Haunts, Hikes, & Havoc
- eBook
- Paperback
- Hardcover
- Book info
- Sample
- Media
- Author updates
- Lists
Synopsis
Welcome to Normal, Kentucky—where Mae West faces a ghostly guest list and one chilling murder she can't ignore...
Mae West is no stranger to mystery. As owner of Happy Trails Campground and partner to park ranger Hank Sharp, she's kept Normal, Kentucky running as smoothly as a campfire marshmallow roast. But when paranormal TV star Ken Treadwell is found stabbed during the town's “Haunts and Hikes” festival, with no murder weapon in sight, things take a deadly detour.
With her mama's event on the line and campground gossip reaching a full boil, Mae must untangle a haunted whodunnit with help from her fiercely loyal Laundry Club Ladies. The suspects? Ken's polished entourage, a few bitter locals, and even Mae's right-hand woman, the fiery Dottie Swaggert.
As secrets surface and the ghost-hunting crowd grows restless, Mae races to catch a killer before the next story ends in more than just screams.
Release date: September 17, 2025
Publisher: Tonya Kappes Books
Print pages: 190
Reader says this book is...: entertaining story (3) red herrings (2) satisfying ending (2) trail of clues (2) escapist/easy read (2) action-packed (1) clever protagonist (1) female sleuth (1) quirky supporting cast (1) realistic characters (1) suspenseful (1) unexpected twists (1) unputdownable (1) witty (1)
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
Reader buzz
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
Author updates
Haunts, Hikes, & Havoc
Tonya Kappes
Chapter One
People said that if you drove through the Nada Tunnel at night and didn’t honk your horn, the Green Lady would follow you home.
I didn’t know if I believed in ghosts, but I’d met enough people around these parts who claimed to have seen one, so just in case I keep my windows rolled up and my radio off when I passed through.
And tonight, standing under the pavilion at Happy Trails Campground and trying to get a possessed projector to behave while the wind whispered through the Daniel Boone National Forest as though it had secrets to tell, I couldn’t help but feel watched, maybe by Dottie Swaggert. Then again, it was fall and all those eerie sounds were magnified this time of the year.
“Did he arrive yet?” Mary Elizabeth Moberly’s voice, containing a mix of nerves and hope, buzzed through the phone I held against my ear.
“Not yet,” I said, shifting the phone to my shoulder and jabbing at the stubborn projector remote.
In the distance, tree branches creaked like old bones, and a slow crackle of leaves whispered along the gravel path of the Red Fox Trail. That kind of sound normally meant a raccoon was rustling around the trash bins, or perhaps something else was keeping an eye on us from the tree line.
“Here.” Dottie Swaggert’s flip-flops slapped across the concrete as she marched over and yanked the remote out of my hand. “You go talk to your mama. I can’t concentrate with all your pokin’ and proddin’.”
Betts Hager, one of our best friends, snickered from the opposite side of the pavilion. The pavilion was part of the recreational center, though most folks just called it “the covered part.”
“Fine,” I muttered. “Keep your voice down.”
“Now go stand over there and channel your good energy or whatever you do. I’ve got this,” Dottie snapped. “Betts, leave them chairs and come over here and take a look at this.”
Betts, along with the rest of our group, the Laundry Club Ladies, had graciously offered to come help us at Happy Trails Campground for the opening reception of the Haunts and Hikes Festival.
She stepped across the pavilion, her boots crunching on scattered leaves. Betts had her chin-length wavy brown hair tucked into a soft maroon beanie, the blunt bangs that usually framed her face now brushed out of her eyes. Those big brown eyes were sparkling with excitement, and her lightweight burnt-orange quilted vest gave her a cozy, ready-for-fall look that somehow still made her look effortlessly stylish. A chunky oatmeal-colored sweater peeked out from underneath, sleeves pushed up to her elbows as she carried folding chairs as though it was no big thing.
I caught her grinning as she leaned in to inspect the projector Dottie had decided to dominate.
Tonight’s event wasn’t just any opening reception. In fact, Mary Elizabeth, my foster-adoptive mama, had been trying to be more involved with the Ladies of the Elks, who were hosting this year’s festival. I didn’t know who she’d had to bribe, but she’d ended up scoring Ken Treadwell, the biggest paranormal investigator in the country.
