A Frightening Fangs-giving Read online

  There’s a blue cobblestone path that leads to and around the inn, all the way to the right where the Country Cottage Café is located in the rear of the building. The café has an expansive patio that overlooks the majestic Atlantic as well as the sandy beach that lines the cove. To the left of the inn and dotting the acreage around it sit more than thirty cottages that are available for lease or as nightly rentals. Jasper and I happen to live in one, and Emmie and Georgie live on the grounds as well.

  And way off to the left-hand side, the inn has its very own pet daycare center called Critter Corner. The inn is listed as one of the most pet-friendly resorts in all of Maine, and that’s a title we wear proudly.

  The interior of the inn is cavernous with its gray wooden floors and dark wooden paneling along the walls. There’s a grand staircase that sweeps up to the second floor where the guest rooms are, and just about every one of those is booked straight through January. The holidays are the busiest time of the year for the inn since so many people choose to stay here while they visit with relatives. And as much as I love the holidays, a part of me can’t wait to ring in the new year.

  Fish sleeps at her usual post, right up front on the marble reception counter, while Sherlock is curled in a ball by my feet. Usually, he’s up front and center, taking his duties as the official welcoming committee very seriously, but he’s so enamored with the sweet kittens he hasn’t left their side once.

  And seeing that Nessa, one of my employees, and I are holding the little cutie pies, he hasn’t taken his eyes off of us either.

  “I’m in love with them,” Nessa coos. Nessa is a dark-haired beauty who happens to be related to Emmie. She’s also a recent college grad who views her time at the inn as nothing more than a stepping-stone, but believe me, I’m thrilled she isn’t stepping away any time soon. “I wish I could take them all, but I have Peanut, and the only cat he cares for is Fish.” Last year Nessa adopted Peanut, a tiny black and white pug mix that is as cute as his name suggests.

  Grady glances our way.

  Grady Pennington is an Irish looker who also just so happens to be a recent college grad who keeps threatening to fly the coop.

  “I can’t take them either,” he says. “But I’m sure if you put up a sign that reads free cats, they’ll be gone in a hot minute. Maybe throw in a batch of these donuts to go along with them,” he says as he pops another apple cider mini wonder into his mouth. Emmie dropped off a huge platter of them at the counter for the guests fifteen minutes ago, and there are only a few left.

  Grady lifts a brow my way. But knowing Bizzy, she’ll let them hang out for a month at least before she gives them away. I’m starting to think animals are the key to her cracking all of those homicide cases. I’m not sure why, but I’m positive I’m right.

  He is, but I won’t confirm it. The animals always seem to help crack the case, they’re just that intuitive.

  “I’m not just giving them to the first person who wants them,” I say as I hold the one in my arms close. “There needs to be a vetting process.”

  Nessa belts out a laugh. “In other words, you want to keep them all to yourself.”

  Grady nods my way. “Just a heads-up. When I got here this morning, the guest log kept moving to a different location.” He points to an opened notebook that typically sits on the counter, allowing the guests to leave their thoughts and suggestions. “Every few minutes I’d find it somewhere else, the back counter, under the counter, the grand room. I even found it in the café when I went to grab some donuts. And there wasn’t anyone else around but me. You don’t think any of those ghosts are still lingering from that haunted doll display Georgie forced upon us last month, do you?”

  “I promise you, it’s not a ghost.” No sooner do I say the words than the lights begin to flicker.

  Nessa lets out a rather ghostly moan. “I don’t want anything to do with the dead, Bizzy. Can’t you hire someone to walk through this place while burning sage or something equally as kooky to clear the place of any lingering spooks?”

  “No,” I tell her. “Because the inn isn’t haunted. And I don’t want to accidentally set it on fire.”

  A thick crowd bustles on in, along with an icy breeze, and Nessa hands the two kittens in her arms my way as both she and Grady get right to work.

  I spot Georgie in the foyer, gripping the handle of something white and boxy, so I head on over to see if I can help. Her gray hair is wild and free, and her crimson and orange tie-dyed kaftan looks festive and seasonal.

