Page 5 of Bewitched By the Pumpkin Queen

“You can punish me later.” He grins, waggling his eyebrows.

Heat crawls up the nape of my neck and I swat at his thigh without looking, which only makes his grin widen.

The audacity.

Mayor Bishop raises both hands like a preacher about to call down a miracle. "Please! Please. We are not canceling the festival. We are…modifying it. Daytime events will proceed as planned. Evening events will conclude by nine. Merchants, we'll coordinate earlier openings and staggered schedules to mitigate losses."

The crowd doesn't simmer so much as slow-boil with resentment. I can practically taste the bitterness in the air, mingling with the autumn spice candles someone thought would set a calming mood.

Spoiler alert.

They're not working.

“We’ll circulate official guidelines tomorrow. For now, I urge everyone to stay calm and look out for one another." She pauses, swallowing hard. "Lastly, if anyone has information—anything at all—please contact the Sheriff's office immediately."

Whiskers crawls from the hidey hole of my purse, tiny claws climbing my sleeve before he nips at my earring, his voice pitched so only I can hear. “Do you think the killer’s in this room right now?” He sounds more delighted than afraid. “Statistically, murderers love a crowd. Great way to blend in.”

Good point.

I've spent enough late Thursday nights with Whiskers curled on my lap, both of us wide-eyed while the hosts of ‘Murder Most Foul’ dissect crime scenes in their silky radio voices.

Episode 47 covered this exact scenario.

“What can you tell us about the murders?” A woman in a purple sweater pushes her cat-eye eyeglasses up the bridge of her nose as she speaks. “Why hasn’t more information been released?”

“I heard that all the victims had been drained of blood.” Shouts a gangly teenager from the back.

The Sheriff takes back the mic, his voice low and gravelly, a baritone designed to stop bar brawls in their tracks. “We are not releasing specific details at this time. The investigation is ongoing, and spreading rumors will only hinder our progress. Please, let us do our jobs. If you see or hear anything suspicious, report it. Don’t play detective.” His eyes sweep the room like he's daring someone to argue.

No one does.

I catch the look that passes between Sheriff Dunmire and Vice Mayor Thornton, who's been lurking stage-left like a vulture waiting for roadkill. “The Mayor will now take this time to answer a few questions. Please keep them brief and respectful." Sheriff Dunmire steps back from the podium, and I watch as he descends the stage steps with Vice Mayor Thornton trailing behind like a shadow.

Whiskers perks up, eyes narrowed. “Bet you a chicken bone they’re going to spill secrets.” he murmurs.

I glance toward the side corridor where the two men slip away, their faces tight with something between worry and fear.

“Go,” I whisper, nudging Whiskers with a practiced flick. “You’re on recon.”

Whiskers doesn't need to be told twice. He slithers down my arm with the grace of liquid mischief and disappears beneath the rows of folding chairs, a white streak darting between ankles and purses.

Jasper lounges back in his seat, legs splayed wide, somehow managing to look both vigilant and deeply bored. “This should be interesting.” He nods to the seething line of townsfolk already queuing up for the Q&A.

The questions are what you’d expect—unproductive, desperate, a little unhinged. If it’s not the bake shop complaining about lost revenue, it's the innkeepers and hosts of Airbnb rentals fretting over cancellations, or parents demanding to know if their children are going to be safe while trick-or-treating.

The Mayor deflects with the skill of a seasoned politician, her answers circular and soothing in that maddening way that says everything and nothing at all. A half hour later, the crowd has thinned, and the moon is hanging low outside the theater. Whiskers finally reappears, scrambling up my leg with the urgency of someone who's stumbled onto something juicy.

He reaches my shoulder, his teeny body vibrating with excitement and whispers, "You're not going to believe what I just heard."

Jasper leans in, his breath warm against my ear. "Could you two possibly wait until we're out of here before sharing state secrets?" His voice is low, but the scolding in his eyes is unmistakable.

I shoot him a look that could wilt flowers. "Since when do you care about propriety?"

"Since my wife started using her familiar as a spy." His mouth quirks up at one corner betraying his feigned anger.

Fair enough.

But in my defense, this is the first time someone has been murdered in Pennigton Falls since I was still wearing pigtails and light up sneakers. And furthermore, I’m allowed to be nosy when people are dying and there is a potential serial killer running loose in the town I live in.