He and his crew weren’t just headlining the festival. They were staying at Happy Trails and were going to film an episode of Paranormal Happenings, Ken’s national television show, at the campground.
“What’s she fussin’ about now?” Mary Elizabeth huffed. “Is she about to ruin Ken’s big arrival? Do I need to come over there? I made that bourbon-pecan pie for tomorrow’s reception, but if I need to use it as a peace offering, I will.”
“No need to bribe him with baked goods,” I said, stepping out from under the awning and into the crisp fall air. “I left plenty of goodies in the cabin from the Cookie Crumble and Trails Coffee for him to enjoy this evening.”
The campground was alive with sounds as the branches swayed against each other, pine needles shivering under the breeze. And from somewhere deeper in the woods came a long, low howl that might’ve been a coyote or might’ve been something else entirely.
“Dottie’s just mad the projector won’t cooperate. We were going to run a loop of Ken’s ghost-hunting show from years ago when he first came to see the Green Lady. Hank set it up, but apparently the spirits have other plans,” I teased, getting into the “spirit.”
“That’s a brilliant idea,” Mary Elizabeth said, instantly soothed. “This is my first time chairing the Ladies of the Elks holiday committee, and I cannot screw this up.”
“You won’t,” I promised. “You could throw a haunted hayride in a downpour and still have perfect hair and a hot chocolate bar.”
“Well…” Her voice lifted with pride. “Ken is the Paranormal Investigator of the Year, and folks have been whispering about ghost lights and strange sounds out in the gorge for years now, which makes it so special that he’s going to focus on the Green Lady. We are very lucky, Mae. Very lucky that he agreed to be the guest of honor this year for the festival. And that he’s going to take on the Green Lady!” Her voice ticked up with excitement.
She didn’t have to say more. I already knew the story. Everyone around here did.
The Nada Tunnel, in the Red River Gorge just up the road off Route 77, was as eerie as it was beautiful: nine hundred feet of pitch-black rock, carved by hand in the early 1900s for a lumber train that never quite seemed to leave. There were no lights inside, and if you didn’t honk before entering, the locals swore the Green Lady would follow you home.
Legend had it she was the spirit of a climber who had died near the tunnel. People claimed to have seen a soft green glow drifting through the trees or the full silhouette of a woman in a long dress vanishing just before the tunnel’s mouth.
For years, there’d been reports of shadowy figures on the trail behind the haunted cabin ruins near Gray’s Arch. Mysterious footprints started in the middle of the path and vanished without a trace. And one camper swore she saw a woman in a green dress walking into the tunnel, only to disappear before she came out the other side.
Even I had gotten the chills driving through that tunnel, and I wasn’t the type to spook easy.
“Well, if the Green Lady’s hanging around,” I said, lowering my voice and eyeing the tree line, “I sure hope she’s got a ticket to tomorrow night’s ghost walk.”
“That would make us even more lucky!” Mary Elizabeth said before I heard Dawn Gentry on her end of the line calling out for her. “I’ve got to go. Call me when he gets there.”
“Dagnabit!” Dottie barked, stepping back from the projector as though it had personally offended her. Betts had even taken a stab at it.
“I’m about to call Henry over here. He knows how to speak machine.”
“Don’t drag Henry over here,” I said. “He’s busy with Queenie getting the Tiki Hut ready.”
Through the trees near the Red Fox Trail, I could already see the glow of orange twinkle lights strung from the thatched roof of the Tiki Hut. Fall garlands in fiery reds and rusts were wrapped around the posts, and a pair of floppy scarecrows leaned against the corners as if they were eavesdropping. Bundles of dried corn stalks framed the front, and little lantern lights dangled from the roof’s edge, bobbing in the soft breeze. Henry had outdone himself this year. He’d scattered hay bales and wooden crates around as makeshift seating, and long folding tables had been dressed in burlap with plaid runners to tie in with the rest of the campground’s autumn flair.
“He’s piddlin’,” Dottie snapped, pulling her pleather cigarette case from the depths of her bra. “He helped Hank set this up, and he needs to help me get it goin’.”
She grumbled as she flicked her lighter. The orange flame flared, casting a burst of light across her face and setting her rhinestone tee aglow like a disco ball.
“I’ll go help Queenie,” Betts said and walked over to the Tiki Hut.
