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restaurant.
    Traveler’s Tavern, which was undergoing a shoring-up renovation, was established over 160 years ago. Walking in, I could sense the history. How many explorers had passed through the heavy oak doors? The walls and ceilings held signatures of all who had visited before us.
    “Whoa.” Rhett stopped me from walking beneath the wooden scaffolding that stood in the center of the room. “You may not believe in superstitions, but that’s just flaunting skepticism.”
    “Thanks.” Gazing at the signatures, I had completely lost sight of where I was.
    Built entirely of stone, mortar, and wood, the tavern was chilly. The bar was set up for a ghoulish party. Eerie green candles set the mood. I could imagine bawdy nights back in the Gold Rush days when people, hungry for chunks of the precious metal that might change their futures forever, downed tankards of beer or whiskey. While the tavern’s colorful owner told us the history of the place, we dined on Halloween spiced popcorn, mini ghost cupcakes decorated with white icing and black licorice eyes, and Black Cat brew, which was a lusty mix of root beer laced with cinnamon.
    As we were leaving, yet more black cats crossed our path. A few in the crowd shrieked; others laughed. Had the cagey tavern owner, like Maya, set the cats loose on purpose to scare us, or were they stray cats on the prowl? Whatever the reason, I was sufficiently shaken
and
stirred.

Chapter 4

    F OR THE LAST stop on the tour, we headed to Pearl Thornton’s place, an elegant two-story showplace that had been featured in many magazines. As we approached the house, which was set high on the mountain, the damp, foggy weather lifted. A full moon, like a beacon of hope, cut through the clouds and lit a path to the front door.
    The interior of the home was exquisite, with high ceilings and expansive rooms, although the extensive use of the color ecru was a little bland for my taste. The view through the plate-glass windows of the living room matched my father’s view—the twinkling lights of Crystal Cove below and eons of miles of ocean. Beautifully carved jack-o’-lanterns flickered on various antique tables. Glossy black bats hung on clear thread that had been slung between the rafters. Actors dressed as vampires or ghouls moved among us. A red goblin rounded the corner and screeched at a pair of women. The women tittered and fanned themselves.
    Similarly to our other stops on the journey, we were invited to take a tour of the house. Pearl acted as guide.
    “Let’s start with the kitchen,” she said. “That’s where I’ve set up the bar. We’re serving a Witchy Woman cocktail. Demon rum is the secret ingredient.”
    The kitchen was fitted with state-of-the-art appliances, hand-painted tiles, and top-of-the-line granite counters.
    Rhett handed me a sugar-rimmed martini glass filled with a frothy, bloodred beverage. “Happy early Halloween.”
    “Cheers.” We clinked glasses.
    As I took my first sip—the drink was deliciously sweet—the kitchen door leading to the garage opened. A woman in her early twenties stormed through the doorway, her umbrella still open.
    Pearl yelled, “Trisha, close that umbrella now! It’s bad luck.”
    “Bad luck, Mother?” Unlike her plump mother, Trisha was angular and rangy and had possibly the worst skin I’d ever seen. I couldn’t tell if it was a dietary issue or a nerves thing. Her loose clothing did nothing to enhance her figure. She hoisted her crocheted purse and raggedy backpack higher on her shoulder and pushed her hank of black hair that reminded me of furry yarn away from her face. “I’ve already had twenty-three years of bad luck being your daughter.”
    Ouch!
The ten or so people in the kitchen gasped.
    “What’s up with my cell phone?” Trisha shook the umbrella free of moisture and snapped it closed. “I can’t get the darned thing to turn on. Did you cancel the contract?”
    “That’s it, young lady. Into the pantry.” Pearl