  I’m about to say something when I note an entire herd of women holding the same boxy plastic contraptions, along with overstuffed duffle bags, as they make their way toward the ballroom.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, almost certain I’m going to be sorry.

  “Your mama and I have opened up the monthly crafts session to the quilting guild. We thought it’d be fun to put some stitches together. Don’t worry, Biz. I’ve got Jordy in there working out the situation with the electrical.”

  Jordy is the handyman here at the inn, and I trust his judgment when it comes to just about anything. He’s Emmie’s brother, and my ex-husband. The marriage lasted less than a day. It involved Vegas, hard liquor, and an Elvis impersonator—need I say more?

  Georgie grunts as she shifts her sewing machine to her other hand. “These mean machines aren’t going to run themselves, they need to be juiced up. Speaking of which, I ran into Emmie outside, and she’s bringing over some hot apple cider, coffee, and donuts. You should join us. It’s BYOSM.” She leans over and dots a kiss to each of the cuties in my arms before tossing Sherlock a bit of bacon from her pocket. She’s been known to keep a strip or two on her person in the event a pork fat emergency arises. And one always seems to pop up.

  Sherlock barks. Hands off the kittens, Georgie. I won’t trade them, not even for bacon. He sniffs the salted meat. But we can’t just leave this lying on the floor either. And just like that, he promptly licks it up.

  “Do I want to know what BYOSM means?” Truthfully, the answer is no, but since I’m the keeper of this insane asylum, it’s sort of my duty.

  “Bring your own sewing machine, Toots! Juni ran out this morning to pick one up for herself. They’re pricey, but they’re worth the fun—except for when you accidentally sew your fingers together. That’s not so much fun.” She holds up a bandaged hand as she rushes past me.

  “Ouch,” I say just as my mother rushes past me.

  “I’m late for class,” she says, wheeling a large bright red suitcase behind her that I’m guessing has a sewing machine tucked inside it. She does a double take before backtracking my way.

  Mom is in great shape for her age. I’m not sure where she’s sent her wrinkles, but she doesn’t have many of those to show for her age either. Her dark blonde hair is shoulder-length and feathered circa nineteen eighty something, and she holds strong to the same sense of style she had back then, too. She’s a preppy to the max, with her cable knit sweaters and popped collars. She used to run her own real estate empire after she and my father split, but she’s since retired—and apparently taken up quilting.

  “Oh my stars,” she coos as soon as she spots the furry trio of cuteness I’m holding. “Where in the world did these angels come from?”

  “I have no idea.” Okay, so I have some idea. Last night I let them know I could hear their thoughts and understand them. They mentioned something about being delivered to the alley by a nice man who said he was sure they would find a nice home quickly. I didn’t dare tell them that the seemingly nice man had dumped them in the back of an alley. Maybe he was hoping someone from one of the local shops would find them? And, well, that’s sort of what ended up happening.

  She moans as she takes them in. “Aw, they look just like Mistletoe and Holly.” Mom adopted a pair of kittens last Christmas, and I’ve never seen her so attentive to any living being before. Now that her kids are grown and gone, those cats really filled a void I don’t think either of us knew she h
ad. “But I’m afraid I can’t take on any more. What are you going to do with them?”

  “God only knows,” I say.

  She lifts a finger. “Come into the ballroom and we’ll figure this out. Oh, and I want to know all about your latest murder!” she trills as she speeds that way. “Your sister told me about the body you found. You really have a knack for that!” She gives a thumbs-up as she falls in line with the thicket of other women drifting in the same direction.

  “Good grief.” I cringe. My mother can make anything I do sound like a budding accomplishment newsworthy to brag to her friends about. But let’s face it, I haven’t exactly given her much else to brag about.

  I’m about to head that way when my brother strides in looking rather miffed, and by his side is an equally sour-faced Mackenzie Woods. Although, her cranky disposition is much more perennial than his is—or at least it used to be. Now that Hux and Mackenzie are the real deal, it wouldn’t surprise me if I saw a steady decline in his jovial state.