I spotted Queenie fluffing her short blond hair with her fingers, her bright-pink headband already sliding down her forehead as though it was trying to give up for the day. Her slick black leggings shimmered under the twinkle lights, and her electric-blue tank top had “Squat Squad” written in glitter across the front. She blinked slowly then tilted her head with one of those big, overly bright smiles that made it impossible to tell whether she was delighted or about to fake admiration through clenched teeth.
Her right brow arched as she bent to adjust a crate by the drink table, then she snapped back upright and gestured to Henry as though she was conducting a symphony.
Dottie took a long puff and huffed, “If this thing doesn’t work this time, I swear I’m gonna roll this projector into the lake myself.”
Henry must’ve heard her because he dropped whatever he was doing and started walking slowly over to us.
“Come on.” Dottie motioned for him. “Stop hem-hawing around. We ain’t got time for that.”
I watched Henry, then I took a moment to look around and listen as the sounds of the campground, the whisper of wind through the trees, folded back in around me. I heard the slam of a camper door and glanced across the campground.
Happy Trails Campground wasn’t just a patch of gravel and trees tucked inside Daniel Boone National Forest. It was a living, breathing postcard, the kind of place that made you pull your car over just to take in the view, and then cancel your plans for the next three weeks to stay awhile.
The entrance was marked by a lopsided wooden archway that read “Happy Trails Campground” in faded white paint. Hank had once offered to build a new one, but the truth was, that old sign had seen more second chances than most people ever get. It creaked in the wind, weathered by time and memories, and now we couldn’t imagine the place without it.
The gravel road wound deep into the forest, crunching under your tires as though it had secrets to share. Each twist brought the scent of sweetgum and hickory, earthy and grounding, until suddenly, just past a cluster of sourwoods, you’d break through the trees and enter a wide sunlit clearing. There, in the heart of the campground, a peaceful lake mirrored the sky, the fall-colored canopy surrounding it like something out of a jigsaw puzzle box.
The main road looped around the lake in a slow circle, giving every camper a front-row seat to Kentucky’s natural beauty. Concrete pads curved neatly along the shoreline with grassy pockets in between, each with a fire ring stacked with wood and enough space for lawn chairs, string lights, and a dog or two. Ducks waddled along the water’s edge, and if you looked closely, you might spot a red fox slipping between the trees near the back trail.
Full hookups at every lot meant no one was roughing it, unless they wanted to. For guests without RVs, we had a handful of rentable campers, including my old Winnebago with its lemon-colored pop-top.
The bungalows, nestled deeper into the trees, offered just enough luxury for bridal parties and girls’ getaways, with modern heat and charm to spare. Tent campers had their own little stretch tucked off to the left, where the forest grew thick and quiet just the way they liked it.
The buildings were simple, but they were full of character. The old brick office sat just past the entrance, with a single rocking chair out front and a constant stream of locals dropping off flyers or snacks. The recreation center, our social hub, was always humming with something: puzzle tournaments, board game nights, campfire singalongs, and rainy-day Ping-Pong battles that got fiercely competitive.
During the day, kids splashed near the sandy beach or chased paddle boats shaped like swans, while hikers strapped on boots and headed toward the Red Fox Trail. That one was a favorite with its moderate climb and breathtaking views. And if Alvin Deters had his way, everyone would sign up for one of his kayak lessons along the river bends nearby.
The forest was alive and breathing, especially this time of the year as it would take it’s last breath before heading into a dormant winter. Red maples, sugar maples, hickories, and poplars blazed in every direction, their canopies a riot of crimson, amber, gold, and plum. The air held that unmistakable crispness laced with woodsmoke, mulled cider, and the faint perfume of crushed leaves underfoot. Hay bales and pumpkins lined the walking paths, with cheerful fall flags waving in the breeze and mums blooming as if they were in a beauty pageant.
But more than all that, more than the scenery and the hiking, it was the people that made Happy Trails feel like home. Every month we hosted progressive campfire suppers, where folks wandered from site to site, swapping cornbread recipes and ghost stories with strangers who became friends. We were excited to be offering another fun supper in a couple of days when Ken Treadwell would tell us ghost stories around the communal campfire.
