Red, White, and Blue-Collar Murder (Country Cottage Mysteries #33)

Chapter 1

“I’m just saying,” Georgie announces, adjusting her kaftan—today’s selection features neon pink flamingos doing the cha-cha, “if Mackenzie wanted to impress her friends, she should’ve sprung for actual glassware. These red plastic cups scream small-town budget cuts.”

Mom snorts into her drink. “Or maybe she’s trying to prove she still knows how to party.”

“In that case,” I say, “it’s definitely not working.”

The beach behind the Country Cottage Inn is packed with half of Cider Cove and what looks like the entire town council budget transformed into hot dogs and bunting.

The evening air smells like charcoal smoke and coconut sunscreen, with an undertone of something floral that’s probably coming from the centerpieces Emmie spent all afternoon arranging.

The pink sunset is still hanging on over the cove, turning the water into something magical, and the sound of classic rock drifts from the speakers near the buffet tables.

It’s late June in Maine, and it’s warm enough to make you believe summer is here to stay, even though we all know better.

I crane my neck at the crowd bustling on the sand as the sky shifts to an aggressive shade of tangerine.

“From where I’m standing,” I say, “Emmie is doing all the work and Mackenzie’s doing all the schmoozing.”

Emmie glances up from the dessert table and catches my eye. She mouths kill me now.

I mouth back get in line.

Emmie would be my very best friend in the world.

We’ve been BFFs since we were in preschool.

Fun fact: we share the same formal moniker, Elizabeth, although neither of us has ever been called by that name.

And funny enough, I named my sweet little baby girl Elizabeth, too, but we all call her Ella.

She’s ten months old and already has the biggest personality you ever did see.

She’s as adorable as I could have ever dreamed my daughter would be at this age.

That point might be debatable at two in the morning, but her cuteness still wins out, even then.

“Bizzy, be nice.” Mom’s red feathered hair hasn’t moved an inch despite the ocean breeze, which is either Aqua Net or witchcraft. She’s wearing shoulder pads that could double as flotation devices and enough turquoise jewelry to open a roadside stand. “This week is important to Mackenzie.”

I make a face at my sister-in-law slash mayor as she holds court on the sand with about a dozen or so of her closest friends, if you can call them that. “Do mean girls really have friends? Or do they just run around calling each other frenemies behind their backs?”

“Elizabeth Baker Wilder,” Mom snips.

And I stand corrected. I guess I’ve finally heard my formal name spoken. There’s a first time for everything. Including hosting an entire tribe of mean girls at my inn.

Mackenzie and her prep school crew have an annual reunion, and this year it’s her turn to host a weeklong extravaganza, but Mackenzie, my fearless, nothing-rattles-her Mackenzie, is nervous enough about impressing this crowd that she asked to co-host the whole week at the Country Cottage Inn starting tonight, because apparently nothing says welcome, old friends like ocean views, twinkle lights, and enough guest rooms to house the entire entourage.

Georgie groans in their direction. “They’re calling it the Cider Cove Seaside Social.” She sticks a finger down her throat and pretends to gag. “Slapping a cute name on it doesn’t make it less of a seven-day ego trip.”

Georgie Conner is one of my favorite octogenarians and my mother’s best friend.

Georgie’s daughter was once married to my father, and I like to say we got Georgie in the divorce.

She’s loud, wily, and not at all shy about her obsession with men, both older and younger.

She has a gray stack of hair that sits on her head like a tumbleweed, and she happens to have one serious penchant for kaftans—at least when the weather permits.

“I’m calling it the Cider Cove Seaside Social. It’s sort of a welcome to summer party,” I tell her. “Since the Fourth of July is just a week away, I thought it would be fun to have a build-up celebration. Mackenzie and her friends are simply going to be in attendance.”

It’s not all about them.

But I have a feeling they’ll make it that way.

“Nevertheless,” Mom says. “Mackenzie has reminded me over and over again how important this week is. Has she mentioned that to you?” Mom’s voice is still in reprimanding mode.

She can’t help it. She loves my brother Huxley so much, she really wants his marriage to the shrew to work out.

And honestly, so do I. Not to mention they’re the parents of my favorite nephew, little Mack—named after Mackenzie herself.

Little Mack is just over two-and-a-half, and I think he’s ready to run this town right along with his mama.

“She’s told me seventeen times,” I say. “That’s how many times she’s mentioned this week is important.”

“Eighteen,” Georgie corrects, popping a deviled egg into her mouth. That gray tumbleweed of hair bobs as she chews. “I’ve been counting.”

