Chapter 5

"AAAAGGH!" Niki and I scream in unison.

But Naomi's headless body is undeterred as she holds her head on a platter—quite literally—and leads us to what looks like a haunted living room until we hit an enormous back patio that overlooks Honey Lake.

The patio is adorned with purple twinkle lights that crisscross overhead like a canopy, along with garlands of fall leaves that look as if they were hosed down with glitter.

A small pumpkin with a candle in it sits nestled on each table, and not only is the place packed, but almost everyone here is wearing a costume. But it's not the guests that garner my attention, it's the glittering purple headstones that are attached to the backs of the chairs that give this place all the appeal of the Honey Hollow Cemetery.

The same spooky music seeps from the speakers, and the mist from those fog machines gives this place the right amount of spooktacular vibes it's looking for.

"Welcome to the graveyard." Naomi giggles from the platter and both Niki and I recoil in horror.

"How are you doing that?" I all but shout at Naomi Turner's head sitting on what looks to be an old wooden lazy Susan.

"Sorry, but I signed an NDA," she sputters. "I'm not allowed to ruin the magic. Seat yourselves, would you? My head is killing me." She saunters back in the direction she came from and both Niki and I shudder.

"Oh, look"—Niki perks up as she cranes her neck to the left—"There's Aunt Cat and Carlotta, and they happen to be seated with about six shirtless ogres."

I glance that way and find my aunt and her good friend Carlotta—a couple of mischief mavens if ever there were some—seated with a handful of green men with enough muscles to bench press all of Vermont if need be.

Niki clucks her tongue. "Good to know this night has enough treats to balance out the tricks. Have fun with Coop." She nods ahead and, sure enough, Cooper is here and he's got a seat right on the water. And by his side is the cutest little furry sidekick you ever did see. "I'm headed to greener pastures." She starts to take off then backtracks. "And don't you dare pull the trigger without me. It's not fair you get to have all the fun."

I take a moment to glower at her. "You'd better learn to whisper or I'll be pulling a trigger, all right."

She takes off with a whoop and I make a beeline to my mark.

"Is this seat taken or is it reserved for Naomi Turner's head on a platter?"

Coop ticks his head to the side and looks slightly dazed by the thought. "I don't know. According to the gravestone attached to that seat, Naomi Turner died six weeks ago under suspicious circumstances. It says she had her head severed in a kitchen accident."

"Oh, come on," I say, landing across from him. "You know we're not that lucky."

We share a quick laugh and I note how handsome he looks with his dark suit and dark hair combed back, still dewy from the shower. His woodsy cologne permeates the area, and those blue eyes of his shine under the purple twinkle lights like a pair of magical moonbeams.

Watson jumps and barks until I give him a full-body rub down.

"Great news," Cooper says, sliding a menu my way. "This place serves Italian. I have a feeling it's going to be one of our favorites."

My stomach squeezes tight when he says the word our.

A headless waitress comes by and we quickly put in our orders as follows: appetizers—antipasto salami and cheese trio, main course—chicken cacciatore for me, beef braciola for him, half a pan of lasagna to split, and a side of meatballs with gravy, aka the house marinara.

Both Coop and I know it would be impossible to judge this place appropriately without a lasagna and meatballs to juxtapose against the ones they serve at Mangias.

No sooner does the waitress and her rogue head stroll off than a woman crops up with long dark hair, red glossy lips filled like helium balloons, and a body that belongs to Jessica Rabbit.

She's got a pricey handbag dangling from her shoulder and is wearing enough bling to signal to the space station. She's donned a red sequin dress that clings to her like melted wax, along with a pair of horns sitting on her head and a red pointy tail that she's holding like a leash.

By her side is a man in a zoot suit with a fedora dipped over his forehead. He has dark hair, dark eyes, and judging by that wicked smile curving on his lips, a wicked soul to match.

"Well, look who the cat dragged in." She honks out a laugh while looking at Cooper. "Or should I say dirty rabbit?"

Hey? I'm not dirty. But talk to me after dinner when this white leotard looks as if it took part in a massacre. I'd feel guilty about it, but it is October, and red sauce looks a lot like blood. It's a timely fashion choice on my part.

"Loretta?" Cooper rises out of his seat and pulls the woman with the forked tongue in for a quick embrace.

It would figure he knows her. Cooper is a looker—and he seems to attract a bunch of oddballs because of it. Case in point, Naomi Turner.

The woman honks out another laugh and sounds like a dying seal.

Speaking of the oddballs he attracts, I'm guessing the naughty devil has had her due—or her way with the good detective.

Although she doesn't seem Cooper's type with that designer handbag that costs more than my car, the fact she's dripping with diamonds, and those eyelashes that nearly touch the twinkle lights.

If they ever were together, it was just a fling. Judging by the fact she looks as if she looted a jewelry store, he couldn't afford to keep her. Not on his salary anyway. And if it were true love, he'd be robbing banks by now.

She looks my way and laughs. "So who's the whore with the chore of being your plus-one for the night?"

I straighten.

Watson growls.

Did she just say whore with the chore? My mouth falls open because I think I just discovered someone far more vulgar than my sister—and perhaps any other woman outside of Loretta's homeland of Hell.