Campfires at Happy Trails were extra special because at night there were no streetlights to compete with. The stars came out in full chorus, shimmering over the lake as if they’d been waiting all day for their moment. You’d hear the crackle of fires, the twang of a distant guitar, and maybe, just maybe, the soft cry of a barn owl perched up in the oaks, watching it all.
Happy Trails wasn’t just a place to park your camper. It was a little slice of peace, where your phone stayed in your glove box and your soul got a chance to stretch out its legs.
And this time of the year was even more special with the campground dressed in full fall charm with rusted wagon wheels leaning against hay bales, stacks of orange and white pumpkins lining the main walkway, and mums in every color blooming beside strings of twinkle lights looped from one lamppost to the next. The scene was pure, postcard-worthy Kentucky.
That was what made the Haunts and Hikes Festival special not only to Mary Elizabeth but to the local economy as well.
And if Ken Treadwell didn’t show up soon with his EMF meters and infrared goggles, he might miss the biggest paranormal party the forest had seen in years.
“Henry, I’m so sorry to bug you,” I told him as he came trudging up, his ball cap already in hand like the southern gentleman he was. A cool breeze rustled the orange-tinged maple leaves overhead, sending a few spinning to the ground like confetti.
Dottie, of course, was mid-rant. “I still say we shouldn’t be messing with this fool projector,” she fussed. “Used to be folks came to the Daniel Boone to get away from television, not to bring the whole home theater with ’em.”
Henry didn’t miss a beat. “Then why don’t I go yank your TV cord out the wall and haul that contraption off for ya?” he asked with a slow grin, his two missing front teeth making his smile even warmer. “Heck, I’ll even throw in that big cushy chair you love so much.”
“You hush, Henry Bryant.” Dottie turned on him, clutching the remote as if it might fly off on its own. “You know good and well that’s my rest and recoverin’ chair.”
“Rest and recoverin’ from what?” he teased. “You ain’t moved off it since Monday except to meet Queenie for a slice of Ty’s pumpkin pie down at the Normal Diner.”
That earned him a swat with the rolled-up program in her hand and a muttered “You’re cruisin’ for a bruisin’.”
I had to fight back a laugh. Henry and Dottie bickered as if it was an Olympic sport, one I secretly suspected was just their version of flirting.
“Hank had to work the dusk shift,” I said, trying to rein things back in. “You know, making sure the trails are all passable for Ken’s, um… summonings of the Green Lady, or I’d have had him look at this.” I added a little ghostly trill to my voice for flair.
Henry raised an eyebrow.
“He patrollin’ or ghost huntin’?” Henry asked, already crouched under the projector, pulling a mini flashlight from his belt as though this wasn’t his first tech rodeo. It wasn’t.
“Little of both,” I admitted. “He said he wanted to make sure the Gray’s Arch path near the tunnel was clear. But honestly, I think he just wanted an excuse to walk around the Red River Gorge with a thermos of coffee and call it official business.”
“Shoot,” Henry said with a chuckle. “Can’t blame the man. This is prime season for spooks and leaf peepin’. And that tunnel…” He paused, the beam from his flashlight glinting off the projector’s side. “Place always gives me the willies. Something about the way the sound dies when you walk through it.”
Dottie crossed her arms, huffed, and muttered something about “overhyped tourist traps.”
“You ever see the green light?” I asked, half-teasing.
Henry gave a shrug and a little shake of his head. “Can’t say I have… but I also ain’t ever been dumb enough to go through that tunnel without honkin’ first. I ain’t tryin’ to get followed home.”
Dottie rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might get stuck.
Henry popped the side panel open and clicked something. The projector blinked to life with a low whirr.
“Well, look at that,” I said. “You’re a genius.”
Henry shrugged. “Just takes a little finesse and a gentle tap. Or pushing the on button.”
We all started to laugh because none of us had thought of turning the actual projector on.
Dottie lit a fresh cigarette and exhaled toward the trees. “That thing better behave. I’ve got better things to do than babysit some fancy ghost man’s tech problems.”
Henry looked at me, a twinkle in his eye. “You want me to stay a minute and make sure it don’t go all Green Lady on ya?”
“You’d be my hero,” I said, and I meant it.
“I am a hero,” he said, brushing his hands on his jeans with a wink. “Just one who happens to be paid to put up with you two.”
He clicked around for a while and got the projector hooked up to the campground’s laptop, where I’d purchased a few seasons of Paranormal Happenings, Ken’s show.
