Page 77 of Fish and Chip

Somewhere near the main party area, what sounds like a flash mob breaks out. Guests shriek in unison over something I can’t see, probably a surprise appearance by the Grim Reaper himself—he does have a season pass—or possibly just someone spotting another chocolate coffin. At this park, both are equally likely and equally dangerous.

You have that look, Fish says, trotting alongside me.

“What look?” I ask, scooping her up.

The look that says you’ve figured it out, Chip adds, bouncing on his paws hard enough to blur. The murder-solving look! The “I know who done it” look!

I marvel at how fast that oversized pretzel did a disappearing act.

Oh sugar, I just love this part! Cupcake spins in a circle, her crystal ball collar catching the party lights. This is better than a Baptist church potluck gone wrong! All the hollerin’, none of the casseroles to carry home!

I scan the crowd while my brain sprints through everything I just read on my phone about Trevor Hershey—the assault allegations, the addiction, the lives he ruined while his mother stood in front of him with her checkbook and a publicist.

And then I see her.

Felicity Graves.

She stands near the dessert table in her White Rabbit costume and reaches for a Halloween cookie decorated like a tiny tombstone.

With her left hand.

I gasp loud enough that a passing vampire turns to look at me. I give him a little wave. Nothing to see here, sir. Just a grown woman in a purple cat costume having a moment of clarity.

Knew it.

The article I pulled up was an interview from three years ago. Felicity, talking about her daughter’s recovery, about rebuilding after trauma, about what happens when powerful people use their influence to destroy vulnerable ones. She’d been vague about names and careful with details, but the timeline matched perfectly.

Belladonna’s son. Felicity’s daughter. Seven years ago.

Felicity sets the cookie down without taking a bite, her gaze drifting somewhere far past the dessert table. Then she turns and walks away from the party, heading toward the back of the Haunted Mansion.

Toward the fake cemetery where Belladonna died.

She’s going back to the scene of the crime! Fish gives a sharp meow.

That’s never a good sign, Chip adds. Also, she left a perfectly good cookie behind. Innocent people would eat the cookie!

Bless her heart, Cupcake says. That gal’s carryin’ more hurt than a hound dog with no porch to come home to.

I follow at a distance, threading through witches and werewolves while Henrietta, the world’s worst statement necklace, bounces against my chest with every step. If she has an opinion about where we’re going, she’s keeping it to herself. First time all evening.

The party noise fades as I round the corner of the Haunted Mansion. The fog is thicker back here, rolling across the ground in waves, and the decorative cemetery looks almost peaceful under the purple lights. Almost being the operative word, given that somebody actually gave up the ghost here earlier this week.

Felicity stands at the edge of the faux graveyard with her arms wrapped around herself, her shoulders shaking with quiet sobs.

Oh no, Fish whispers.

Poor lady, Chip says.

Sugar pie, that poor woman’s been through the wringer and back again, Cupcake murmurs.

I step forward. “Hey. Are you all right?”

Felicity whirls around and her hand flies to her chest. “Oh! Josie, you scared the living daylights right out of me.” She gives a shaky laugh and wipes her eyes. “For a second I thought I was seeing a ghost.”

Considering the guest of honor died about forty feet from where she’s standing, I wouldn’t rule it out.

“It is Halloween,” I say and offer a mournful smile. “Were you thinking about Belladonna’s ghost?”