Stephanie bellies up to the counter with Tilly and me. I figured since she was outright refusing to lay low, I’d slap a nametag on her and put her to work.
“My ricotta stuffed omelet with parmesan, provolone, and prosciutto is a hit.” She offers a cheesy smile my way.
Tilly takes in a quick breath. “Wow, Lola, you look just like Bowie when you smile like that. Are you sure you’re not twins? Now that you’ve dyed your hair black, the two of you are mirror images of one another.”
“Nope.” Steph bumps her hip to mine. “I’m younger, smarter, and an all-around good time. Stel—Bowie is older, has a brain full of rocks, and loves to stomp out a good time like it was a grease fire.”
Regina comes up from behind chortling away as if she couldn’t get enough.
“We should hang out, Lola.” Regina nods to my sister. “I have a feeling you and I would get along famously.”
“More like infamously.” I’ve already filled my sister in on how miserable Regina has made my stay in Starry Falls. There’s no way my sister would betray me like that and cross enemy lines.
“That sounds great.” Stephanie leans her way. “Mud and I are looking for a couple to go out with. You got anyone you could link up with so we can hit a few bars? You know, line dancing, karaoke, anything but sitting around watching the flames of hell in Bowie’s living room.”
Both Regina and Tilly share a laugh at that one.
I shoot Tilly the stink eye.
Traitor.
“I think I can wrangle up an old boyfriend.” Regina glances my way before smearing a murderous grin in my sister’s direction. “Shep and I would love to join you and Mud for a night out on the town.”
My sister’s mouth falls open as she looks my way, and I make a face at her because I could have told her that catastrophe was coming.
“Well, good.” Stephanie shrugs as if it were no big deal. “That’ll teach my sister to sit on her hiney while someone swoops in and steals her man.”
“Make-believe man,” Regina counters and they share a sharp cackle before Regina takes off to tend to her tables.
Steph lifts a finger my way. “Before you get your panties in a bunch—”
“I’m not listening,” I say as Opal heads our way with both King and Lucky in her arms. She hasn’t let them out of her sight ever since she saw them sprinting out of my Honda, Wanda, this morning. Opal Mortimer doesn’t take kindly to cat-nappers. And thanks to Stephanie, I’m on her poop list now.
Opal’s hair is a lime neon green this morning with the same crazy cut bangs that end a little too high on her forehead, same blunt pageboy styling. I’m guessing she picked up a truckload of wigs for the spookiest season of them all, and now she’s treating us with the fruits of her eccentric labor.
“Ladies”—Opal lifts her nose to Tilly and me—“due to the Haunted Hallow-whiskers Ball, Stitch Witchery will need to be moved to a more amicable time. I’m thinking one o’clock, Thursday.”
Stitch Witchery is something Opal had going before I showed up in town. It’s basically a knit-wit free-for-all where every crafter this side of Vermont hauls their knitting needs, or whatever crafty shenanigans they’re up against into the library where Tilly and I set out fine bone china and a medley of tea for them. But since Opal is a displaced socialite, ever scheming to get back in the upper crust’s good graces, we’ve come up with a scheme or two to milk as much money out of just about anyone who will fork it over—thus, the birth of comfort. In a nutshell, whiskey is poured into those teacups to liven up the libation—in exchange for a monetary offering, of course.
Together, Opal and I have thought of other great moneymaking capers, too, like reading with cats, yoga with cats, and cats with cats. We let all the patrons know that a portion of the funds go to vet bills and food costs for the catty clan, and, of course, it does. But thankfully, for Opal and me, there’s a good chunk of change left over as well. I get fifteen percent and she gets the lion’s share. And lately we’ve been putting a little away in the proverbial kitty to raise funds for a renovation of the café. I’m really pushing hard for a brick pizza oven. My mouth waters just thinking about it.
“One o’clock, Thursday,” I say before leaning in to whisper. “And last night was a hit if you don’t count the butchering.” I wince as the words spear from me.
“It was unfortunate.” Opal nods. “But I have no doubt you girls will bring home the killer.”
Tilly hitches her thumb my way. “Bowie brings home the killer. I bring home the bacon—salty, meaty men who have a bit of a crunch to them.”
I hold up a hand. “Whatever you do, don’t quantify the crunch.”
She ticks her head to the side. “Lola is right. You really do like to stomp out a good time like a grease fire.”
“Now, now, girls.” Opal allows Lucky to smack Tilly on the nose with his tail. “Don’t stand around and argue. Fetch me a killer. I’m the only one around here allowed to frighten the guests. And the killer is taking all the fun out of my life.” She takes off to greet the guests at the tables.
I look to Tilly. “The killer may have taken the fun out of Opal’s life, but they took the life out of Hazel’s life. I hate the killer.”
“Me too. Stomp them out like a grease fire. So where are we off to?” Tilly unties her apron, rolls it into a ball, and pitches it at the counter as if she were scoring the winning touchdown. “Who’s up first on the suspect list?”
“A woman by the name of Carrie Clark, the vampire eating tigress I met last night. Turns out, she’s dating witch Hazel’s ex. I like the way witch Hazel rolls off the tongue.”
Tilly shrugs. “I like the way vampire eating tigress rolls off the tongue a little bit better, but only if I can be the tigress.”
“You’re always the tigress, Tilly.”
Stephanie pops her head between us and nearly gives me a heart attack. Nothing new there. Stephanie Santini has been jarring my heart for the last twenty-six years straight—Steph’s a year younger than me.
“Where are we off to, girls?” She slings her arms around both our shoulders.
Tilly ticks her head to the side. “The perp’s name is Carrie Clark, but we haven’t nailed down the where, when, and how.”
I’m about to offer up a suggestion when a serious bout of tunnel vision sets in and that old, familiar, warm, and fuzzy feeling takes over.
A scene emerges in my mind’s eye.
It’s Steph and me outside by the large oak tree where we found Hazel Newton’s body. In fact, she, too, is standing next to us as the three of us stare down at a witch with a blade sticking out of her back. Hazel lifts a ghostly finger and points to the attic of this old, rusty, dusty manor just as a crackle of lightning goes off and illuminates the sky with a shocking shade of lavender, and then I see her—Hazel Newton’s ghost is suddenly up in the dormer, glowing with rage as she glares down in our direction.
“Bowie?” Tilly’s voice comes in clear. “You had another one of your spells, didn’t you?”
My breathing grows erratic, and I’m panting as if I ran a lap around this haunted mansion.