A few more campers, who were here just to meet Ken himself, ambled up the gravel path toward the pavilion, coffee mugs in hand and curiosity written plain on their faces. They were drawn in by the flickering glow on the projection screen and the promise of something unusual, like ghosts, maybe, or just gossip.
Dottie fanned the smoke from her latest cigarette as though she was swatting away bugs.
We turned our attention to the screen just as Ken Treadwell’s face appeared, serious and overdramatic as ever, his voice dipping into a theatrical whisper while eerie music played underneath.
“Here at Gray’s Arch, nestled in the wild heart of Kentucky’s Red River Gorge,” he intoned, “we’ve uncovered evidence of the supernatural… again.”
“Again?” Henry muttered with a snort. “This man finds ghosts in more places than ants find sugar.”
“I mean, he does sell it well,” I said, mostly to myself, watching as the camera panned over the mouth of the Nada Tunnel lit with green filters and fog for full spooky effect.
Behind us, the folding chairs were filling up fast, folks clustering under the pavilion as if we were running a drive-in theater.
Mary Elizabeth would be thrilled.
“Well, if he doesn’t show soon, we’re going to run out of season one before he gets a chance to spook anybody in person,” I said, half laughing and half wishing he’d appear already.
It wasn’t just the crowd that needed him, it was the fundraiser. Mary Elizabeth had poured her heart into the Haunts and Hikes event. The idea had been hers from the get-go, and Ken was supposed to be the crown jewel.
The proceeds, at least whatever was left after paying Ken’s ghost-hunting fee, were going to the Boys and Girls Club of Kentucky. She’d picked that group herself. After raising more foster kids than I could count, she always leaned toward anything that gave children a safe place to land.
And if Ken didn’t show up soon, we were going to have more questions than RSVPs.
“We can hold a séance and call him in the old-fashioned way,” Dottie chimed in with a smirk, just as the projector flickered. “Or not. Maybe the Green Lady’s messin’ with our signal.”
We both jerked around at the sound of gravel spitting under tires near the front of the campground.
“Finally,” I exhaled in relief, only for it to catch halfway when headlights cut through the trees, and I spotted a familiar big SUV pulling in.
“That’s Ellis,” I said, squinting through the glow. “She’s got the food.”
Sure enough, the vehicle rolled to a stop, and the driver’s side window zipped down.
“I know, I know,” Ellis called out, waving her perfectly manicured hand. “I’m late. Don’t yell. The boys were fussing, and then Carter threw his bottle at the cat, and Colton decided he didn’t want pants.”
Her blond hair was swept up into a high, fluffed ponytail, long extensions curled down over her shoulders. Her bangs were slightly damp with sweat or stress, maybe both. Despite the chaos, she looked as if she’d stepped out of a catalog shoot for “Glam Mom Fall Edition” with her rosy cheeks, her bright-white smile, and those lashes so long they cast shadows when she blinked.
She threw the SUV in park and popped the rear hatch. “Mugs and Ministry is tomorrow morning,” she huffed, climbing out in her tall taupe suede boots as though she hadn’t just wrangled two six-month-olds. “I’ve been up to my eyebrows in glitter glue and Bible verse bookmarks for a week. And don’t even get me started on the pews, I’m still scrubbing sticky bits from last Saturday’s Fall Camp.”
“Bless Ty Randal,” I said, already heading around to the back. “Tell him thank you for the sandwiches.”
“He said, and I quote, ‘If anyone complains about the lack of mayo, they can slap it on themselves next time.’” Ellis gave me a pointed look and handed off a heavy foil tray. “We’ve got pimento cheese, egg salad, and turkey. They’re labeled with Sharpie.”
The rear doors swung wider as she leaned in, and that was when I heard the gurgling giggles and soft babble.
Two matching car seats sat snug in the back row. Colton and Carter were all dimples and messy blond curls, their wide blue eyes locked on me as their little fists waved around as though they had something urgent to say.
“Well, hey there, my sweet nephews,” I cooed, reaching in and wiggling my fingers at them. “Look at you two! You’ve got your mama’s good looks and your daddy’s energy.”
Colton let out a shriek of joy while Carter shouted something that might’ve been “Mae!” or “Milk!”
