealth mode but actually makes him look like he’s about to pounce on a squirrel.I love sneaking! I’m so good at it! Wait, who are we sneaking up on?
We’re not sneaking,Fish counters with a yowl.Not with you barking up a storm. We’re investigating. Try to look less like you’re having a seizure and more like you belong here. And cut back on the woofing, would you?
Heath was once standing right there,Fudge observes sadly, looking at the spot where Buffy is staring.He was practicing his ghost stories before telling them to the crowd.He had really good dramatic timing.
“Buffy?” I call out, not wanting to startle her—especially not when she’s standing at what amounts to a crime scene.
She whirls around, and her hand flies to her chest in surprise as if she’s just been caught doing something far more suspicious than staring at a murder scene.
“Bizzy!” she pants out my name in a panic. “You scared the living heck out of me.” Her eyes dart past my shoulder as if checking to see if I’m alone or if I’ve brought backup in the form of armed law enforcement officers. “What are you doing way out here?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” I reply, keeping my tone light despite the gravity of the situation and the fact that we’re having this conversation over the exact spot where Heath Cullen was stabbed to death. “Not many people choose to spend their Halloween hanging around a murder scene. Most folks stick to bobbing for apples and candy corn.”
Buffy lifts her chin and her eyes close involuntarily. “I was just thinking. About Heath. About everything.” She tosses her hands in the air as if she were surrendering, and with any luck, she might.
“Were you thinking about your secret identity?” I ask, deciding to go straight for the jugular. Subtle interrogation is for people who didn’t have a baby a month ago and therefore get more than three consecutive hours of sleep.
The color drains from Buffy’s face, washing out even her zombie makeup until she looks like she might actually become an undead herself. “Bizzy, what are you talking about?”
“I know Heath discovered something about you,” I say, watching her reaction. “Something about a different name, a different identity. He was blackmailing you, wasn’t he?”
For a moment, I think she might deny it or even run. Instead, her shoulders slump in defeat. “How did you find out?”
“Let’s just say I have my sources,” I reply cryptically, which isn’t even a lie since mind-reading and pet communication definitely count as sources in my book, even if they wouldn’t hold up in court.
Okay, calm down,she thinks to herself.Bizzy might know something, but there’s no way she knows everything.
“I want you to tell me everything,” I counter, echoing her thought, but she doesn’t know that.
Buffy glances nervously over her shoulder as if Heath’s ghost might materialize and continue blackmailing her from beyond the grave. “Not here. Someone might hear us.”
She leads me to a small equipment shed well beyond the haunted house, far enough from the main festival to ensure privacy but closeenough that we can still hear the cheerful chaos. The structure is barely big enough for two people, but it offers a reprieve from prying eyes and ears. It’s smaller than my closet, hosts an assortment of rusted-out tools, and holds the scent of musk and fresh soil.
“My real name is Elizabeth Butterwick,” she admits once we’re inside, her voice barely above a whisper. “Or it was, up until recently when I changed it to Buffy Butterwick.”
“Why the change?” I ask, trying to keep the judgment out of my voice.
