Chapter 2
The Cider Cove Seaside Social is off to a great start this Sunday night and I’m about to mingle with the crowd when Mackenzie reappears and grabs my elbow.
Before I know it, she’s steering me toward the pack of women clustering near the buffet like they’re about to stage a hostile takeover of the potato salad.
As if they’d ever eat potato salad.
They look like the mere thought of calories offends them.
“Bizzy, I want you to meet a few of my friends,” she says the word friends like it’s a warning. “Girls, this is my sister-in-law, Bizzy. She owns the inn.”
And the way she says owns makes it sound like I won it in a high-stakes card game. Although that’s not too far from the truth. I inherited it from the last owner. After he was murdered on the premises.
Six pairs of eyes land on me at once, and I get the distinct impression I’m being scanned, catalogued, and dismissed in under three seconds.
They’re all wearing variations of the same outfit—white jeans, colorful tops, coordinated like they planned it in a group chat I’ll never be invited to. Their jewelry sparkles in the string lights. Their hair moves in synchronized waves with the ocean breeze.
I’ll admit, they’re all beautiful and look untouchable in that way that only a mean girl clique can.
These women aren’t here to relax. They’re here to take inventory.
Behind me, Georgie’s voice cuts through the party noise. “Is that one wearing Spanx? I can see the line from here.”
I close my eyes briefly and pray for patience.
“Bizzy! What a great name!” A tall blonde with a smile just a shade too sharp steps forward and pulls me into a hug that smells like expensive perfume and casual cruelty. “Mackenzie has told us so much about you.”
I doubt it was anything good, but I return the hug because I’m not a monster.
“I’m Brittany,” she says, stepping back and giving me a slow once-over like she’s deciding if I’m worth the effort. “Vanderbilt. I sell luxury real estate in Boston. Mackenzie said you run this adorable little inn?”
The way she says adorable makes it sound like I glued it together with popsicle sticks.
“I do run the inn.”
“That’s so brave.” Brittany’s smile widens. “I mean, choosing to settle down in a place like this instead of, you know, having the ambition to tackle modern society. It takes guts to just retire from real life.”
My mouth falls open.
Ambition to tackle modern society? Guts to retire from real life? What is she talking about?
From the corner of my eye, I spot Mom heading our way with a fresh wine spritzer and a look that says someone’s about to get verbally rearranged.
This should be good.
“Retiring from real life,” I repeat. “Is that what we’re calling motherhood and small business ownership now?”
I can’t help it. It’s been a long night and she just set my blood to an instant boil.
“Bizzy,” Mackenzie hisses just below a whisper and taps her foot over mine with a warning.
Why can’t Bizzy just let it slide? she thinks to herself.
Didn’t I make it crystal clear I don’t want any of her homicidal tendencies to take center stage tonight?
Although when it comes to Brittany, maybe one dead body wouldn’t be all that bad.
I shoot Mackenzie a look for even going there.
Brittany belts out a bright, ringing laugh. Content. This is content, she thinks to herself as she cackles away. There’s nothing I can’t use, but this is gold.
Wonderful. She’s editing this interaction for social media. She thinks I’m hilarious. In a sad way. Like a sitcom character who doesn’t know she’s the punchline.
And believe me, I’m well aware—especially when Mackenzie Woods is involved.
“Oh my goodness, you’re hysterical,” Brittany says, touching my arm. “Macky said you had a sense of humor about things.”
Macky.
I frown without meaning to. And about what things, exactly, I want to ask, but another woman swoops in before I can.
“Don’t listen to her,” the newcomer says, pulling me into a hug that feels half genuine, half performance art. She’s petite and curvy with caramel highlights that look expensive. “I’m Tamsin. Tamsin Rowe. I’m a wellness coach and I run a fitness studio in Cambridge.”
Of course she does.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Bizzy,” I manage.
“What a gorgeous inn,” Tamsin gushes, her warm brown eyes scanning the property.
“Mackenzie is so lucky to have family that actually stayed local. Most people just leave, you know? Abandon their roots.” She shoots a look at someone in the group that I can’t quite interpret.
This is going to get messy. Brittany knows about Marcus. If she says anything tonight, I swear—
I catch the edge of that thought before Tamsin pulls back, smile firmly in place.
Who’s Marcus?
“Well, someone had to stick around,” I say lightly and all six of them wrinkle their noses at me like I just let an offensive odor fly.
