Chapter 1 #2
Then out of the blue, a Jack Russell terrier I’ve never seen before rockets through the group like he’s got somewhere very important to be.
Move, move, MOVE! That kid dropped a hot dog and I SAW IT FIRST! The perky terrier’s thoughts blast through my brain at maximum volume before he disappears into the crowd.
“What a cutie,” I say. “Whose dog is that?”
“Probably one of the guests,” Mom says. “He’s a sweet little thing. He was begging for a cookie earlier so I had to share mine. I’m a sucker for big brown eyes.”
“Join the club,” Georgie grunts. “I’m a sucker for big brown eyes, and big blue eyes, and big green eyes, and whatever other color big might come in.”
Mom nods. “And you’ve got a bottlecap collection in your bedroom to prove it.”
It’s true. Some people put a notch on their bedpost, Georgie prefers bottlecaps. And let’s just say her collection is big. At this rate, Georgie is going to need a storage unit for that bottlecap collection.
Before I can get a word in about bottlecaps or cute little pooches, Mackenzie grabs my arm with a grip that lets me know she’s mapped out my murder more than once. Her manicured nails dig in just enough to make a point.
“You listen to me very carefully, Bizzy Baker.”
I frown at her because she just so happened to leave out my most valued moniker. My married name, Wilder. Otherwise, the threats are par for the sister-in-law course.
“There will be no bodies at this event. Do you understand?” She snips it hard. “No mysterious deaths. No suspicious accidents. No tragic mishaps. These people are important to me, Bizzy. I need this week to be perfect. In fact, this week will be—”
Georgie snickers. “I believe the word your handsome hubby used was toxic.”
Mackenzie’s growl could register on the Richter scale.
“Lucky for you I don’t have any homicides on my agenda.
” I try to take my arm from her death grip but to no avail.
For a woman who’d like to exclude the Grim Reaper, she sure is acting a lot like his assistant.
Although some might argue that would be me.
“In fact,” I continue, “I never plan for any murders to take place. They just sort of happen around me.”
Hauntingly true.
“Well, they’re not happening this week.” Mackenzie releases my arm and smooths her hair.
Her smile clicks back into place like a light switch.
“In fact, you’re going to stick by my side all night.
That way I can keep an eye on you and make sure you’re not sending anyone else up to the great fireworks factory in the sky. ”
“Or more to the point, I’ll be sticking by your side all night so when someone inevitably drops dead, you can’t blame me for it.” I blink a smile at her and she all but detonates—in silence, thankfully.
My aforementioned bestie, Emmie, glides by with a tray full of bacon-wrapped dates. Hanging out with Mackenzie all night? Have fun with that one. She wrinkles her nose.
This might be a good time to mention that my name is Bizzy Baker Wilder.
I stand at an average height, have dark medium-length hair, and denim blue eyes—and I can read the minds of both people and animals.
Not every mind, not every time, but most of the time, and believe me, animals almost always have better things to say. Always.
Not everyone knows I can pry into other people’s gray matter, but of course my bestie knows, as does her husband and mine, and well, Georgie.
“I mean it, Bizzy. No dead bodies,” Mackenzie continues her assault on my sanity.
“Believe me, Mackenzie. Nobody is dropping dead,” I’m quick to assure her—however false that assurance might be.
She says that now, Mackenzie thinks, but give it ten minutes and she’ll be tripping over a corpse like it’s a party favor.
I make a face at the thought. Little does Mackenzie here know that I can do it in less than five.
Not that I’m proud.
The smell of burgers on the grill drifts over from the outdoor portion of the Country Cottage Café, the eatery attached to the back of my inn, and that heavenly scent mixes with salt air and someone’s aggressively tropical perfume.
The music shifts to something louder and far more upbeat as people start migrating toward the food and the makeshift dance floor in equal measure.
Just across the beach, I spot my handsome hubby, Jasper—Homicide Detective Jasper Wilder.
Jasper is tall, dark, and handsome in the classical sense with a shock of dark hair that I love to run my fingers through, light gray eyes that could see straight into my soul, and a body that I don’t mind warming up to night after night.
And that last point would be exactly why he’s holding our sweet baby girl, Ella, in his arms. Our daughter’s dark hair is fluffing up like cotton candy from the ocean breeze, her blue eyes heavy with sleep.
She looks like a miniature carbon copy of her daddy—same serious expression, same way of surveying everything like she’s filing it away for future reference.