Ellis grinned proudly. “They’ve been practicing that all week,” she said, then leaned toward them with exaggerated cheer. “Trick or treat! Come on, say it, triiick or treeeat!”
Both boys clapped like it was the best game in the world, then immediately grabbed each other’s hands and started a full-blown baby tug-of-war in their car seats, giggling, squealing, and kicking their feet as though they were hosting their own Halloween showdown.
“I’ll take this tray in,” I said, giving each baby a little wave before turning back toward the pavilion. “Maybe if folks have something to eat, they’ll forget Ken’s fashionably late entrance.”
“Fashionably?” Dottie scoffed, grabbing her own tray. “Honey, he’s two ghost sightings and a full moon past late.”
I gave her a look.
“Just sayin’,” she added with a shrug. “You know how folks get when their stomachs outrun their manners.”
She wasn’t wrong.
We carried the food under the pavilion, where the projector flickered onto the pulled-up screen. A few campers hovered near the long tables, drawn by the smell, or maybe just hoping something spooky would finally start happening.
“Let’s get these out,” I said, straightening a burlap runner.
“There’re a couple more trays up front,” Ellis said, pointing toward the SUV.
Dottie and I followed her back out, leaves crunching underfoot as the air thickened with the scent of roasted turkey, cheddar, and a hint of tangy relish.
As we reached the van, Ellis handed Dottie the last of the trays, her fake lashes fluttering as she blinked down at the foil. “Still warm. Ty did good.”
The minute Dottie opened her mouth again, a low rumble rolled in over the trees.
Then another.
Gravel popped under tires as a caravan of vehicles rounded the bend, headlights gleaming in the fading gold of early evening.
Each van and SUV was wrapped in vinyl decals that screamed “Paranormal Happenings,” with glowing green fonts, spooky shadows, and Ken Treadwell’s face plastered big and bold across the second vehicle, half in silhouette, half in smirk.
“You deal with the Ghostbusters. I’ll wrangle the babies and the pimento cheese,” Ellis said.
I tugged at the hem of my long-sleeved Happy Trails shirt and tucked one of my wayward curls behind my ear.
It was showtime.
“It’s ’bout time!” Dottie hollered, hands on her hips, before the last car even stopped moving.
“Dottie,” I hissed through a tight-lipped smile as I waved at the crew, “they’re our guests.”
“They’re late. As in r-eeaal late,” she drawled, dragging the syllables like honey down a fencepost. She gave me a sidelong glance and snickered, “I know, I know. If you ain’t got nothin’ nice to say, come sit by me.”
The car doors sprang open like circus wagons. People spilled out, all in matching khakis and branded polos. Boxes, lights, and fancy-looking camera equipment were shuffled and juggled in a flurry of movement that clashed with the peaceful hush of the woods around us.
The Daniel Boone National Forest rose up in the distance behind them, fiery with the reds, oranges, and golds of peak fall foliage. The leaves fluttered like confetti in the breeze, the thick oaks and maples whispering over the sound of the car doors and muffled shouting.
Then a woman in a long-sleeved brown jumpsuit stepped out of the front passenger seat of the Ken Treadwell car, her boots clicking sharply on the gravel.
“Who is Dottie?” she asked, eyes narrowing between me and Dottie.
“Her,” Dottie said, pointing straight at me.
“I am not,” I said with a nervous laugh. “I’m Mae West. And this is Dottie Swaggert.”
“Oh, Dottie,” the woman gasped as she hurried over, the rest of the crew trailing behind her like ducklings. “You’ve already made this trip so much fun. We cannot wait to see everything you’ll be doing while we’re here!”
Dottie’s red curls bobbed as she gave a toothy grin. “Yes, I am Dottie.” She nudged me in the ribs. “Can’t wait for y’all to see it all too. Right, May-bell-ine?”
“Right,” I said, forcing a smile. We both knew exactly what had happened.
Mary Elizabeth had been using Dottie’s old desktop in the Milkery office since her own email had been frozen during a software update. All the communication with Ken’s people, from the lodging to the hike schedule to the special drive through Nada Tunnel, had gone through Dottie’s name.
“I’m the manager of this here fine eee-stablishment.” Dottie gestured broadly with a sudden authority she hadn’t earned. “May-bell-ine here”, she motioned to me, “she’s the owner and handles all the in-person hosting.”
