Chapter 6
Main Street in Cider Cove is charming on a normal day with all its cobblestones and window boxes overflowing with petunias, but today it looks like someone called a flash mob and forgot to tell them what they were protesting.
Red, white, and blue bunting swoops between the vintage lampposts, American flags flutter from every available surface, and the flower boxes have been temporarily replanted with patriotic petunias that someone clearly thought was clever and cute.
And honestly? They sort of are.
The crowd is six deep around Lather and Light, and I have to navigate the stroller through a sea of people who are either laughing, filming, or doing both at once.
The afternoon sun is beating down on the cobblestones, making the whole street shimmer with heat, and somewhere nearby a street musician is playing what sounds like a ukulele cover of “America the Beautiful” that’s competing with the general chaos.
The air smells like summer—sunscreen and salt water and the sugar from the cookie shop two doors down.
There’s the scent of pizza wafting from Sal’s across the street, and the flower baskets hanging from the vintage lampposts are putting out their best rose and lavender effort.
But underneath all of that is something else. Something wrong.
Does anyone else smell cookies? Sherlock asks, his nose working overtime as we get closer to my sister’s shop.
I smell pizza, Fish counters. Good pizza. The kind with extra cheese.
Pizza is the one human food that Fish actually doesn’t mind eating. And for good reason. She’s no fool.
I smell something really, really weird, Biscuit Gravy adds, and his tone assures me he’s not thrilled about it. And by weird, I mean bad. Like, impressively bad. Like someone took all the good smells and ran them through a garbage disposal.
“Ooh.” I catch a note of it, too. In fact, the closer we get to Lather and Light, the more that smell overtakes everything else—a bizarre combination of sour and sweet that makes my nose want to file a formal complaint, or simply want to jump off my face and run for cover.
Ella claps her hands and laughs, delighted by all the people and noise, completely oblivious to the olfactory assault happening around us.
And now I have to worry about if she has a sense of smell at all.
The shop sits right in the middle of Main Street, less than a block from the inn, with Mom and Georgie’s place—Two Old Broads—directly across the cobbled street.
Normally, my sister’s shop, Lather and Light, is the kind of place that makes you want to buy everything in sight, but today people are clustering around the entrance with their phones out, filming and taking selfies with expressions that range from amused to horrified.
I muscle the stroller through the crowd, muttering apologies and earning a few dirty looks from people who clearly think I should have left the baby at home for this particular spectacle.
Inside, the shop is exactly as gorgeous as always. The walls are painted a soft sage green, and there are rustic wooden shelves lining every available surface, stocked with Macy’s handmade soaps in every color and scent imaginable.
Mason jars filled with bath salts catch the light from the oversized windows, and there are woven baskets overflowing with loofahs and bath bombs that look like pieces of art.
A silk wisteria tree in the corner is strung with fairy lights, and normally the whole place smells like heaven—lavender and vanilla and fresh linen and all things good.
But today it smells like a crime scene.
Ella’s face scrunches up, and within seconds, she’s holding her nose with both chubby hands and starting to cry.
Well, at least that’s one mystery solved. She certainly does have a sense of smell.
“Oh honey, I know,” I say, trying to soothe her while simultaneously trying not to gag.
Mom appears from behind a display of loofahs, her red feathered hair somehow defying both humidity and lethal odors, her shoulder-padded blazer screaming 1985 in the best possible way.
She scoops Ella out of the stroller and cuddles her close, making those soft cooing sounds that only grandmothers can pull off without sounding ridiculous.
“There, there, baby girl. Grammy’s got you.”
Georgie shuffles up beside her, looking oddly resplendent in a kaftan covered in neon coconut trees wearing sunglasses. Her gray hair is piled on top of her head like a storm cloud, and she’s fanning herself with what looks like a vintage paper fan.
“What in the name of all that is holy is that smell?” Mom asks, wrinkling her nose.
