Cat Scratch Cleaver

lips twist at the thought. “If you changed your name to Heather Kent, then I’d say you’re right.” Jasper’s silver eyes bear into mine. “How are you holding up?”
I gently grip him by the tie. Jasper came right over after work and has been on the sidelines watching, along with the rest of us, ever since.
“Better now,” I say, reaching up and giving the scruff on his cheeks a playful scratch. “You have no idea how much I love it when you wear your suit after hours.”
His left brow arches high into his forehead and it only amplifies his good looks.
“Why’s that?”
“So I can take it off myself.” I wince. “I meant your tie.”
“Just my tie?” He gives my ribs a quick tweak and I jump. “It’s two hundred degrees in this room. If we don’t get out of here soon, I’ll strip for everyone to see.”
“And I’ll be right there behind you. You don’t think we’ll get arrested, do you?” I tease.
“I’m the one wielding the handcuffs in this place. I think you’re safe with me. How about I get you someplace private and you can take off whatever you like to feel better?”
“Very funny.” A thought comes to me. “Hey, maybe we should tell someone to keep an eye on that weapon?” I say, glancing to the counter, but the cleaver that was set there a moment ago is gone. “Never mind. It looks as if someone already took care of it. I hope it turns up before Peter Olsen busts a gasket over it.”
Jasper navigates us out into the sweltering summer night, and I’m not lying when I say I’d swear you could see the heat radiating off the sand even at this late hour.
Jasper and I make a beeline for the shore where the breeze is slightly cooler. His lips find mine and we trade kisses as we talk about our day and the melee that’s taken over the inn. And as soon as we reach the quiet end of the cove, I pull Jasper in closer to get right back to the serious business of kissing my future husband on a moon-washed summer night. I’m about to do just that as I take a step backward and trip over something soft, landing myself flat onto the sand.
“What the heck?” I ask, struggling to sit up on my elbows, only to find someone staring right at me—a woman lying on her stomach. The moon washes the woman’s expressionless face blue, and I startle before I notice something protruding from her back and I let out a sharp scream.
The woman—I recognize her.
It looks as if that cleaver just turned up—embedded in Heather Kent’s back.
Heather won’t have to worry about how the critics will receive her latest film.
Heather Kent is dead.

Chapter 3
My vocal cords do their best to shrill into the night as I crawl away from the body before jumping to my feet. To my left I note a set of footprints heavily impressed into the damp sand, and I quickly pull out my phone to take a picture before the tide comes in and washes them away.
Jasper checks the poor girl for a pulse before offering me a disparaging look. He pulls out his phone and calls it in just as a set of footfalls treads in this direction.
“What the hell is going on?” a male voice booms, and as he draws near, I can make out his dark wavy hair and boyish face. It’s Bates Barlow.
“Step back,” Jasper barks. “This is a crime scene.” He heads over and wraps an arm around my waist. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” I glance back to Bates and watch as his eyes round out in horror.
“Is that?” He staggers a few steps forward despite Jasper’s warning. “My God, is this real?”
Before we can answer, Leo runs down, and in less than a few minutes, sirens light up the night with their menacing howls and their seizure of blue and red strobe lights.
A crowd begins to gather, but I make a beeline for Bates before he can slip away.
“Bates,” I pant. “I’m Bizzy Baker. I run the inn. What are you doing down at this end of the cove?”
“I needed some privacy.” Perfect. The witch is dead. Now if I can just get the others off my back, I might actually get my life on track again.
I glance over to Heather as the moon casts a spotlight over that cleaver still lodged in her back.
“Bates, did you see anything or anyone who might be suspicious?” I ask, hoping to prod his mind into a confession.
“No. I wanted to have a smoke. I needed some alone time. Peter was making me nuts. Heather wasn’t helping either. I heard someone scream, and I thought you were being roughed up. The last thing I expected to see was Heather lying there, dead.” Not that I was truly caught off guard, but she doesn’t need to know that.
I frown over at him. Something is very off with this man. My God, he could be the killer.
Fish weaves her way over to me with Sherlock on her tail, just about literally.
No sooner does Fish jump into my arms than Bates ducks into the blooming crowd of onlookers. A few women gasp, and a man belts out an entire string of salty words.
Oh, Bizzy. Fish mewls as she looks to Heather before quickly burying her tiny face in my chest. Please tell me this is all an act, and every last one of these people will be headed back to wherever they came from tonight.
Sherlock barks as if agreeing.
I’m not sure if it’s through the sounds they make or if they’re telepathic themselves, but the animals always seem to understand one another for the most part.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” I whisper. “But I do know it’s real.”
Leo shouts at everyone to create a wide berth and the crowd slowly slogs backward.
I spot the makeup artist, Kiki Woodley, with that wound board of