The woman looked at me over the rim of her glasses, unconvinced.
“That’s right.” I jumped in quickly. “Dottie handles all the guest coordination ahead of time, and I make sure everything goes smoothly once y’all arrive. You must be Dina.”
“Dina Treadwell,” she said proudly. She ignored my offered handshake and clapped her hands instead. I dropped my hand and smoothed it down the leg of my jeans.
“I’m Ken’s wife and manager, so I’ve been the one emailing back and forth with Dottie. Can we speak privately?”
She turned and walked off, leaving me no room to agree or refuse.
“Go on,” Dottie said with a wink, already pulling her cigarette case from her bag. “I’ll have a quick smoke while you sort out the mess you’ve made.”
“Why don’t you go inside and grab the reservation packets?” I called after her, my voice still sugar-sweet. “And help folks find their bungalows.”
She waved me off and headed for the office, smoke trailing behind her.
I followed Dina toward the vehicle, whose windows were tinted so dark I couldn’t see whether Ken was inside.
“I know you mean well, I do,” Dina said, placing a manicured hand on my arm. Her perfume was sharp and floral, the kind that lingered even in open air. “But honey, I feel much more comfortable with Dottie showing us around. Ken is very particular, and we simply can’t afford any mishaps. I was very clear that I didn’t want anyone but her with us during our short visit.”
“But there’s been a mis,” I started, but she pressed a finger gently against my lips.
“‘But’ is not how I intend for you to start your next sentence,” she said, removing her finger. “Just nod. No words. A simple nod.”
“I think you’ll find we’ve had a communication mistake,” I said, trying my best to keep my tone polite while wiping the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand. My palm felt clammy from nerves, and a cool breeze rustled through the gold-tinged dogwoods overhead, tossing a few brittle leaves at our feet.
“I don’t care about any mistakes you’ve made,” Dina said sharply, her brows arched high with disapproval. “It only proves my point.” She clapped her hands once, and as if she’d summoned a genie, a young woman popped up beside her holding a thick folder.
“Clause 5C, Maggie,” Dina snapped.
Maggie flipped through the packet so fast her fingers blurred.
“To bid farewell to you, Ms…” Dina paused and blinked, clearly stalling to make a point.
“West,” I said, voice firm. “Mae West.”
Dina’s lips twitched with amusement. “As in the Mae West?”
Lordy. If I had a penny for every time someone tossed out that line, I’d have been able to hand Mary Elizabeth a check big enough to sponsor the whole Haunts and Hikes event and feed the Ladies of the Elks for a year.
“Maggie, may I please see that?” I reached out with an open hand, hoping she might hand over the documents so I could see whatever this all-important 5C clause was supposed to be.
“You have a copy,” Dina quipped, her voice cutting through the crisp air like a dull butter knife. “Or did you lose it?”
Before I could bite my tongue or her head off, a male voice floated lazily from the vehicle behind her.
“Is there a problem?”
We both turned as the rear window of the car rolled down. Ken Treadwell leaned halfway out, his signature smirk nowhere to be found. His silver-streaked hair was slightly tousled, and a satin eye mask was pushed up on his forehead as if he’d just been disturbed from a nap he was still trying to have. “I’d really like to get some rest before we start,” he said, his voice gravelly and impatient, as though we were keeping him from the main event.
I heard the sound of leaves crunching underfoot as Henry meandered up from around the corner of the office, hands in his back pockets and curiosity painted plainly across his face. He stopped short when he saw the crowd, gave me a sideways look, and tipped his cap as if he was walking into a saloon instead of a guest kerfuffle.
“Alrighty,” Dottie said, stepping forward with the click of her flip-flops and a fresh puff of cigarette smoke curling around her head like a weather system. She squinted through the haze and clutched the campground clipboard tight to her chest as if it held national secrets. With two nicotine-stained fingers, she jabbed her cigarette toward Ken. “There’s been a mistake here. And I’m gonna tell y’all what it is.”
Ken tilted his head as though he was watching a particularly good soap opera.
Dottie took one long dramatic drag before continuing. “Mary Elizabeth’s internet went belly-up at The Milkery, and she used my account to talk to you fine folks. Which is why y’all think I’m the brains behind all this.” She gestured at the rec building and lake behind her as if it was the Taj Mahal. “But the truth is, May-bell-ine here,” she gave me a wink, “is the one who’ll be takin’ care of you.”