He’s walking toward his mother, Gwyneth, who’s set up camp in one of the Adirondack chairs and a very large glass of wine.
Smart woman.
And fun fact: she’s married to my father.
Again, smart woman. Although judging from my father’s track record with divorce, she may not be as smart as she thinks.
“I’m serious, Bizzy.” Mackenzie’s still droning on. “My friends are going to be here for seven days. Seven,” she says it like the threat it is. “We have planned activities, coordinated outfits, a whole—”
“Schedule of opportunities for someone to get murdered?” Georgie suggests with a cackle.
Mom elbows her. “Georgie.”
“What? I’m just saying, if Bizzy’s involved, we should probably get a betting pool going. I’ve got twenty bucks on Thursday.”
“Thirty on Saturday,” Mom says without hesitation. “Right before the fireworks show. Her track record says she goes for maximum drama.”
“Mother,” I snip.
“Oh, she’s no slacker.” Emmie scoots in close on her way back to the kitchen. “I say my BFF strikes tonight.” She winks my way and I gasp. “What? You’re not one to procrastinate,” she calls out with a laugh as she takes off for the café.
I might own and run the inn, but Emmie runs the café for me. Although right about now, I’m reconsidering her employment status.
However, she’s right about that whole procrastination thing.
I love my family and friends, but sometimes I wonder if they’re actively trying to get me arrested. And other days, I wonder if I deserve to get arrested.
Mackenzie closes her eyes and takes a breath that probably has a yoga instructor’s voice attached to it somewhere. When she opens them, her smile is back and sharp enough to bite my beating heart right out of my chest.
“Just... try not to be yourself this week, okay?” She pats my shoulder. “Think bland. Think boring. Think completely and utterly forgettable.”
Bizzy is technically all of those things, she muses to herself. But I’m in no position to point that out now that I need her to play nice for the week.
“Wow. What a pep talk.”
But Mackenzie is already walking away, hips swinging, heading toward a whole new group of women who just landed on the sand and look like they were headed to the country club.
Emmie appears at my elbow once again, this time with a tray of mini baked brie bites with raspberry jam—I’ve been sampling them all day. Her dark hair is pulled back into a ponytail and she’s got flour on her sleeve. “Those are her friends?”
“Apparently.”
“They look...”
“Expensive,” I supply.
“I was going to say high maintenance, but that works, too.”
One of them, a tall blonde, throws her head back in a laugh like she runs on champagne and diamonds.
Another one, thin with ash blonde hair cut in a sharp bob, surveys the party like she’s already decided who matters and who doesn’t.
And I already know what side I fall on.
A third woman with auburn hair falling in perfect waves stands slightly apart from the group, waiting for someone to notice her.
They all look like they walked out of the same boutique, the same salon, possibly the same factory that produces people who make the rest of us feel underdressed.
“This is going to be a long week,” I mutter.
“Or a very short one,” Mom says cheerfully, “depending on how fast you can kill them all off.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“I wasn’t joking,” she counters.
The sun finally gives up and sinks below the horizon, leaving behind streaks of orange and pink rich enough to hypnotize all of Maine. Twinkle lights flicker on around the beach and around the inn, spilling a warm, golden glow over everything.
Someone cranks the music louder for good measure.
Fish trots over and sits at my feet, her black and white fur somehow still pristine despite the beach. Bizzy, that tiny menace is unhinged. He ate seven hot dogs. Seven. I counted.
Sherlock bounds up behind her, tongue lolling, ears flopping. But he shared three with me so he’s not ALL bad.
“Aww,” I coo as I give Sherlock a quick scratch behind his ears.
Sherlock Bones was a package deal when I got together with Jasper and I couldn’t have been happier with the dynamic duo.
“That was very nice of him.” I give my black and white tabby a quick pat, too.
“You’re supposed to be socializing,” I tell her.
I am social. I socialize with Sherlock. That’s two of us. That’s social.
She’s got me there.
The evening settles in around us—warm air, the distant rush of waves, the steady hum of conversation and clinking glasses.
Cider Cove is gearing up for a week of patriotic excess and whatever chaos Mackenzie’s friends are about to bring with them.
Seven days of this, I think, watching Mackenzie air-kiss her way through the blonde brigade.
Seven days of toxic friends, coordinated outfits, and Mackenzie watching my every move like I’m a loaded gun in a room full of targets.
What could possibly go wrong?
Everything.
The answer is everything.