The music picks up a notch to near deafening decibels as the room begins to swell with costumed bodies.
I take a step toward Shep, and his thick cologne instantly surrounds me.
My shoulders bounce as I take in the Halloween decorations. “I was going to throw some crepe paper at the place and make Mud run around with a scary mask. If it wasn’t for Regina’s friend, my haunted house would have been a flop on night one.”
Opal pops up between us in a long black dress that looks as if it’s entirely comprised of shiny black vinyl. She has on a choke collar with spikes, and her typically gray hair is a shocking shade of purple. For the sake of the few follicles she has left, I hope that’s a wig, and I’m pretty sure it is with its far too short bangs and blunt pageboy styling. I’m not even going to ask what she’s supposed to be. Every day is Halloween if your name is Opal Mortimer. And in her arms is tucked one of her favorite cats, a brown and black spotted exotic Bengal named King.
“A flop on night one?” She gives a cheeky wink my way. Her pale skin is offset with the dark, thick kohl she wears ringed around her eyes, and her lips are stained her go-to dragon’s blood red. “Not I,” she says, fanning King with a handful of bills. “At this rate, Bowie Binx, I am going to be a very wealthy woman again.” She draws out each word in that odd way that only a true socialite can.
“And I’ll get fifty percent,” I proudly announce.
“Fifteen.” She bops me over the head with those greenbacks in her hand. “Make sure to have the café’s menu reflect the holiday theme like we discussed.” She takes off, and I can’t help but frown.
“I discussed, she listened. We’re talking pumpkin pancakes and spooky spider goulash,” I say to Shep as my eyes latch onto his. Just looking at Shepherd Wexler sends my stomach exploding with heat, and I’m forced to bite down on the silly grin floating to my lips. “Speaking of discussions”—I give a little shrug—“we haven’t exactly had a chance to dissect what transpired last week between your lips and mine.”
His lids hood low as he angles his chest toward me, and I can feel the heat emanating off his body like a fiery inferno straight out of Hades—and that’s one inferno I happen to approve of.
“Funny you should bring that up.” His lips twitch, and I’m tempted to run my fingers over that scruff on his face. That thick, glossy hair of his is practically begging for my hands to find a home in it.
“Bowie?” a female voice calls from behind, and I turn to see my newly minted bestie, Tilly Teasdale, with her chunky, skunky highlights and a tight-fitted police uniform.
Believe me when I say it’s formed to her figure in ways that make you wonder how she got into it in the first place. I’m guessing she’s already auditioning the male population to see who can help her get it off. Tilly is a sassy townie with shoulder-length brown hair, light eyes, and perhaps a bit too much of a flirtatious edge. She’s a touch older than me, maybe somewhere in her early thirties to my late twenties, has a sixteen-year-old daughter who is just as rambunctious as she is, and she just so happens to work with me at the café.
She nods my way. “Piggy is looking for you. She’s got questions about the setup.”
“Miggy,” I whisper to her just as Miggy Hill herself crops up with a smile.
Tilly pulls Shep to the side and Stephanie bops over to join them, but I choose to give all my attention to the woman in front of me. I’ll deal with my sneaky sister later.
“Hello, Miggy.”
Miggy Hill is just as colorful as her name suggests. She’s a curly-headed blonde who struts when she walks, has a bit of a country twang when she talks, and pretty big brown eyes that house the slight look of a threat in them. She’s spunky and has a touch of an attitude, and not shockingly that only makes me like her more. She reminds me of the girls back in Jersey, tough as nails and perfectly capable of getting things done.
“I’m all done with the setup, Bowie,” she says, adjusting her pointy black hat. She has on a little black dress and a long dark cape that only accentuates that witchy seductress look she’s going for. “The kid-friendly haunted house in the library is ready to go for tomorrow. I suggest you run it during after-school hours. No need to staff it when the kiddos are away.” Miggy Hill owns and operates an event company called Thoroughly Modern Miggy, and despite the fact she’s one of Regina’s so-called friends, we get along great. Regina and I? Not so much. “The cats are adorable. Can I take a few home?” A laugh trembles from her.
“All of the cats at the Mortimer Manor are very much family, but there’s a shelter about a mile from here brimming with cute little kitties that would love to find their forever home.”
“I’ll look into that.” Her shoulders bounce up and down. “As for the much more terrifying version of a haunted house upstairs, I let the actors know there is a strict no touching the guests policy—or each other. They are teenagers, after all.”
“And thespians,” I point out. It’s true. Miggy had the brilliant idea to mine the high school drama department to populate the haunted house. And in return for their stellar acting skills, I promised to write them each a letter of recommendation to their college of choice. “Let’s hope they scare the pants off of every lost soul that walks through those haunted halls.”
Miggy chuckles. “They’re teenagers. I’m guessing they specialize in scaring the pants off one another.” She waves it off, and yet suddenly I have an entirely new dilemma to worry about. “Oh, and before I forget, the carnival games out back are a huge hit. Good idea implementing that last minute.”
“I couldn’t have done it without you. And I have no doubt that people will lose their minds and wallets trying to score those adorable prizes.” There was really no way I could have pulled this off on my own, so I’m thankful Miggy offered to do all of this for free in an effort to put herself on the party-planning map.
A group of three women head this way laughing, each with a colorful drink in their hands—and I’d guess them to be somewhere in their early thirties. There’s another witch, Little Red Riding Hood, and a woman in a spandex tigress suit with cute orange ears and a tail that can double as a whip.
Miggy pulls the witch in close. “Bowie, I want you to meet my friends. This is witch Hazel.” She nods to the witch and we share a laugh. The girl has her hair tucked up in her wig, but I can see wisps of crimson locks falling loosely to the side. “A little play on her name.” She winks. “And Little Red is Annabelle, and the big cat is Carrie Clark. Hazel works for me.”
Hazel gives a quick nod. “Hazel Newton”—the redhead says—“nice to meet you. I used to work retail, but I was let go in the last round of budget cuts, and it was good timing because Miggy’s business just shot through the roof. I’m hoping to move up in the party-planning ranks. We’re so busy we don’t have a minute to ourselves.” Hazel glances to Little Red Riding Hood. “And I just might pick up a few hours here and there with Annabelle at the pumpkin patch.”
“Oh?” I perk right up at the mention of those happy orange globes. “Do you own a pumpkin patch?”