A woman with auburn hair in perfect waves steps forward next. She’s tall, willowy, and has a presence that makes you stand up a little straighter whether you mean to or not.
“Blaire Kensington,” she says, offering her hand like it’s a limited-time opportunity. “Brand consultant.”
We shake. Her hand is ice cold, but I’m not sure I expected anything less.
“What a quaint little town,” Blaire continues, her hazel eyes sweeping over the party with thinly veiled disdain. “You must be so content here. Away from all the noise and chaos of real life.”
Content? We’re really leaning into that word tonight.
Real life, apparently, happens somewhere else.
“Oh, we get plenty of chaos,” I assure her.
More than she would believe.
If Brittany ruins tonight, I’ll— Blaire’s thought cuts off abruptly as she smiles at me. She needs to keep her mouth shut. For once in her miserable life, she needs to just quit yapping.
Well. Someone’s got strong feelings.
“Bizzy?” A quieter voice pulls my attention to the woman with the ash blonde hair cut in a sharp bob.
She’s thin—like razor thin—and her blue-gray eyes take me in piece by piece in a way that makes my skin prickle.
“I’m Sloane Fletcher-Ramsey. My husband Travis and I run a renovation and design company. ”
We shake hands, and hers is firm and controlled, with none of the warmth you’d expect.
“It’s so nice to meet you,” I say.
“Mackenzie mentioned you’ve been renovating some of the cottages on the property,” Sloane says smoothly. “If you ever need professional help, we’d love to discuss options. We specialize in historic properties.”
“Oh wow,” I say. “I was actually thinking about tacking on another sunroom off the library. I’ll keep that in mind,” I tell her, far more enthused than I meant to.
But it’s true. The library has practically been begging for a sunroom.
How I’d love to curl up in a sunbeam and read a book in there. I know my guests would love it, too.
“Oh, you should!” Tamsin jumps in, a little too enthusiastically. “Sloane and Travis did this amazing job on—”
“Sloane, did you say?” Georgie appears at my elbow like a hurricane in a pink flamingo kaftan.
“That’s a lovely name. My second husband was named Sloan.
Different spelling, though. He was a podiatrist. Terrible with money but excellent with feet, if you know what I mean.
” She waggles her brows and I can’t help but cringe.
I watch Sloane’s polite smile freeze in place, not quite sure what to make of this frazzled granny with an attitude.
That’s a common response when it comes to Georgie.
Mom sidles up on my other side and tries to pull her unfiltered bestie out of our orbit but to no avail.
“Are you girls from the same sorority?” Georgie goes on. “You all have that look.”
“What look?” Brittany asks, genuinely curious.
“Expensive,” Georgie says with a cantankerous edge to her voice like that was the zinger she was looking to sling all night.
Or at least I hope that was the worst of it.
“Also, possibly pregnant,” she adds.
And just like that, I’m wrong.
Mom and I groan while Mackenzie and her friends suck in a collective breath.
“Are any of you with child?” Georgie strikes again. “Which one of you witches has got a mini coven brewing in your bellies?”
“None of us are with child, you old bat,” Mackenzie growls.
“Oh good,” Georgie says brightly. “Then you’re all just bloated from the appetizers. Happens to me, too. Salt does terrible things after sixty.”
“None of us are sixty,” Blaire snaps like it were a personal attack.
Come to think of it, they all look ready to weaponize their manicures if need be.
Good grief. This is off to a rough start. But on the bright side, at least they’re all still breathing. Although the night is still young.
Mom physically drags Georgie back a step like she’s a bouncer. “Why don’t we go refresh our drinks?”
“I’m not thirsty,” Georgie squawks.
“You are now,” Mom hisses.
Brittany’s laugh rings out, high and sharp. “Oh my goodness, Mackenzie, your family is adorable. I’m so glad I didn’t marry into whatever situation this is.”
Mackenzie tenses beside me. Say one more thing. I dare you.
Tamsin clears her throat. “Britt, maybe dial it back a notch? We just got here.”
“Dial what back?” Brittany turns to her with wide, innocent eyes. “I’m being nice.” Believe me, witches, this is me being restrained. She bleeds a dark smile with the thought.
“You’re being you,” Tamsin mutters. “Which is the opposite of nice.”
“Wow.” Brittany’s smile doesn’t waver. “Is this about Marcus? Because I thought we were past that.”
