Page 70 of Fish and Chip

“That’s funny,” I say, matching her smile tooth for tooth. “He was rushing pretty quick last night.”

Okay, I don’t say that. But I think it so loudly Bizzy probably heard it all the way back in Cider Cove.

“Ladies,” Georgie announces, grabbing my arm and steering me toward the buffet table, “if I can’t have men or a good murder, I’ll settle for food and hopefully a randy werewolf. In that order. Actually, reverse the order. Werewolf first, then food.”

“Priorities,” Ree says. “Why chase personal growth when you can chase something with a tail and questionable impulse control?”

We all laugh, then quickly revert our attention to where it truly belongs, toward all things culinary.

The buffet table is absolutely obscene. Savvy’s outdone herself—again.

Savvy doesn’t cater. Savvy commits.

The chafing dishes hold a lasagna layered with orange-and-black pasta (so cute and yet a little off-putting), a whole roasted turkey mummified in bacon-strip bandages, and a cauldron of purple mac and cheese breathing dry-ice fog over the edges. Somewhere beneath all of it, a hot dog named Chip is planning a heist. There will be casualties, and they will all be meatballs.

The pastry section makes my teeth hurt just looking at it. Chocolate coffins filled with raspberry mousse, ghost-shaped cream puffs, and a towering haunted mansion cake with a chocolate shingle roof and candy corn windows—and that’s just the front row. Behind it stretch rows and rows of too many spooky-kooky treats to mention. My dentist is going to buy a Porsche off this party alone.

“Oh my word,” I breathe.

“Oh my cholesterol,” Ree adds.

“Oh my new religion,” Georgie finishes, already loading a plate.

Delora has opted for silence. It’s a first.

The three of them attack the buffet as if calories don’t count on Halloween. Honestly, they might be onto something.

Delora is piling shepherd’s pie onto her plate while discussing murder motives with Ree, who’s carefully selecting exactly three items and arranging them with geometric precision. Nothing says friendship like debating who bludgeoned whom over mashed-potato ghosts.

I’m debating between the mummy turkey and the jack-o’-lantern lasagna when a voice behind me says, “The catsuit is quite bold. I admire anyone who dresses like the mystery and the motive.”

I turn to find Felicity and Gertie, both holding drinks and looking significantly more relaxed than they have all week. Amazing what an open bar does for murder suspects.

Felicity’s still in her White Rabbit costume: oversized pocket watch, white ears, tiny top hat. Gertie’s mermaid tail shimmers under the party lights, her trident propped against her shoulder like she’s prepared to defend the buffet.

“The costume shop had limited options,” I explain. “It was this or sexy corn. I chose to be a purple cat.”

“Wise choice,” Gertie says. “Though I would have paid money to see sexy corn.”

I shake my head. “There isn’t enough butter in Maine to make that work.”

Felicity laughs, adjusting her rabbit ears. “I was Alice in Wonderland earlier this week at my workshop. Now I’m the White Rabbit. I couldn’t decide, so I just kept the theme going.”

“That’s not indecision, that’s dedication to the theme. Call me tomorrow when you’re dressed as a teacup.” We share a quick laugh. “And you, Ms. Sea Siren, are living out all of my seafaring fantasies.”

“I’ve wanted to be a mermaid since I was six,” Gertie admits, running a hand over her iridescent scales. “I’ve never had an excuse until now. Also, I’m toying with the idea of writing a fantasy cozy mystery set underwater. Mermaids solving murders in an ocean kingdom. Thoughts?”

“I’d read it,” Felicity says without hesitation.

“Same,” I add. “Though I feel like the murder weapons would be limited. What, tridents and poisonous fish?”

“Exactly!” Gertie grins. “The challenge is what makes it interesting.”

“Plus every alibi is the same,” I point out. “‘Where were you at midnight?’ ‘Swimming.’ Case closed, nobody’s guilty, the sea witch walks free.”

We’re laughing about underwater alibis when I spot two figures weaving through the crowd toward us, and my maternal instincts kick into high alert.

We part ways at the buffet just as McKenna and Riley break through the crowd, and heaven help me, my daughters are both dressed in costumes that make me want to wrap them in blankets and hermetically seal them in their dorm room until they’re at least forty.