Chapter 5
The Country Cottage Inn looks like every Fourth of July parade float I ever waved at as a kid—sweet, sincere, and slightly excessive in the best possible way.
The inn stands tall and stately against the summer sky, its white walls draped in ivy that’s been climbing toward the roof for longer than I’ve been alive.
The bright blue shutters pop against all that white, and I’ve always thought they match the ocean perfectly like someone planned it that way on purpose.
The inn itself has over seventy rooms, plus three dozen cottages scattered across the property like a little village unto itself. Jasper and I live in one of those cottages, Emmie and Leo in another, and Georgie’s been holding down her own little corner of paradise for years now here as well.
Nothing beats coastal Maine at any time of year, but summer is special all on its own. Summers on the coast are exactly what makes tourists flock here in droves and locals pretend to be annoyed while secretly loving every minute and every extra tourist dollar of it.
Inside, the white marble reception counter gleams against the distressed gray wood floors that have survived decades of luggage wheels and sandy feet.
The wrought iron staircase sweeps up to the left like something out of a seaside manor, and to the right, a wall of bay windows lines the grand hall, flooding the space with light that makes everything feel bigger and brighter than it actually is.
And quite possibly safer.
I push Ella’s stroller through the front entrance and immediately get hit with the scent of sugar cookies, fresh lemon polish, and something floral that’s probably supposed to smell like freedom but mostly just smells expensive.
Red, white, and blue bunting drapes across every available surface—the registration desk, the grand staircase, the enormous chandelier that’s currently sporting what appears to be a light-up bald eagle.
Miniature American flags sprout from every vase and planter like some kind of patriotic invasion, and someone—probably Nessa—has arranged the guest information pamphlets into a star pattern on the coffee table.
The ceiling fans are working overtime against the summer heat, and through the open French doors leading to the back lawn, I can hear the rhythmic thwack of someone setting up what I’m guessing is either a croquet course or a small militia training ground.
Honestly, with this crowd, it could go either way.
Someone’s been shopping at the Spirit of America superstore, Fish mewls from her perch on top of the diaper bag. And they have questionable taste.
I think it’s festive, Sherlock says with a cheerful bark, trotting alongside the stroller. It’s very spirited. Patriotic, even. I bet there are hot dogs involved.
And here’s hoping. There are always hot dogs involved when hoomans start waving flags around, Biscuit Gravy adds, and I have to admit, the little Jack Russell has a point.
I scoop him up with my free hand. He’s surprisingly well-behaved for a dog who spent last night at a crime scene, though his thoughts are running a mile a minute, mostly about food, and right now about the treats he can smell coming from the café.
Ella coos and reaches for him, her chubby fingers grabbing at his ears.
My sweet baby girl is wearing a blue and white sundress with matching ribbons in her adorable little pigtails.
And, well, pigtails is a strong word for what amounts to two spikes of hair that somehow resemble very thin palm trees.
Be gentle, small hooman, would you? Biscuit Gravy adds. These are designer ears. Or at least they would be if someone would spring for the grooming appointment I deserve.
It turns out, Biscuit Gravy got his name due to the fact biscuits and gravy was Brittany’s favorite food group. Or at least it was while she still allowed herself to nosh on carbs freely. When it comes to his moniker, she just decided to eliminate the and.
Clearly, she had a hankering when she named the cute little guy.
“Here, sweetie.” I fish a container of organic puff snacks from the diaper bag and hand a few to Ella. “Toss these to the boys.”
She giggles and flings a puff toward Sherlock, who catches it mid-air with the grace of a seal at feeding time.
Excellent technique. She’s got potential, Sherlock notes.
She tosses a few to Biscuit Gravy as well, and he, too, doesn’t let a single nugget fall to the floor.
Fish couldn’t care less about them because there’s not even a hint of seafood in them. And believe me, if they had any hint of seafood in them, Ella wouldn’t touch them.
The scene from last night runs through my mind.
Poor Brittany.
In fact, I feel bad for all of the women in Mackenzie’s friend group. They might not be the kindest people on the planet, but no one deserves any of this. After the dust cleared and the coroner’s van left, Jasper let me know there was a pale yellow handbag left near the dunes.
