Chapter One
There’s nothing more jarring than looking up from your cell phone only to see your life flashing before your eyes. Since I’m only twenty-seven, it takes mere seconds to get to the grisly part where I’m lying at the bottom of a ditch as my mother prays the rosary over my limp lifeless body.
“Not so fast!” I grab the armrest to the SUV’s front passenger seat and hold on for dear life as my husband Travis zooms around a sharp bend in the two-lane road. “Slow down! We could have been killed!”
Completely unfazed, Travis chuckles. “McGuffin,” he says, calling me by the old familiar nickname, “they’re called mountains.”
“That’s Fontaine to you, buddy.”
Travis grins.
My name is Lucy McGuffin, or rather, Lucy McGuffin Fontaine (doesn’t that sound lovely?). Forty-eight hours ago, I married the love of my life, Travis Fontaine. Together with our two dogs, Paco and Ellie, we’re on our way to a fabulous honeymoon in the beautiful Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina. If our car doesn’t go off a cliff first, that is.
I turn to check on our dogs, safely strapped into their doggie car seats in the back. They both give me shiny-eyed looks. “You guys doing okay?”
Paco, a smooth-haired tan chihuahua-terrier mix, cocks his head to the side. Why wouldn’t I be okay?
I should probably mention that my dog has a bit of an attitude. But then, he’s earned it. Paco, you see, is a ghost-whisperer. But wait—there’s more. Besides communing with the newly deceased, Paco also understands human language. Not only that, he can read my thoughts and I can read his.
Besides being a professional baker, I’m an amateur detective. Together, Paco and I make quite the team. Of course, the fact that I’m also a human lie detector gives us a significant leg up when it comes to solving crime.
How does being a human lie detector work, you may ask? The short answer is I’m not sure. I just know that ever since I was a little girl, I get a physical reaction whenever I hear a lie. It’s usually a tingling sensation in my neck or sometimes my head. The bigger the lie, the stronger the reaction.
Ironically, the only person on the planet I can’t seem to catch in a lie is my husband Travis. When we first met, he was just like everyone else, but then I fell in love with him, and poof! It’s like the batteries in my internal lie detector died, which leads me to think maybe the whole thing is hormonal. Which could get pretty scary whenever I get pregnant or go through menopause. I figure I’ll cross that road when I get to it.
Ellie, Travis’s German shepherd, looks at me with her great big brown eyes and pants happily. Ellie used to be a working police dog until she was retired—supposedly because she lost her sense of smell. But guess what? Her nose still works better than ever. So although Ellie doesn’t have any “special” powers, she’s a huge asset when it comes to sniffing out clues. Travis is the chief of police back home in Whispering Bay, Florida, and Ellie loves going to work with him.
“Are the dogs all right?” Travis asks, wisely keeping his eyes on the narrow, winding road.
“For now. But they’re probably going to need a potty break soon.”
Travis checks out the GPS on the car’s display screen. “We’re ten minutes away from the glamping ranch.”
Some girls dream of a honeymoon in the Poconos, or a fancy cruise in the Caribbean, or even a Parisian getaway. Not me. I’ve never been glamping before, but the Green Acres Glamping Ranch website boasts an unbelievable stack of amenities, including king-sized beds, a spa, and a gourmet chef. Travis booked the honeymoon “tent” for us, and it comes with a private hot tub. There’s even a nightly dinner theater in the ranch’s main lodge.
“I wonder if there’s a dress code for dinner?” I muse. Since it’s October and we’re in the North Carolina mountains, I mostly brought jeans and sweatshirts, but I did bring along a few nice outfits for special occasions.
“You know where there’s no dress code? Our tent, that’s where.” Travis wags his brows suggestively, and I can’t help but grin. If anyone had told me when I first met Travis Fontaine that we would one day be married, I would have laughed in their face.
Sure, I thought he was attractive. I mean, the man is six foot three with dark blond hair and piercing green eyes, but at first sight, we immediately butt heads. Never mind that our initial introduction was over a dead body (talk about a meet-cute!). He was determined to keep me away from his crime scene, and I was just as determined not to fall for that deep Texas twang of his, so it’s ironic that here we are on our way to living happily ever after.
The road ahead splits in two. The sign on the left points us toward the Green Acres Glamping Ranch, while the road on the right leads to the nearby town of Bear Claw.
I google the town to find out more about it. “Listen to this,” I say to Travis. “Bear Claw, North Carolina, population five thousand and twenty, is a charming little town known for its breathtaking natural beauty, friendly residents, and inexplicable penchant for all things bear-related.” I read off a list of local places, including a brewery and a book store that sound interesting. But what makes me sit up and take notice is the mention of their “world famous” bakery (their words, not mine).
I go to the bakery website and continue reading. “A trip to Bear Claw isn’t complete without a visit to Granny Beary’s Pastry Shop, where the scent of bear claws and homemade pies fill the streets. Our unique secret-recipe blackberry clobber, made by none other than the town’s unofficial mascot, Granny Beary, will leave your taste buds begging for more.”
“Stop, you’re making me hungry,” Travis says.
Paco whines. Me too.
