16. Hattie

HATTIE

Murder Club Group Chat

Chevy: Just did some digging. I think we should talk to Desmond Leffler. He was working on an article all about Silas Moon!

Tipper: I bet he knows the dirt that landed Silas in the dirt! This is getting juicy.

Hillary: We should get him to do a write-up on the country club. I volunteer to speak with him.

Kick: I’ve seen the guy. He’s a hottie. We all know why you want to speak to him, Hillary. Did you ever think he could be the killer? ??

Bunny: All hot men need to go through me first. I’ll make sure this killer has a killer good time.

Peggy: Can we not accuse every hot man in town of murder? Some of them just want to suck your blood.

Clarabelle: I just ate my last KitKat bar. Need more candy! ??

A fter an unusually entertaining morning at the country club—where one of the longtime old money members, Mrs. Fitzroy, insisted her miniature poodle could play fetch better than any of the caddies—I found myself free earlier than expected.

As it turns out, caddies aren’t fans of chasing after squeaky toys, nor were any of the golfers thrilled to see a little white ball of fur darting in and out of their swings, but watching Mrs. Fitzroy try to convince them otherwise was worth the price of admission. To hear her say it, she owns the club, and if her sweet little Muffy felt the need to water the lawn or leave a few yard brownies scattered around, it was her inherent right to do so.

FYI, a rather impressive amount of yard brownies was deposited much to the gardener’s chagrin.

There was also a pumpkin spice latte war that went down in the café when a couple of socialites nearly broke out into a fistfight over who was in line first.

Then there was the impromptu fashion show at the spa, which led to some catty banter regarding who was wearing what from last season. Believe me when I say, there isn’t an expletive in the book low enough to counter the words last season .

And, of course, I wasn’t getting through the day without a little grief from Peyton. I had just finished up with the Halloween decorations, getting the club ready for the spookiest day of the year, mostly from stuff that I purchased from the Crafty Treehouse, when Peyton let me know this would be the last of tacky holiday décor. It’s to be nothing but pure opulence from here on out. Who says rhinestone ghosts that hang from the ceiling are tacky?

But it’s a little after two, and I’ve ditched out early with Cricket perched contentedly in my bag as the two of us make our way down to Main Street.

The Brambleberry Bay Gazette is my intended destination, but a whiff of cinnamon and spice drifting from the candle and bath shop—cleverly named Wicked Wonders—has all but cast a spell on me. Actually, it’s called Waxy Wonders, but it seems everyone is jumping on the rename-your-shop-just-in-time-for-Halloween bandwagon.

It’s a wonder the country club hasn’t renamed itself for spooky season. Something like the Brambleberry Boo Country Club, or the Pretentious Battle-Axes Country Club, or even the Brambleberry Highbrow Horror Club.

Come to think of it, all of the above would be fitting any time of year.

What’s this? Cricket mewls as she hangs precariously out of my tote bag and gives a few good sniffs at the window display. Oh, not this place again. Don’t you have enough candles and soap to last a lifetime? Too bad you can’t just lick yourself clean. You’d save yourself a bundle of money—the more money to buy me some more Fancy Beast cat food.

To hear her say it, you’d think she never ate.

“You’re so right.” I blow out a breath. “I ran out of room to store all the goodies I’ve collected from this place long ago, but that doesn’t seem to stop my addiction.” I glance up at the glittery orange sign and gasp. “Three-wick candles are only twelve ninety-nine! And the sale ends today. I’m sorry, Cricket, but my fiscal hands are tied. I have no choice but to stock up on all things spooky. It would be financially irresponsible not to.”

Actually, the window display is a festival of all things autumn, with an array of orange, brown, and golden hues. But they’re also honoring Halloween with its very own and very limited-time collection. Candles shaped like pumpkins, black cats, and tiny cauldrons are artfully arranged, enticing passersby with their promises of cozy nights and haunted delights. And you can bet your bottom spooky little dollar that I’m as delighted as can be.

“Oh, they have Haunted Harvest and Goulfriend’s Cauldron on sale, too! They’ve always sold out before I can get to them in the past. I think this just might be my lucky day.”

“Well, if it isn’t Hattie Holiday,” someone chirps from behind just as I’m about to head for the door.

I turned to see Chevy Von Champs, Brambleberry Bay’s own best-selling mystery author, standing with her arms crossed and an eyebrow arched in faux indignation. Chevy is a force of nature, with her perfectly coiffed blonde hair and dark knit pantsuit that screams professional sleuth chic. Chevy is also one of my favorite members of the book club, or murder club as it’s panning out to be.

I’m about to say hello when she lifts a finger my way. “Someone has been ignoring the murder club group chats as if nothing but a bunch of spam.”

“I’m sorry.” I wince. “I’ve been so wrapped up with the case. And with Halloween just minutes away, the country club is keeping me on my toes as well.”

“I’m sure you are busy.” Chevy frowns as if that doesn’t excuse anything. “But that doesn’t change the fact I’m not impressed that you haven’t participated or even acknowledged the murder club group chat yet. The one I set up to pool our sleuthing resources? Hattie, there’s a killer out there, and I’m just as determined to track them down as you are.”

Now it’s me frowning.

If Killion knew there were two of us determined to butt into his case, he wouldn’t be impressed. He’d have a migraine, and maybe a craving for another dozen corn dogs in hopes of mitigating it. And I would be right there with him as a show of support to both him and my budding appetite.

“Actually, I was just on my way to see Desmond Leffler about those cold cases,” I tell her. “If you’re free, you’re welcome to come with me.”

