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“Bad idea.”

“I thought so, too, what with the possibility of the ghost apocalypse starting early and all. But the sooner he finds out who killed him, the sooner he can cross over, and I’ll be ghost-free. I really, really want to be ghost-free, Dylan.”

I heard muttering but couldn’t make out any particular words.

Finally, he clearly said, “Stay put tonight. The deputies at his house right now reported the place has been broken into. They’re going to be there for hours. If there’s anything left to find, we can look for it tomorrow.”

I glanced at Haywood. He was leaning against the front door, still tapping his foot.

“We?” I repeated.

“Unless you want to be arrested for breaking and entering if you get caught on your own,” he said.

“No, thank you.” My last (brief) stint in jail had been more than enough time spent behind bars.

“That’s what I thought,” he said with a hint of a smile in his voice. “I’ll be by in the morning. Try not to collect any more ghosts until then.”

Since I wasn’t going out after all, I didn’t think that was going to be too hard to do.

Undoubtedly, what
was
going to be difficult was telling Haywood the bad news about his house . . . and trying not to worry that the evidence he had been planning to show me had been stolen.

Chapter Six

T
he next morning Roly and Poly were hiding under the covers on my bed with seemingly no intention of ever coming out. I didn’t blame the cats. In fact, I’d be right under there with them if not for the fact that Dylan would be here any minute.

I tossed my pajamas across the iron footboard of my bed and ran a brush through my wavy hair. I lifted the bedroom shades to reveal a gloomy day outside. Clouds hung low and heavy, and raindrops slid down the windowpane.

It was Halloween.

The portal had opened.

Hiding behind a curtain, I glanced outside, expecting to see ghosts wandering down my street, but the only thing out and about were squirrels chasing one another from branch to branch in the trees separating my yard from Mr. Dunwoody’s.

The wooden floor creaked as I crossed over to the antique oak cheval mirror for one last look before I left the safety of my room. I tugged on the collar of my black cowl-neck sweater, fussed with the pockets of my jeans, and finally accepted the fact that I had run out of ways to procrastinate. I faced the closed bedroom door.

Fortunately, the ghost of Haywood Dodd had respected my wishes and stayed out of my room last night. When I went to bed, he’d been drifting around downstairs, doing his pacing thing. He’d been clearly distressed by the news about the break-in at his house. Moaning up a storm, he gestured wildly, and wanted to head out to see what had happened with his own eyes.

It had taken more patience than I thought I possessed to talk him out of that. Dylan was right—it was best to wait until morning. For multiple reasons. The first being that the deputies at Haywood’s home would undoubtedly turn me away. The second being that midnight had marked the coming of Halloween.

And more ghosts.

Oh, I hadn’t seen any more of them, but I knew they were out there.

Waiting. Watching. Searching for someone to help them.

Guilt pricked at my conscience.

After all,
I
could help them . . .

But when the memory of that one bad experience slid into my mind, a shiver ran down my spine, reminding me why I’d stopped assisting the ghosts in the first place.

Helping Haywood was a big enough step outside my self-imposed ghostly comfort zone to give me peace of mind. I was doing the best I could right here and now.

The phone on my nightstand rang, and when I reached over to pick it up, I saw who was calling: My mama. I set the handset back down and let the call go to voice mail.

Later. I’d deal with her later.

I said good-bye to the two feline lumps under my duvet, told them the house would soon be theirs for a while, and reached for the bedroom doorknob. Willed myself to turn the handle.

Now that it was almost time to leave the house, my nerves were kicking up something fierce. I didn’t want to go out there.

Didn’t want to want to have to deal with Haywood.

Didn’t want to think about murder.

But I also knew I had no other choice. Not really. Not if I wanted to help Haywood cross over so I could return to my regularly scheduled hibernation period. Taking a deep breath, I gave myself a silent pep talk and swung open the door just as my front bell pealed. I left the door ajar for Roly and Poly to have free rein and dashed down the narrow steps.

The first thing I noticed was that Haywood was nowhere to be seen.

Was it possible that he’d decided he didn’t need me after all? My hopes picked themselves up, dusted themselves off.

The second thing I noticed was that it wasn’t Dylan on my front porch but rather my aunt Eulalie. She had her hands cupped on each side of her face and her nose practically smushed flat as she peered through the leaded glass of my front door. Her sullen features brightened when she spotted me.

A gentle rain was falling outside as I unlocked the door, and although the gray weather fit my melancholy mood, I hoped the skies would clear by evening. Once upon a time I had been a happy-go-lucky trick-or-treater, and there had been nothing worse than bad weather while going door to door.

“Carly Bell, I’m glad you answered, what with you being in your current state of hibernation.” She noisily kissed my cheek.

I quickly closed the door behind her before any wayward ghosts wandered by. There was a nervous energy around my aunt as she sashayed into the living room, her pleated full skirt swinging like a pendulum.

“What’s going on?” I asked, studying her. “Everything go okay on your date with Mr. Butterbaugh last night? Well, minus the murder?”

She wrinkled her nose. “It was fine.”

Fine.
That was the kiss of death for poor Mr. Butterbaugh. “Not your type?”

Aunt Eulalie rarely looked anything other than perfectly put together. It helped that she could easily pass for Meryl Streep’s twin sister, but her fashion sense played a huge role as well.