Even Ellie, who has no idea what I’m saying, makes a pathetic little noise under her breath.
Altogether, it’s a lot of drama, considering that we just stopped to eat a few hours ago (dogs included).
“World-famous bakery, huh?” I check out the pastry shop’s logo—an illustration of an older woman with a white bun and spectacles holding up a steaming hot cobbler. “If it’s so famous, how come I haven’t heard about it before?”
Travis gives me the side-eye. “Is that jealousy I hear in your voice?”
“Jealous?” I snort. “Of what?” When I’m not solving crime in my beachside town of Whispering Bay, I’m hard at work in the kitchen at The Bistro by the Beach, the café I co-own with my friend Sarah Powers. As someone who’s known for baking the best muffins in the world (not that I would say that, but others have, and who am I to contradict them?), I’m naturally curious about this so-called “world-famous” bakery.
“The only reason people love cobbler is because of the big fat scoop of vanilla ice cream they always slap on top, but we should make a trip into Bear Claw and check out this bakery,” I say. “More as a professional curiosity than anything else.”
Travis reaches across the seat to take my hand and plants a kiss on my palm. “It’s our honeymoon. Your wish is my command.”
“Mmm … I’m going to hold you to that.”
“You better,” he says, chuckling, as he slowly steers the SUV through the gates of the glamping ranch. With the Blue Ridge Mountains as a backdrop, the road leads us along a scenic tour of log cabins, complete with front porches with rocking chairs. I roll down the window to catch the smell of wood fires and roasting marshmallows.
Paco barks. Roll down my window, too!
Without being asked, Travis uses the button on his console to roll down the backseat windows. “I don’t need special powers to know what that bark meant.”
Even though Paco and Ellie are strapped into their doggie seats, they each lean toward their respective windows, panting happily as a blast of crisp October air hits them in the face.
Besides the log cabins, I catch a glimpse of upscale tents tucked into the nearby secluded forest, as well as a stable and tennis courts. The grounds are meticulously groomed with a mixture of wildflowers and planted fall foliage. We follow the main road that curves around a crystal-clear blue lake dotted with canoes. A large yellow sign catches our attention. CAUTION: BEARS IN AREA Do not Feed.
“I’m sure they’re perfectly harmless,” Travis says. “As long as we don’t approach them.”
Paco pffts. What’s perfectly harmless?
As talented as my dog is, sometimes I forget he can’t read. “Bears, but Travis is right. As long as we stay away from them, we should be fine.”
Ooh. I want to see a bear, Paco pants.
“Right. You’d probably freak out if you came face-to-face with one of them.”
All thoughts of bears and everything else fly out of my mind as we get our first look at the main lodge. Built from rough-hewn timber beams and local stone, the building appears to be the perfect mixture of modern comfort and rustic charm.
“Holy wow,” I mutter. “This place is gorgeous.”
Travis looks pleased. “I knew you’d like it.” He parks the SUV in front of the lodge’s glass double doors, then gets out of the car to stretch his legs and let out the dogs.
A young guy, probably early twenties, spots us and jogs over. Medium height with curly brown hair, his white shorts show off his muscular tan legs. He extends his hand. “I’m Cameron Grimes, the ranch’s tennis pro. Welcome to Green Acres.”
“Lucy and Travis Fontaine,” Travis says, shaking Cameron’s hand.
“And this is Ellie, and the little chihuahua mix is Paco,” I say, completing the introductions.
Cameron pets the dogs and then gets a look at our license plate. “Florida, huh? Whereabouts?”
“Whispering Bay,” says Travis. “It’s in the panhandle near Panama City Beach.”
Cameron’s face scrunches up in mock pain as he chuckles. “I’m familiar with the area. Spring break, five years ago. I’m still recovering.”
“Whispering Bay is pretty tame compared to Panama City Beach,” I say. “Our population is more of a mix of young families and retirees.”
Cameron nods. “Sounds super.”
My neck tingles, telling me that Cameron’s last remark was disingenuous. Not that I blame him. I’m twenty-seven but grew up in Whispering Bay, so it’s home. Plus, I’m what Betty Jean Collins, an eighty-year-old retiree who works part-time at The Bistro, likes to call an “old soul.” To a young guy like Cameron, Whispering Bay must sound boring.
“Do you play tennis?” Cameron asks me.
“A little,” I say, “but that was back in high school.”
He reaches into his shorts pocket and hands me a business card. “I’m at the courts all morning doing group lessons, but I give private one-on-ones in the afternoons. The first lesson is on the house. Text me anytime you’re interested.”
Travis makes a grumpy old man sound under his breath, forcing Cameron to look his way. “How about you? You look like you’d have a mean serve.”
“I plan to spend my spare time fishing. When I’m not in bed, that is.” Travis wraps a possessive arm around my waist. “We’re on our honeymoon,” he adds meaningfully.
Cameron looks at his watch. “Whoops. I have a two o’clock waiting for me. See you folks later,” he says before disappearing around the side of the lodge.
I elbow Travis in the ribs. “Please tell me you’re not going to be that kind of husband.”
“You mean the kind that’s not going to sit back and let some guy flirt with my wife right in front of me?”