Tonight’s seaside shindig is hitting that sweet spot where people are loud enough to be fun but not boisterous enough to be obnoxious.

The entire cove is thick with bodies. Ice clinks in plastic cups.

People are laughing too hard at a joke that probably wasn’t funny.

Kids shriek with delight somewhere near the water.

“Bizzy!” Mackenzie materializes beside me like a brunette genie with an agenda.

She’s wearing white capris that are probably designer and a red halter top that’s working overtime.

Her smile is all sharp and pointy teeth.

“Listen up and listen up good. This week means everything to me. My friends are finally seeing Cider Cove, seeing what I’ve built here as mayor, and I need—”

“Everything to go perfectly,” I finish. “You’ve mentioned that.”

Her smile tightens. “This is no time for sarcasm, Bizzy. I’m serious. These women are important to me. We’ve been friends since college, and I want them to see that I’m not just some small-town mayor. My friends are—”

“Toxic.” Huxley appears behind his wife with a grin and little Mack drooling on his shoulder.

My brother looks annoyingly put-together for a man who’s been wrestling a two-year-old all day.

Dark hair, blue eyes, and the Baker family jawline that’s probably being copied by a plastic surgeon somewhere.

“That’s the word you’re looking for, babe. Your friends are toxic.”

Hux says it with a smile, because somehow, he always seems to have his lips curving in the right direction.

If my brother is anything, he’s happy-go-lucky.

Which does beg the question why he married such a sourpuss like Mackenzie.

I guess opposites really do attract. And it’s worth mentioning, he’s the world’s best uncle to Ella.

“Huxley.” Mackenzie snaps the word out and her voice could freeze the Atlantic.

“What? They are.” He adjusts Mack, who’s gone full noodle in his arms. My sweet nephew is wearing tiny red shorts and a blue shirt with a star on it, and he’s about three seconds from being completely unconscious.

Same, little Mack. Same.

Hux laughs. “Remember sophomore year when that girl—what was her name? Brittany?—posted that video of you falling off the mechanical bull? And tagged every fraternity on campus?” He pauses. “You weren’t wearing any clothes.”

Mom moans. “Oh honey. Please tell me someone got that footage so I can delete it.”

Mom is still figuring out how the internet works.

“That was ancient history,” Mackenzie grits through her teeth.

Hux tips his head. “Or junior year when they left you at that bar in Boston because you wouldn’t split the tab for bottles you didn’t drink?” My brother is still smiling, but his eyes have gone sharp. “Or last year when they forgot to invite you to that Hamptons weekend?”

Mackenzie’s jaw clenches.

I’ll admit, a part of me might be enjoying this a touch too much.

Time to redirect, Mom thinks, clearly sensing this is about to get ugly. Let’s talk about something nice.

“So!” Mom says brightly, turning to Mackenzie and Huxley. “Are you two all set for your trip to Santorini next month? That business development conference sounds wonderful.”

Mackenzie’s expression shifts immediately, tension melting into excitement. “Yes! Two weeks. We leave right after the August town council meeting.”

“Business development,” Huxley says with a grin. “Also known as sitting by the pool with fancy cocktails.”

“Networking is important,” Mackenzie defends.

I’m watching this exchange and trying to do the math in my head.

Santorini for two weeks isn’t cheap. And Mackenzie and Huxley have that obscene mortgage on their waterfront house—the one with the gourmet kitchen and the media room and the backyard that looks like it belongs in Architectural Digest.

Huxley’s been working part-time ever since Mack was born because he didn’t want his son raised by nannies, which I respect, but still. His part-time legal eagle income amounts to next to nothing, plus a small-town mayor’s salary?

I was sure they’d be eating rice and beans for the next thirty years.

How in the world are they affording this? Mom thinks, clearly doing the same mental gymnastics I am.

Good question, Mom. Very good question.

“Anyway.” Huxley kisses her temple, completely unbothered by the death glare she’s giving him. “I’m taking this little guy home before he wakes up and demands to swim in the ocean at midnight. I’m leaving Cane here, though. He and Candy are having a moment.”

As if on cue, both white Samoyeds—Candy and Cane—come barreling past in a blur of fur and what can only be described as aggressive flirtation.

It’s true. My sister and my brother’s respective cute fluffy pooches sort of have a thing for each other.

And that’s when my sweet fur-babies, Fish and Sherlock, tear after them, followed by Emmie’s golden retriever, Gatsby, and her labradoodle, Cinnamon.