There was no ID in it, and Brittany had hers with her when she was murdered. It could belong to anyone. Although a part of me wonders if it belongs to the killer.
Grady Pennington looks up from the registration desk where he’s been charming an elderly couple who are clearly more interested in his charm than in their room assignment.
He’s got that sun-kissed glow that comes from spending too much time on the beach and not enough time worrying about SPF, and the smile he flashes my way is pure mischief.
Grandy and Nessa are two of my faithful employees that have been with me for quite some time.
“Heads-up, Bizzy,” he says once the guests disperse toward the elevator. “You’ve got a live one searching the grounds for you.”
Nessa Crosby appears from behind a tower of luggage, her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, her eyes glittering with glee like she’s got something to say. She and Grady are more or less an official couple now, and watching them is like watching a rom-com on repeat.
“Mayor Woods is out for blood,” Nessa adds, leaning against the desk. “Although according to rumors, she already got a pint or two last night.”
I wince at the thought.
“Please tell me she’s a vampire and this whole thing is about to get interesting,” I say.
Grady laughs. “The drinking kind of blood. Merlot, specifically. Huxley had to carry her out of the Beach Club at midnight.”
That’s better than the blood knife I assumed she was referring to.
“We want all the dirty details,” Nessa says, moving closer. “Is it true you found the body?”
“Is it true Mackenzie pulled the knife out like some kind of horror movie?” Grady adds.
So they do know.
I open my mouth to answer when a voice cuts across the lobby.
“There you are.” Mackenzie strides toward me in white linen pants and a navy blazer that probably has a designer label I can’t pronounce.
Her hair is perfect despite the humidity, and her expression all but says I’ve personally ruined her morning.
“I expected you here an hour ago. You really are a slacker.”
“Mackenzie, I have a baby,” I say, and I can’t help but laugh because the absurdity of her expecting me to operate on her schedule is almost charming in its delusion.
“Babies sleep.”
“Have you met Ella?” I nod to the baby in question who laughs and happily claps her hands like I just told the best joke ever.
And I may have.
“Babies also eat, and cry, and require an alarming number of outfit changes,” I’m quick to inform her—and maybe Ella, too.
Emmie sweeps in from the direction of the café, carrying a tray of the most gorgeous cookie bars I’ve ever seen.
They’re layered like the flag—red velvet on the bottom, cream cheese frosting in the middle, and a blue sugar cookie top, all cut into perfect squares and decorated with tiny fondant stars.
The tray itself is wrapped in blue gingham, and the whole presentation screams summer party perfection.
“Stars and stripes dream bars,” she announces, setting them on the refreshment table near the entrance. “Made fresh this morning.”
“Oh wow, those look incredible,” I say, hardly able to look away.
Emmie has been hypnotizing me with her sweet treats for as long as I can remember.
I, on the other hand, have been traumatizing her with mine.
Which partially explains why I don’t bother going near a kitchen.
If I had my way, I’d turn my kitchen into a library.
“Those look like three thousand calories,” Mackenzie counters, eyeing the tray with a suspicion usually reserved for explosives.
“That’s the dream part,” Emmie says sweetly. Too sweetly. She’s doing that thing where she smiles but her eyes promise violence. “Would you like one, Mackenzie? Or are you still on that cleanse where you only consume your own bitter thoughts?”
I press my lips together to keep from laughing.
There’s a special kind of hostility that only exists between women who were once best friends, and watching Emmie and Mackenzie navigate it is like watching a tennis match played with grenades.
Usually, we’re much more civil to each other.
Or at least Emmie and I are much more civil to Mack, but well, I may have sent a flurry of texts to Em last night venting about the fact Mackenzie more or less held me hostage at my very own inn.
The three of us used to be inseparable—Emmie, Mack, and me.
We had sleepovers and inside jokes and matching friendship bracelets that we wore until they literally fell apart.
But somewhere around freshman year, Mackenzie decided being mean was more interesting than being kind, and the friendship fractured like glass.
The bobbing-for-apples incident didn’t help either. It was Halloween, and I was thirteen years old. And, well, Mackenzie held me underwater until I saw stars. I should have drowned. Instead, I came up gasping and very, very different.
It turns out, I’m something called transmundane, further classified as telesensual, which is a fancy way of saying I can pry into most people’s gray matter and hear what they’re thinking.
