As a private investigator and ghost whisperer, I ask myself many questions—why can I see dead people? Can I wear purple to my own wedding? How do you get peanut butter out of a raccoon’s fur? But ‘who killed Gianna Tate’ was never among them. Until now. The cut-throat attorney’s death puts a crimp in my plans, for here I am, all dressed up and ready for the Scarecrow Ball, when she turns up, un-living, riding shotgun in my SUV. Usually an optimist, I’m finding my beloved cup o’ joe less than half full as I set about finding her killer while deflecting questions from my family about my impending wedding to Detective Kade Galloway. Smokin’ hot, lustworthy, mine. Right? I can’t believe it either! But here we are, knee-deep in vampires, zombies, and scarecrows, hunting a murderer, bathing raccoons, stumbling from one crisis to another, asking myself, red wine or white at the reception?