Tilly pops up with her eyes wide with fright. “Did you hear the horrible news?”
Stephanie grunts. “You bet we did. If Mayor Wright thinks the Mortimer Manor is going to play nice with his ugly sweater party, he’s got another thing coming.”
“Lola”—I wave my sister off—“she’s talking about the murder.”
Tilly’s brows knot up. “I was talking about the ugly sweater party. But was there another murder?” Her voice hikes with a twinge of excitement at the prospect.
“Yes,” I say, navigating the three of us farther from the crime scene. “It was the mayor’s ex-wife. I can only imagine how devastated he must be.”
Tilly huffs, “No way, no how. He hated that woman. He called her the Wicked Witch of the Wrights.” A tiny giggle escapes her. “Hey? Does this mean we’re investigating? I’ve got my gear ready to go—little black dress, big magnifying glass—emotional support condoms.” She chortles and Steph joins in on the fun. “Kidding,” she shouts. “I don’t have a magnifying glass, I have matching black heels. Just say when and where and I’m there. I really hope those naughty Italian Santas are involved somehow.”
Stephanie broadens her chest. “Step off, Teasdale. Those boys are mine—and Mud on Sundays.” She shrugs off that last fact as if it wasn’t a big deal, and I’m getting the feeling it’s not.
Regina catches my eye as she stands near the cocoa booth with that blonde I saw arguing with the deceased a little earlier. I think Regina mentioned that she used to work for the woman. Or more to the point, the same woman that referred to my boyfriend as Big Boy. Although Shep and I haven’t quite referred to one another as anything but friends just yet, I’m hoping things take a turn for the possessive.
I can’t help but frown over at the two women.
I’d better go over and talk to the blonde before my first suspect flees the scene.
“Yes,” I say to Tilly. “I think we will start investigating. But hold onto your little black dress for now. I think we should talk to a few people here first.”
Tilly shakes her head. “No thanks. I only do field work—bars, strip clubs, bakeries, basically anything that involves hot men and good food. Knock yourself out, Bowie. I’m going to hang out with Lola. She seems to be a good luck charm when it comes to finding hot men.”
I shoot my sister a look. “That does seem to be the consensus. I’ll be back. Try not to bring any mobsters home tonight, will you? I’m instating a good fella moratorium until further notice.”
Stephanie shoots me the stink eye. “You’re no fun.”
“Hey,” Tilly says it sharp. “That’s my best friend you’re talking about. Nobody says she’s no fun but me.” She gives me the side-eye. “And sometimes little sisters can make a good point. But don’t worry, Lola. She didn’t say anything about not bringing them to my place. Come on. Let’s check out the body.”
The two of them take off, and I roll my eyes.
“I’m plenty fun,” I huff as I take off into the icy night.
The crowd is growing exponentially, and I’ve momentarily lost track of Regina and the blonde. I think her name was Carol.
“Hey, Bowie.” A familiar face pops up on my left, and I do a double take her way. “Did you see that poor woman lying in the snow?”
“Not now, Hazel. I’m looking for—” I jump back a good foot and Pixie lets out a horrific yowl. “Hazel!” My entire body jerks at the sight of her. Truthfully, I’ve only seen her once or twice as of late hovering around the manor, and we haven’t done much more than offer a friendly wave since Halloween. “You picked a fine time to get chatty. Yes, I saw that body,” I whisper. “Aw, it’s so great to see you out and about. You should stop by my cabin sometime. My sister’s been dying to meet you. Pardon the pun.” I grimace.
She lets out a ghostly cackle that echoes through the night like a haunted dream, and I do my best to calm my sweet pink kitty down. Pixie’s eyes are ten times their natural size as she looks to the pretty poltergeist. And I’d bet cash money she could see right through to the other side, too, which confirms my theory: cats really are better than people.
Hazel’s ghostly frame is nearly invisible, but she looks as if someone stuck a flashlight inside of her, and judging by the brightness of that unearthly glow, she could double as a floodlight. Hazel has long, gorgeous, red hair that at the moment is glittering with what looks to be supernatural fairy dust, clear green eyes, and a bright white toothy smile. She’s still wearing that unfortunate black velvet gown and cape she had on the night she was murdered, right here on the front lawn of the Mortimer Manor. It was the big debut of the Haunted Hallow-whiskers Ball, and she was dressed as a witch, as a play on her name. Witch Hazel. But as fate would unfortunately have it, she never left the party—at least not in the manner she intended.
“All puns aside.” She floats in a notch.