She preferred retro-looking fashions. From the forties, fifties, sixties . . . she loved them all. Today she had on a fitted navy blue blouse, a purple cardigan, a gray, blue, and purple plaid skirt, and dark purple Mary Jane heels—with sheer hose of course. Aunt Eulalie seemed to have an endless supply of stockings. And gloves, too. Today she wore a pair of cream-colored wrist-length gloves with a ruffled cuff.

“I’m coming to believe, Carly Bell, that my type does not exist. Wendell is a perfectly lovely gentleman. For someone else. I need someone with a stronger . . . constitution.”

“The ulcer?” I asked with a small smile.

“And the headache from the music. And the sore throat from a possibly tainted piece of shrimp.” She peeled off her gloves. “Bless his heart.”

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

“Just one more frog crossed off the list,” she said on a long sigh. “But never mind that right now. I’ve come over because I want to talk to you about a particular guest staying at the inn. A young woman. Very sweet. Extremely kind.”

All three Odd Ducks owned inns on this street. Eulalie’s, the Silly Goose, and Hazel’s Crazy Loon were almost always filled to capacity. Aunt Marjie’s Old Buzzard had never once seen a guest and had a
NO VACANCY
sign hanging out front. She was contrary that way.

Eulalie’s place was two doors down, one of only three homes on this side of the street. Sandwiched between her place and mine was Mr. Dunwoody’s house, and I was grateful for the buffer. Though I loved my aunts, being directly next door would be a little too close for comfort.

“A bride-to-be?” I asked. With Hitching Post being the wedding capital of the South, most visitors to the town were involved with a wedding in some way. Before Eulalie could answer, I added, “Would you like some coffee?”

“Yes, please,” she said, following me into the kitchen. “My guest has been extremely tight-lipped as to why she is here. Not for a lack of my trying to get a reason out of her, mind you.”

Eulalie had probably wheedled the woman endlessly. Poor thing. I set about making the coffee.

She said, “As far as I knew this young woman had no connections to this town, wedding or otherwise.”

“Knew?” I questioned her use of the past tense.

“Imagine my surprise when she turned up at the masquerade ball last night.” Pressing her hand to her chest dramatically, she added, “And played a starring role in the debacle that took place with Patricia Davis Jackson.”

The debacle. Eulalie had to be referring to Patricia’s tongue-lashing of the party crasher. The one Haywood had set out to rescue just before he was killed . . .

Slowly, I turned to face my aunt. “She’s
that
woman?”

Solemnly, Eulalie nodded. “Avery Bryan, age twenty-seven, from Auburn.”

Auburn was a good three and a half hours away and best known for the university of the same name. Hitching Post was mostly comprised of ’Bama football fans, but that wasn’t to say Auburn didn’t have pockets of fervent fans around these parts. It could get downright nasty during the annual Iron Bowl matchup between the two teams every November.

Reaching for a pair of mugs, I instinctively smiled at the Professor Hinkle mug Dylan had given me years ago. Once broken, it was now glued back together. Kind of like Dylan’s and my relationship.

“She was most distraught after returning to the inn last night,” Eulalie continued. “I heard sobbing coming from her room during the wee hours.”

The coffee finished perking and its alluring scent filled the air. I breathed it in like the true caffeine addict that I was. After grabbing a carton of cream from the refrigerator, I said, “I can imagine how upset she must have been. As you may recall, I’ve been on the receiving end of Patricia’s tirades many times.”

“That vicious tongue of Patricia’s will get her in trouble one of these days, mark my words. But regardless, Avery wasn’t weepy after the argument between them. I spoke to her immediately after the tiff when Idella Kirby pulled the two into the powder room to cool off.” Eulalie smiled slyly, her pale pink lipstick sparkling in the light. “I had gone in there to eavesdrop properly on the quarrel and my foresight paid off very well indeed.”

I could only shake my head. My family was certifiable. Both sides, the Fowls and the Hartwells. “Indeed.”

“Anyhow, Avery was angry and embarrassed, yes, but not tearful.”

I added a little sugar to my coffee, and gave it a swirl with a spoon. “Did she say why she’d crashed the party in the first place?”

Leaning against the counter, Eulalie took a dainty sip of her coffee, her pinkie finger in the air. “Avery said she didn’t know Patricia from Adam.” She frowned. “Or should that be Eve?” Waving a hand in dismissal of the query, she went on. “And Avery didn’t crash anything, Carly Bell. She had an invitation, the same as the rest of us. I know. I couldn’t help but see it as she waved it in front of Patricia’s face in defense of her presence.”

I cupped my hands around my mug, letting its warmth seep into my palms. My fingers probed the cracks that had been mended, finding the fissures oddly comforting. “She had an invite? You don’t say.”

“I
do
say.” Eulalie arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “And yet, when confronted with the truth, Patricia remained steadfast in ordering Avery to leave the premises immediately, declaring that she wasn’t welcome. Idella overruled Patricia, issued her deepest apologies to Avery, and escorted Patricia out of the powder room quicker than a sinner passes by a church.”

Patricia had never been one to admit when she was wrong or apologize. However, it seemed to me that she’d gone above and beyond to get rid of Avery Bryan.

Why?

“Avery promised she wouldn’t let Patricia ruin her night, but I never did see her again after I left the powder room. Patricia, either, until the unfortunate incident with Haywood Dodd.”

Unfortunate incident.

Only Aunt Eulalie could get away with calling a
murder
an unfortunate incident.