Animals, too. It’s been a gift and a curse, though right now, with Mackenzie’s thoughts screaming at me about how she’s going to make me regret ever existing, it’s leaning heavily toward a curse.
Oddly enough, Emmie’s husband Leo shares my supernatural quirk, which made for some interesting conversations when they first started dating.
“You, Bizzy Baker, are going to help me clear my good name,” Mackenzie says, and it’s not a request.
“Am I?”
“Yes. You are.”
She’s very bossy for someone who just pulled a knife out of a corpse, Fish notes.
I’d like to point out that we’re all very uncomfortable with this level of aggressive energy, Biscuit Gravy adds. Also, are there more snacks? Because aggressive energy makes me hungry.
Huxley appears in the doorway, all legal eagle polish and expensive cologne, his wool suit somehow immune to the heat that’s making everyone else wilt. His smile is pure sunshine, and it’s the kind that used to get him out of trouble when we were kids and still works now that we’re adults.
“There’s my lovely wife,” he says, moving toward Mackenzie. And I marvel at the fact there was zero sarcasm in his voice when he said those words. “How about I clear your name?” he asks.
She turns to him, and for a second, her expression softens. Then she remembers she’s Mackenzie Maniacal Woods and the steel slides back into place.
“You’re my counsel. I need an actual detective to hunt down the real killer and clear my name—our good family name.”
“And that’s why Jasper is on the case,” Huxley reminds her, shooting me an apologetic look. It’s rare that he apologizes for anything Mackenzie does, but when it happens it sets off all sorts of red flags. This is obviously worse than it looks.
“There’s a reason Jasper is the lead homicide detective in Seaview County,” I add, hoping Mackenzie doesn’t get any funny ideas about including me either.
“You mean Detective Wilder?” Mackenzie snorts.
“I said I need a real detective. You and I are solving this case, Bizzy Baker.” She crosses her arms. “There’s a meet-up with the inner circle today.
Be at the Seaview Marina at three. No kids or pets allowed.
” She shoots a dirty look to the tiny offenders among us.
I swear Fish, Sherlock, and Biscuit Gravy all give an audible gasp.
The AUDACITY, Fish meows indignantly.
Ella just laughs. And something tells me, she’s going to have to keep her sense of humor intact if she’s going to deal with her aunt for a lifetime.
But getting back to Mackenzie and her most current hissy fit. The pets and I have been through enough murder investigations together that being benched feels like a personal attack. From the way Sherlock’s tail has stopped wagging and Fish’s ears have flattened, they feel the same way.
“Okay, fine,” Mackenzie snaps, reading our collective outrage. “If you can’t show up without them, then by all means, let them tag along. We’ll say they’re your emotional support animals or something.”
The way she says emotional support makes it sound like a character flaw. And knowing Mackenzie, she probably considers it one.
Huxley puts a hand on her shoulder and starts steering her toward the door. “Let’s get you some coffee, honey. And maybe a muzzle,” he mutters.
“I heard that,” she says, but she goes with him, shooting me one last look that promises this conversation isn’t over.
Emmie steps in close the moment they’re gone. “Lucky for you, I’ve scheduled a playdate for Ella and Elliot. I’ll babysit.” She winks, and I’m reminded why she’s been my best friend since we were old enough to share crayons.
“I guess I’m investigating.”
“Uh, Bizzy?” Nessa looks up from her phone, her expression somewhere between amused and horrified. “Your sister’s shop is trending all over social media.”
“Really?” I turn, already pulling out my phone. “She mentioned something about a big launch today.”
I pull up my Insta Pictures account and immediately wish I hadn’t.
#LatherAndLightDisaster is trending. So is #MacAndCheeseCaramelGate. And, oh my word, is that a video of someone gagging?
“Oh, this isn’t good at all.” I grab the stroller handle and spin toward the door. Fish and Sherlock are already in motion, and I’ve got Biscuit Gravy tucked under my arm like a football.
This is undignified, but I’ll allow it if food is involved, Biscuit Gravy says with a happy little woof.
“I need to get down to Lather and Light,” I shout back at the inn. Because if the internet is roasting my sister this hard, someone is about to die, and I’m not entirely sure it won’t be me for not getting there fast enough.