  Mackenzie Woods can make a grown man cry. I’m just hoping that grown man doesn’t turn out to be my brother.

  Mackenzie laughs at the sight of me. Her hair is spun into a tight bun, and she’s donned a cranberry power suit, her go-to wardrobe essential.

  “Well, if it isn’t the little killer who could,” she muses. “You really are trying to outdo yourself, aren’t you? I can hardly wait to see what carnage you have planned for Cider Cove this Christmas. A double homicide, perhaps?” She bubbles with laughter, but neither Hux nor I join in. Here’s hoping Georgie and that ex-convict of a daughter are involved on the receiving end of that one.

  “Not funny,” I say. “What’s going on?” I take a moment to scowl at the two of them. Neither of them has any business at the inn.

  Mack gives the cute little kittens in my arms the stink eye. “What’s with the sewer rats? Don’t answer that.” She gives each one a gentle scratch over the ears and bites the air as if threatening to eat them. “I’m here because Hux promised me waffles out by the sea.” She sniffs. “And don’t forget, the Founders’ Day concert at the cove is in a week. We’re counting on the inn to provide refreshments and maybe some more of those donuts you used to kill your latest victim—the town will be hoofing the bill. Try not to kill any members of Sugar Shack. They happen to be my favorite band.” She gives Hux a kiss on the cheek. Let’s hope Bizzy doesn’t slaughter one of us in our sleep. It’ll most likely be me. “I’ll go order those waffles.” She takes off in haste, clip-clopping her way toward the café, and Sherlock gives a quick bark in her wake.

  She’s never given me bacon, Bizzy. Not once.

  Huxley offers Sherlock a quick pat on the back. “Macy’s heading over and we’re going to talk about this mess she’s gotten herself into. You do realize the best friend of the woman who died is accusing Macy of doing the deadly deed. Someone wrote the word killer over her shop window this morning.”

  “Oh no, that’s terrible.”

  “That, my sister, is defamation,” he corrects. “Macy wants to sue Willow Taylor, the surviving partner of that shop that opened up across the way for slander.”

  A groan evicts from me. “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Well, I would.” Macy crops up, looking bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and ready for revenge on whoever thought it was a good idea to deface her storefront. Her blonde hair looks almost snow white in the light, and she’s donned a denim jacket with matching blue jeans. “I won’t be called a killer when I didn’t harm a hair on that ridiculous woman’s head.” I wanted to, but that’s beside the point.

  “Macy.” I wince as I give a quick look around. “You can’t call her a ridiculous woman. Don’t speak ill of the dead. It will only make you look bad.”

  Huxley nods. “Or like the killer.”

  The three cute little kittens in my arms begin to mewl at once.

  She’s a killer!

  Oh, we’re all dead.

  Sherlock, help us! We’re too young to die!

  “Now look what you’ve done,” I say. “You’ve scared the kittens.”

  Huxley chuckles. “Don’t feel bad, little ones”—he pats them on the head—“Macy Baker has the capability to scare grown men.”

  Emmie whips by with a giant platter of fresh apple cider mini donuts, and the three of us helplessly head in that direction as the sugary scent casts its spell on us.

  Inside, the ballroom is light and bright. The floor is heavily carpeted with a leaf motif. There are over two dozen round tables set out, with a mountain of fabric over them, and a sewing machine dots them all like a mechanical centerpiece.

  We load up on donuts before heading to where Georgie and Mom have their goods laid out.

  “What do you think?” Georgie holds her arms out. “We’re calling it the Crazy Quilt Lady Club.”

  Mom rolls her eyes. “You’re calling it that. The rest of us are calling it the Cider Cove Quilting Guild. Apparently, they’ve been meeting for years in an old renovated barn. Come to find out, they like the ballroom much better.”

  Georgie waves her off. “They’re just jealous because my wonky quilts are selling like hotcakes.” She pulls one off the table with its black and orange patches that make it look perfect for fall.

  The trio of kittens in my arms cranes their heads that way and mewls with approval.