The temperature drops about fifteen degrees.
Second mention of the infamous Marcus. The man sounds like he’s trouble.
Tamsin’s face goes blank. “We are.” We most definitely are not.
“Good,” Brittany purrs. “Then you won’t mind when I post about it on Monday.” That’ll get engagement like nothing I’ve ever posted before.
Blaire steps forward. “Brittany, for once in your life, could you just not?”
“Not what?” Brittany blinks at her. “Not tell the truth? Not share information people deserve to know? Or not expose the fact that your fiancé is drowning in gambling debt?”
Blaire’s face goes white. Don’t react. Don’t react.
Oh, this is messy. This is spectacularly messy, and I’m watching it unfold in real time with absolutely no power to stop it.
Sloane laughs—and it sounds completely artificial.
“Ladies, ladies. We’re supposed to be having fun, remember?
Kappa Krew forever, right? We’re the golden girls, the inner circle.
We’re here to celebrate, not rehash old drama.
” She loops her arm through Brittany’s. “Come on, Britt. Let’s get you another drink and maybe take a walk.
Cool off.” Contain the problem. Not solve it.
Brittany shrugs her off. “I don’t need to cool off. I’m perfectly fine.” And honey, I am just getting started, she thinks with a smile.
“You’re being a witch,” Blaire says flatly.
“Better than being a fraud,” Brittany shoots back.
And judging by the look on Blaire’s face, that landed.
Mackenzie makes a strangled noise beside me. Please stop talking. Please stop talking.
I’m beginning to understand why Huxley used the word toxic. This isn’t friendship. This is a carefully orchestrated disaster waiting to happen.
Sloane tries again. “Brittany, please—” Don’t make me do this here.
I give a little gasp at the thought.
Don’t make her do what?
“Oh, relax, Sloane.” Brittany waves her off.
“I’m just keeping things interesting. Besides, it’s not like anyone here doesn’t know everyone else’s secrets already.
” She turns to me with a bright smile. “Except you, Bizzy. You’re blissfully in the dark.
Lucky you.” Give it five minutes with these gossip mongers.
I’m not sure luck has anything to do with it.
Fish trots up and sits at my feet, eyeing the group with judgment like only a feline can. That tall blonde one smells like she bathes in money. Also, she’s mean. I can tell. Mean people have a smell. Unlike you, Bizzy. You smell like pancakes and bacon.
I wink down at her for the compliment.
Or at least I think it was a compliment.
Sherlock bounds over with his tongue adorably wagging. Why are all the hoomans standing so far from the buffet? There are bacon-wrapped treats just waiting to be gobbled up! Quick, Bizzy, this is our chance! You sneak me as many as you can and I promise to never tell Jasper.
Well, if I do smell like bacon, that might explain Sherlock’s fierce loyalty to me. He might have been Jasper’s dog first, but I like to think I’ve stolen the top spot in his bacon-loving heart.
I pull out a few treats from my pocket and toss them down to him for good measure.
A few sharp barks come from the left and I glance over to see a blonde standing slightly apart from the group, clutching a small Jack Russell terrier that’s vibrating with barely contained energy. It’s the same cutie pie that I saw earlier. The dog spots Sherlock and loses its tiny mind.
BIG DOG! FRIEND! Must investigate! Must sniff! Must PLAY! Must get my paws on his snacks!
The woman tightens her grip, looking uncomfortable. She’s younger than the others, maybe late twenties, with blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail and a nervous energy that makes you want to offer her a sedative.
“Bizzy?” Mackenzie’s voice pulls me back. “Are you listening?” she snaps. “People are speaking to you. Pay attention.”
“Always,” I say with a manufactured smile, which is something I’ve gotten very good at over the years when it comes to Mackenzie.
The party is getting louder now, the music cranks up another notch because of it, and someone shouts for s’mores supplies. Kids run past shrieking about sparklers while the smell of citronella candles mixes with sunscreen and grilled meat.
It’s almost peaceful if you ignore the undercurrent of tension radiating from Mackenzie’s so-called friends.
“So, Bizzy,” Brittany starts, and I brace myself. “Mackenzie mentioned you solve homicides? Or are you the killer?”
Her eyes glitter with glee at the homicidal dig, and I take a deep breath because something tells me this is just a sneak preview of what the entire next week will be like.
And if I’m right, I might just be moved to kill indeed.