“What?” I laugh. “He was not flirting! He was just trying to push his tennis lessons. On both of us, I might add.”
“Except he was only making eye contact with you. For someone who’s supposedly psychic, you missed all the cues he was throwing out.”
“I’m not psychic,” I protest. “I’m a—”
“Human lie detector?” he finishes mildly.
“Exactly.”
“Who just so happens to own a dog that’s a ghost whisperer.”
His words are music to my ears. It took Travis a long time to believe Paco and I have special powers, but thankfully, he was able to overcome his stubbornness and think outside the box.
“Just so you know, I have no interest in tennis lessons. I’d much rather go into Bear Claw and check out this bakery with the super-secret blackberry cobbler recipe. When I’m not spending time in bed, that is,” I add cheekily, mimicking him.
Travis grins. “Let’s go check in. I can’t wait to try out the hot tub.” Paco and Ellie follow us inside as Travis opens the door to the lodge to reveal a massive lobby. Overstuffed couches and a scattering of well-placed rugs create intimate seating areas. There’s a reading alcove, a gift shop with a self-serve deli, and even a cozy corner with tables set up to play board games. A large glass window overlooking the mountains and a stone fireplace centered in the middle of the room completes the ambiance.
A tall, bald, middle-aged man dressed in a plaid shirt and khakis stands behind the long wooden registration counter. “Welcome to Green Acres!” His name tag reads Andy Wagner. “I’m Andy, the manager here at the ranch. How can I help you?”
“Lucy and Travis Fontaine,” Travis says. He points to our dogs. “Is it all right for them to be in here?”
“Sure, we’re dog friendly. As long as they’re trained.”
Paco barks. As long as I get some s’mores.
“That would be a big fat no since there’s chocolate in them, and you know you can’t have chocolate,” I tell my dog firmly. “Dr. Brooks says it’s bad for you.”
Andy glances around like he’s confused. “I can’t have chocolate? And who’s Dr. Brooks?”
Travis sighs heavily.
Oops. I’ve got to stop talking to my dog in public.
“Oh, I’m just talking to myself,” I say to cover up my faux pas.
“We have a reservation for the week,” Travis says, redirecting the conversation.
Andy starts typing into his computer when the door to the lodge opens, and we hear a female voice screech, “I can’t believe you took the wrong turn!”
The three of us focus our attention on a man and woman entering the lobby. The man opens his mouth to respond but freezes when he realizes they’ve been caught mid-argument. He flashes a forced smile for our benefit. “You know me! Can’t tell my left from my right.”
The woman glances around the lobby, causing her long jet-black hair to tumble artfully over her right shoulder. “So, this is what a glamping lodge looks like.” I can’t tell if she’s pleasantly surprised, disappointed, or something in between.
They approach the check-in desk. “I’m Charles Dillingham,” the man says, revealing a Boston accent, “And this is my wife, Darcy. We have a reservation.” On closer inspection, he looks younger than my first impression. Mid-thirties, thick brown hair, perfectly pressed tan slacks, and a white button-down oxford shirt that’s a tad too snug over his soft belly.
Darcy, on the other hand, looks like she’s never missed a day at the gym. I’ve never met anyone named Darcy before. Her pink pantsuit and knee-high black stiletto boots seem more suited to a Bravo reality TV set than a glamping ranch in the North Carolina mountains.
She looks at Paco and Ellie like she’s surprised to see dogs in the lodge, but she doesn’t say anything. Instead, her cool blue eyes check me out. My dark curly hair is pulled up in a messy bun, and I’m wearing sneakers, jeans, and a sweatshirt with a Fear The Muffin Top logo. Her gaze lingers on my sweatshirt for a few seconds before looking away.
Andy, the ranch manager, peers down at his computer screen and frowns. “Dillingham, you say? Did you folks make the reservation under another name?”
“Please tell me that incompetent assistant of yours made a reservation,” Darcy says in a falsely sweet voice to her husband.
Charles straightens back his shoulders. “We’re personal friends of Oliver Ross. I believe he’s the owner here?”
Travis and I give each other a look. Ugh. I hate it when people namedrop.
“Any friend of Mr. Ross’s is always welcome,” Andy says. “We have a lovely one-bedroom cabin with a queen bed and a spectacular lake view.”
“Cabin?” Darcy says. “No, no, no. We want one of those big tents. The ones with the king-sized beds and private hot tubs you feature on your website.”
“I’m afraid those are all booked. If I had known you were coming, perhaps we could have held one back, but …” Andy looks around helplessly like he’s waiting for someone to come save him.
Darcy snaps her fingers at her husband. “You know what to do, Charles.”
Like an obedient puppy, Charles digs into his pocket and removes his wallet. “How much?”
Andy looks mortified. “I’m sorry. We only have one premier tent left, and that’s been booked for months for a honeymoon couple.”
“But it’s still available, right?” Charles says as he cooly slips a hundred-dollar bill onto the counter. “Just give the couple the cabin you were going to give us. They won’t know the difference.”
“Except that couple would be us,” Travis says, “and we would indeed know the difference.”