  Georgie sighs as she drapes it around her shoulders. “I just can’t figure out how to make them into a jacket. It turns out, there are far too many moving parts to that pattern. I stayed up all night trying to solve the riddle of the wonky jacket sphinx. And I learned long ago there are only two things worth losing any sleep over. Number one, a man in your bed.”

  I jut my head forward. “What’s number two?”

  Georgie nods. “A man in your bed.”

  Mom laughs. “You’re wrong on both counts.” She holds the quilt up with her hands. “And I don’t know about turning this into a jacket. That’s going to be tough.” Mom pinches the corners of the quilt and holds it out to inspect it. “But given time, I think it would be a very good idea. You’re really onto something with all this whip stitching and fringed fabric. These take half the time to construct as your run-of-the-mill pieced quilt. I can see the appeal.”

  Juni whizzes past us with an oversized box that has a picture of a sewing machine on its side and she lands it onto Georgie’s table.

  “Mama!” she cries out as she staggers over to where her mother proudly displays a quilt over her back. “That’s it! Who cares about a quilted jacket? Women all over Maine will be tripping over themselves to get ahold of a Georgie Conner’s wonky cape!”

  “A wonky cape!” Georgie howls, and the two of them break out into an odd little jig.

  Mom sighs. “They’ll be tripping over themselves, all right. If I were you, Bizzy, I wouldn’t sell those deathtraps at the inn. Think of the liability.” She taps her temple before heading back to the piles of holiday-themed fabric folded neatly at her station.

  A pair of warm hands encircles me from behind as Jasper drops a kiss to my cheek.

  “Good morning.” He nods to Huxley and Macy. He’s already said good morning to me in a far more delicious way, and a naughty smile twitches on my lips just thinking about it.

  Hey, beautiful. He dots a kiss to my cheek. You haven’t forgotten who I am, have you? Because if you’re murky, I can take you back to the cottage and refresh your memory.

  A laugh bucks through me as I give him a wink. “Who are you again?”

  “Bizzy.” Macy clasps her hands together as she looks my way. “Thank God you’re sleeping with the lead homicide detective. Jasper, I demand you set everyone in this twisted town straight. And while you’re at it, make that brat, Willow Taylor, come over to my shop and wash the lipstick off my window.”

  Jasper’s chest widens. “I’m sorry, Macy. I’m afraid I can’t do that. In fact, I think I need to see your hands.”

  I may have filled Jasper in on Macy’s acrylic nails last
night, and suddenly I’m regretting the decision.

  “What for?” Macy holds her hands out, and sure enough, one of the acrylic fingernails on her right hand is missing. “Are you looking for traces of red lipstick? Because if you think I’ve desecrated my own shop, you’re insane. Bizzy, I command you to end this matrimonial farce. Clearly Jasper is a plant sent to destroy our family.”

  Jasper gives a somber nod. “Macy, we found an acrylic nail that matches yours at the scene of the crime—embedded in Ember Sweet’s sweater. Care to explain?”

  Hux mutters a few salty words under his breath. “She’s not saying anything.” He rolls his head back. “I’m officially acting as my sister’s attorney.”

  And I’m officially—unofficially going to do whatever I can to make sure my sister doesn’t fry for this.

  Chapter 5

  “No,” Jasper says without wavering as the morning light slices through the curtain.

  We’ve been rolling around in bed for the better half of an hour, mostly to get the day off to the right start, but I may regrettably have brought up the possibility of seeing Willow Taylor today.

  “Yes,” I tell him as he pulls me close and he lands another mouthwatering kiss over my lips. “No, fair. I specifically remember you saying you’d never deny me anything,” I tease while drawing a line down his chest with my finger.

  A dull laugh pumps through him. “Is it too late for me to rephrase that? Because I thought it was a given I wouldn’t want you hanging around with killers.”

  “Unless you know something that I don’t, Willow Taylor is still just a suspect. Besides, Macy already said she was going to talk to her today. And we both know once Macy puts her mind to something, she’s unstoppable.”