“It’s unholy is what it is,” Georgie adds. “Smells like someone burned a pan of mac and cheese and then left it in the sun too long.”
I pull out my phone and hold up the screen. “It’s all over social media. Apparently, Macy is selling a candle that’s been dubbed the Stink Bomb, and the internet has opinions.”
“It’s called the Seaside Surprise,” a voice corrects from behind a tower of boxed candles.
Sure enough, Macy emerges looking like she’s been through twelve rounds with a prize fighter and lost every single one.
Her blonde bob is sticking up at odd angles, there’s a price tag on her cheek, and her eyes have that wild, slightly manic gleam that screams she’s been mainlining espresso and maybe even a touch of regret.
“The candle is called Seaside Surprise,” she says again, and her voice has that tight quality of someone who’s about thirty seconds from either laughing or crying and hasn’t decided which. “It’s part of my Snacks After Midnight line.”
She gestures to a display table near the register where a collection of candles sits arranged like tiny edible disasters so I boot-scoot that way to check the olfactory offenses out.
Each one has a label with retro diner-style graphics and names that sound more like drunk food orders than home fragrances.
There’s Nacho Average Night—supposedly a blend of sharp cheese and jalapeno.
Leftover Lo Mein—ginger, soy, and sesame oil.
Pepperoni Dreams—tomato, basil, and melted mozzarella.
Cold Pizza Morning—which I’m guessing is all of the above plus regret.
And there, right in the center like the star of its own horror show, sits Seaside Surprise—the infamous mac and cheese and caramel combination that the internet has decided to turn into a meme.
I would like to go on record as saying that all of these smell terrible, Fish announces. Especially that one. She flicks her tail toward the Seaside Surprise.
I nod in agreement. First and foremost, it doesn’t even smell like mac and cheese.
And seeing that I’m an ardent fan of that sacred meal, I’d be willing to defend it to the death.
That is, if it smelled even halfway like it.
The candle reminds me of when we were kids and Huxley would kick off his sneakers in the living room after a sweaty game of driveway basketball with his friends.
The word pungent comes to mind.
I don’t know, Sherlock says thoughtfully. The pizza one is speaking to me.
It would.
You’re a dog. Everything speaks to us if it’s remotely edible, Biscuit Gravy points out. But these aren’t edible. These are crimes against nature.
And that, my friend, is gospel.
A woman near the door is holding up a Seaside Surprise candle and making a TikTok video where she pretends to faint from the smell. Her friend is laughing so hard she’s crying, and three other people are waiting their turn to do the same thing.
I snap one up myself and bravely bring it to my nose.
“Oh geez,” I gag as I say it. “Macy, this thing smells like a fish carcass married tax season. What are you thinking with these?”
“I may have a dud on my hands,” Macy says, and she sounds like she’s reporting news of a natural disaster. “A genuine, certified, career-ending dud. These candles are threatening to take me and my business down with it.”
“Can’t you just pull them from the shelves?” Mom asks, still bouncing Ella who’s stopped crying but is eyeing the candles with deep suspicion.
Not only does she have a good nose, but she’s smart as a whip.
“I could,” Macy admits. “But here’s the thing—people are buying them. Like, a lot. They’re buying them as joke gifts, and gag gifts, and ‘you won’t believe what I found’ gifts. I’ve sold more candles in the last three hours than I did all of last month.”
Georgie cackles. “Capitalism at its finest. Make something terrible, watch it go viral for profit.” She nods to my mother. “How about it, Preppy? Are you ready to part with a little of your wardrobe? We could pay for a cruise to the Bahamas.”
Mom shoots her a look before reverting to my sister. “Macy, if they’re selling, what’s the problem then?”
“The problem,” Macy continues as she starts up with some serious manic pacing now, “is that my reputation as a serious artisan is circling the drain. Every other post is someone making fun of me or asking if I’ve lost my sense of smell or suggesting I need to be investigated for crimes against humanity. ”
“That’s a bit dramatic,” I say. And perhaps accurate.