“You bet I’m coming with you. And I want to know everything.” She bites down on her lip for a moment. “Desmond Leffler, huh? He’s that reporter I’ve done a few interviews with about my books. And I heard he was speaking to Silas. Good thinking, Hattie. I’m sure he knows something. The man was unreasonably nosey when we spoke.” She plucks Cricket out of my tote bag and cuddles with her. “We’ll have this cute little love bug with us in the event things go sideways.” She lands a kiss to my sweet cat’s nose. “Feel free to claw anyone you like on our behalf, Cricket.”

I’ve always liked her. Cricket gives a quick meow as she holds up a paw and splays her claws for effect.

Both Chevy and I share a quick laugh at the sight.

“She never fails to impress,” I say. “I was just about to head to the Gazette , but these candles?—”

“Say no more,” Chevy says, practically pressing her nose to the window. “I’m a little distracted by Wicked Wonders’ spooktacular sale myself. Who could resist Pumpkin Patch and Midnight Masquerade? I need those scents in every iteration. Let’s get inside before they disappear like an apparition in a haunted house.”

“You really do have a way with words.”

We dash inside and pause for a moment to take in all of the spooky delights. Wicked Wonders is a Halloween enthusiast’s dream—and my credit card’s worst nightmare.

The shelves are lined with three-wick candles in every conceivable fall scent—including Ghostly Gourds, Apple Cider Spell, and Cemetery Spice. There are also body sprays like Autumn Enchantment and Wicked Woods that promise to make any girl feel as wicked as a haunted forest.

My personal faves are the pumpkin spice latte and waffles, candy apple, butterscotch, and hot chocolate scents, and I make quick work of loading up one of their gingham checkered baskets with all of the above.

Chevy picks up a candle labeled Witches’ Brew and sniffs it. “Mmm, smells like cloves, nutmeg, and a hint of black magic.”

Cricket gives an approving mewl and Chevy belts out a laugh.

“This cat of yours has good taste.” She leans in my way. “So, how’s that cozy mystery you’re writing coming along?”

I can’t help but smile at the mention of it. “I just hit the end. Can you believe it?”

It’s true. I’ve been writing and rewriting, and then rewriting my sweet little cozy mystery for the last solid year. It’s about a baker who sees ghosts and can’t seem to stop stumbling over a body. The ghosts help her solve the mystery, while she bakes to her little heart’s content.

Chevy knows all about it since she’s read a few of my rough drafts. Really rough drafts. A couple of scenes I’ve sent to Chevy a handwritten apology because of it, too. They really were that rough.

Chevy’s eyes widen—most likely with disbelief. “Really? That’s fantastic, Hattie! I loved what you shared with me before. Can I have first dibs on the manuscript? I’m starting my own publishing company, which is going to be focused on mysteries, and I would love to take a look.”

“Seriously?” My heart does a little happy dance, and come to think of it, my feet are dancing along, too. “Oh my gosh, Chevy, that would be amazing!”

I leap to hug her and my arm snags on the bottom of a display of candles set in a precarious pyramid formation. A rumbling sound ensues and Cricket jumps down from Chevy’s arms just as the display topples to the floor, sending candles rolling in every direction.

People run for cover.

People scream their heads off, mostly Chevy and me.

And more than a few expletives are tossed around, mostly from the staff.

Both Chevy and I freeze in horror, then burst into laughter as we scramble to pick up what we can.

“Let’s get out of here before we get banned for life.” Chevy laughs as we do our best to pick up the candles before we ante up at the registers and slip out of the shop.

“The Gazette is just down on the next street.” I point past the melee we inadvertently caused. “But we can cut through the alley. We’ll get there twice as fast.”

We do just that as both Chevy and I walk at a decent clip, or as decent as the bags we’re schlepping will allow. It turns out, all the candles and body sprays I loaded up on weigh as much as my truck.

“I can’t wait to read your work again, Hattie,” Chevy says as we both start to pant from the effort. The sky is quickly turning an ominous shade of purple and oak leaves are cartwheeling down the cobbled alleyway as the wind picks up. “I’ve got a good feeling about this book. It might just be the next big thing in cozy mysteries.”

“From your mouth to every reader’s ear,” I say. “Thank you. That means a lot coming from you.”

The alleyway is narrow and dimly lit, the perfect setting for a mystery in itself. We’re about halfway through when Cricket starts to hiss and her fur begins to bristle.

“What’s wrong, girl?” I ask, looking around.

Chevy stops cold, her eyes narrowing. “Do you hear that?”

I listen intently and hear a faint, thumping sound.

“It sounds like someone is running,” I say.

As we round the corner, the source of the noise may not be in view—but a body sure is.

It’s not just any body either.

Desmond Leffler, the very man we were on our way to speak with, lies sprawled out on the ground. His eyes are open, staring vacantly at the sky, and he just so happens to have a silver knife protruding from his chest.

Chevy gasps, and Cricket hisses again, this time with her tail puffing up.

A chill runs down my spine and I can hardly breathe.

“Hattie, I think this just happened,” Chevy pants. “The killer must be nearby.”

The sound of a car speeding off ignites the alleyway, but it’s nowhere near our line of vision.

I moan at the sight of the poor man as Chevy whips out her phone and calls 911.

If Desmond Leffler knew anything about Silas Moon and his killer, he took all of his secrets with him.

Someone out there wanted to make sure Desmond didn’t say a word to a single soul.

Desmond Leffler has been silenced forever.