Cat Scratch Cleaver

one of them say.
“Knock it off,” I mumble as I struggle to free myself from it, but one of them pins down my hands over my head.
I scream. I fight.
My entire body writhes as I try to get out from under their stronghold.
Can’t breathe.
Help me.
I don’t want to die.
My entire life plays out like a movie, quick and in snatches.
Please stop!
My hands break free and they pin them down again. The towel presses so hard over my face it feels like fire.
My mind fades in and out until I succumb to utter darkness.
And then I’m floating, rising above the scene. I see Roxy holding me down. Hezzy with both hands pressed over my face, her body right over mine as she bears all her weight into the effort.
I rise higher into the night.
My poor body, I muse as I soar into the black sky as it turns navy, then purple as the stars brighten all around me. A white light sits up ahead and I’m flying now, soaring.
This is unstoppable.
Inevitable.
It’s really happening now. But I want to go back. I’d give anything to go back.
I didn’t do this. I didn’t want this.
Hezzy and Roxy did this.
And I won’t let them get away with murder.
Present Day
My name is Bizzy Baker, and I can read minds. Not every mind, not every time, but it happens, and believe me when I say, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Like now for instance.
Look at that tramp. The older brunette next to me snarls at the scene before us. I see that come hither look she’s giving my husband. And what’s worse? The entire world sees it, too. I know she’s slept with him. How else could she have possibly gotten the job? It’s safe to say the casting couch is very much alive.
My mouth is agape just listening in on her private musings.
I’m standing behind the counter at the Country Cottage Café, the beachfront eatery attached to the Country Cottage Inn, which I’ve been managing for the last four years. The inn itself is set in coastal Maine, right up against a turquoise blue cove from which it derives its name, Cider Cove, my hometown.
It’s a late evening in the middle of a sweltering summer, and the café has been taken over by a local production company filming a movie entitled Cat Scratch Fever, about a young woman who does whatever it takes to climb the corporate ladder, including sleeping her way to the top.
And after inadvertently listening in on this poor woman’s thoughts, I’m beginning to think the same is true of Heather Kent, the lead actress currently belting out her lines.
I adjust the tray of s’mores bars on the counter in front of me.
My best friend, Emmie, who works at the café, actually made them for the cast and crew, but the director thought they would look good in the scene they’re in the middle of shooting.
He said they would add a flair of authenticity. And they certainly add something, with their graham cracker cookie base, layered with chocolate, marshmallow frosting, and graham cracker crumble on top. The cast and crew haven’t been able to keep their hands off them. Lucky for all of us, Emmie made enough to feed all of Maine.
The Country Cottage Café is a cozy, pet friendly diner on most days, but this evening it’s been transformed into a cinematic warzone with dozens of people milling around from the production team, ranging from hair, makeup, sound, cameramen, and about a billion others who are all seemingly important to the crew.
When I was approached by Peter Olsen, the director, a few weeks ago, I thought it would be fun to have a few shots taken inside the café and around the inn. I had no idea we’d have to shut the café down to the guests of the inn for an entire day. Worse yet, our rival café, Bread and Butter from down the street, has been called in to cater the event. And to add insult to injury, they offered to cater to the guests as well. I couldn’t say no and let my guests go hungry, so the Bread and Butter it is.
“Quiet on the set,” Peter calls out before one of his assistants waves the clapperboard in front of the camera and it makes a loud, crisp snap.
Bates Barlow, the male lead of this production, takes a step toward Heather, a buxom blonde with large brown eyes, large lips, and large, well, everything in the right place, if you get my drift.
“I should kill ya, now that I have the chance.” He grips her by the arms and gives her a violent rattle. “I should do it with this cleaver and stab you in the back!” He holds the boxy metal blade above her head in a menacing fashion.
I glance to the left where my fiancé, homicide detective Jasper Wilder, gives me a knowing nod and I can’t help but make a face. Jasper was the one that told me it might not be the best idea to have this circus take place at the inn. I should have listened to him. Instead, I listened to Georgie Conner, a sweet, zany woman old enough to be my grandmother, whom I just so happen to regard as such. Georgie was once my dad’s mother-in-law. He’s been married and divorced so many times I’ve lost count of where and when that matrimonial disaster happened, but for whatever reason, Georgie has stayed in my life, and I’m glad about it, too.
I spot her sitting at a bistro table not far from where Bates Barlow continues to rattle our questionable heroine. Georgie has a mane of wild gray hair—think Einstein, but longer and curlier—sweet baby blue eyes, and a smile that sets off every wrinkle she says she’s earned. She has a penchant for wearing kaftans, long, flowing dresses, in every wild color imaginable, and she’s a big, fun-loving hippy. She’s seated across from an older man