“You haven’t read the comments,” she riots my way.
She’s probably right. The internet has a special talent for turning everything into a five-alarm fire, and Macy’s accidental foray into novelty stink candles is exactly the sort of thing that makes people feel both superior and entertained.
And apparently so, so, so very entertained.
“What are you going to do?” I ask.
Macy straightens her shoulders, and I see a flash of the woman who once spent an entire summer perfecting the exact ratio of shea butter to coconut oil in her signature body lotion.
“I’m going to own it. I’m going to lean into it.
I’m going to make Snacks After Midnight the most talked about candle line in all of New England, and then I’m going to quietly discontinue it and launch something sophisticated that makes everyone forget this ever happened. ” I hope.
That’s either brilliant or insane, Fish points out.
Could be both, Sherlock adds.
Mom shifts Ella to her other hip. “Well, first Mackenzie gets accused of murder, and now your business is—” She pauses, searching for the right words. “—having a moment.”
“A fragrant moment,” Georgie supplies helpfully.
“An aggressively fragrant moment,” I add.
Macy glowers at the three of us. “Well, at least I know for a fact Mackenzie is having a worse day than I am, even if she is innocent.”
Georgie turns to me, her coconut tree kaftan swishing. “Speaking of our mean girl mayor, who says she’s innocent? That girl has been holding a grudge against you like it’s her full-time job.”
I shrug. “I guess that would be me. But only because I happen to know she’s innocent. And she’s also enlisted my help in tracking down whoever actually did stab Brittany Vanderbilt.”
“You mean she’s blackmailed you into it,” Macy corrects.
“She did no such thing,” I’m quick to say.
“It just so happens I sort of like poking my nose into these sort of homicidal things.” I wince over at Ella as I say it.
Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure it’s far from what any responsible mother would say, think, or definitely do.
I can’t help it, though. I’m sort of an addict at this point.
“I know what that means.” Georgie’s eyes light up with a level of glee usually reserved for Christmas morning and casino jackpots. “Where are we off to, Toots? Who are we sending to the big house?”
“I wish I knew who,” I say, watching another person pose with a Seaside Surprise candle for one of their social media stories. Speaking of stories, I check my phone and bite down on a smile when I see confirmation of it. “But I do know where.”
“Don’t keep us in suspense,” Mom says.
I nod. “The Seaview Marina. Three o’clock. Mackenzie’s friends are having some kind of yacht situation, and apparently, I’m required to attend and solve a murder between cocktails.”
Georgie rubs her hands together. “I haven’t been on a yacht since 1987, and that ended with a restraining order and three broken ribs. Not mine, mind you.”
“Of course not,” I say, because with Georgie, the chaos is always redirected onto others. That’s always worked as a built-in safety mechanism for her.
Macy looks at her watch. “You’d better get going. It’s almost two-thirty, and knowing Mackenzie, she’ll scalp you if you’re late.”
“She wishes,” I say.
“Only one way to find out.” Macy smiles. She does love to lean into other people’s pain. “Here’s hoping you come home with hair.”
I grab the stroller handle and start backing toward the door, trying to ignore the fact that the smell has now permeated my clothes and I’m going to need a shower before I can be seen in polite society.
Mom and Georgie are bustling next to me. The pets fall into formation with Fish perched on the diaper bag, Sherlock trotting alongside me, and Biscuit Gravy bringing up the rear with a swagger that says he’s not worried about any yacht club dress code.
Or a shared odor we might be carrying.
“Wish us luck,” I call back to Macy.
“Luck?” She holds up a Seaside Surprise candle. “At this point, I’m not sure luck is even in our vocabulary.”
She’s got me there, but if I’m about to spend the afternoon on a boat with a pack of mean girls and perhaps a killer, I’m going to need more than luck.
I’m going to need a miracle, a life vest, and possibly a gas mask.