Dina looked ready to protest, but Ken raised one hand and cut in with a smile that hit Dottie square in the ego. “I like you,” he said, chuckling low as he leaned against the edge of the car door as though he was settling in for story time. “Don’t suppose you’d mind being our guide while we’re here, would you, Miss Dottie?”
You could’ve knocked me over with a fall leaf.
Dottie beamed as if someone had just crowned her Miss Congeniality at the Autumn Jamboree. “Well, aren’t you a sweetheart,” she cooed, her red curls bouncing as she giggled. “If y’all don’t mind the occasional smoke break and brutally honest opinions, I reckon I can manage.”
From the corner of my eye, I caught Henry stiffening. His easy grin faded as his jaw twitched just once. He shifted his stance, tugged his belt a little tighter, and crossed his arms, his version of sounding a silent alarm.
“You all right?” I asked under my breath.
“Peachy,” he muttered.
I’d seen that look before. It was the same one he got when someone else would ask Dottie to dance during a festival. Annoyed. Aggravated.
“Oh, don’t you worry none, Henry,” Dottie said, not missing a beat as she twirled her cigarette toward him. “You’re still my favorite mountain man. This here’s just business. Paranormal business.”
Henry grunted, but his eyes narrowed a little more as Ken stepped out of the car and offered Dottie his hand as though she was about to escort him to the governor’s mansion instead of a tour around the campground.
“I think I’m gonna go check the propane tanks,” Henry said to no one in particular, but the way he stomped off told me he wasn’t happy with our new guests.
“Well then,” Dottie said, smoothing a hand down the front of her sparkly T-shirt as if she was brushing off nerves, not that she ever had any. She hooked her arm through Ken’s as though they were old chums about to promenade at a harvest hoedown.
“First things first, we’ve got a meet and greet over at the recreational building and pavilion area. Got a nice crowd of campers and town folks waitin’ to say howdy,” she told him.
Ken opened his mouth as though he was about to ask a question, but Dottie barreled on. “And before you ask, yes, there’s food. Mae’s own brother-in-law, Ty Randal, who used to be some big-deal fancy chef out in San Fran-sis-co before he came back to town to take over the Normal Diner from his daddy and even raise his brothers since his daddy had that heart attack and well, his mama, she died fairly early, but anyways,” she threw a hand, “he catered the whole shebang.” She leaned toward him with a wink. “We’re talkin’ pulled-pork sliders, pimento mac bites, and sweet tea that could make a grown man weep.”
Dina, clearly recognizing that this train was running whether she was on it or not, gave a clipped nod and waved the rest of the entourage forward. “Let’s go,” she ordered, all business. “Except you, Maggie. Stay with Mae and help get everyone situated.”
“I’ll take care of accommodations, Ms. West.” Maggie gave a polite smile and nodded toward me. “Can I have the assignments and keys for the bungalows, campers, everything? You won’t have to lift a finger.”
“Thank you, Maggie, truly, for your kind gesture.” I exhaled slowly, some of the tension loosening in my shoulders since she seemed to be sensible. “But I’ll need to take you around to them. You can leave your cars and luggage here while I take you around in the golf cart. Henry will look after the luggage.”
She gave me a knowing smile that said she was used to cleaning up behind her boss, and I liked her instantly for it.
Meanwhile, Dottie, still looped into Ken’s arm, was halfway across the lawn now, proudly leading him past rows of picnic tables decked in burnt-orange gingham and mason jar centerpieces stuffed with sunflowers and cattails. The twinkle lights strung from the pavilion beams looked like fireflies in the dimming light, and the scent of spiced cider mingled with hickory smoke from the campfire ring.
Ken looked equal parts confused and impressed as Dottie gave a grand wave to the crowd already gathered under the pavilion.
“Y’all ready to meet the man of the hour?” she hollered, her voice cutting through the crisp fall air like a brass bell on a Sunday morning. “Well, here he is, with me, Dottie Swaggert, as his personal hostess and ghost-guide for the week!”
If Ken was startled by her enthusiasm, he didn’t show it. He smiled and gave a little wave, though I noticed his eyes kept darting toward the pavilion as though he was looking for an emergency exit just in case.
end of excerpt
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
