Chapter 7
If wealth had a smell, it would be this yacht—expensive sunscreen, champagne on ice, and the kind of teak wood that probably requires a full-time employee just to polish it.
The boat—a yacht, apparently—is called Serenity’s Edge, which feels like tempting fate considering we’re currently floating around with a killer and Mackenzie’s questionable friends, AKA a pack of mean girls who think grief is a photo opportunity.
The sun is beating down on the gleaming white deck, the ocean spray is misting over the brass railings every time we hit a wave, and somewhere below us the engine hums like it knows exactly what it’s doing.
Or at least I hope it does. I’m not the biggest fan of seaworthy vessels.
Mackenzie sits on a white leather bench that doesn’t look like it gets much use, her ankles crossed like she’s trying to prove a point.
She’s in a navy sundress and oversized sunglasses that take up half her face.
Mom and Georgie claimed the opposite bench the moment we boarded, and they’re currently working their way through a bottle of rosé like it’s their job.
Mom is in white linen pants and a striped boat neck top that’s very I summer in the Hamptons, and Georgie’s kaftan at this moment features oversized anchors and the words Seas the Day in glittery script across the back.
I took Ella straight to Dad and Gwyneth’s so she could enjoy a nice long nap before her playdate while Mommy went pretending to enjoy being gently rocked toward a slow, watery demise.
This boat smells like money and bad decisions, Fish mewls from her perch in the designer tote bag on my arm. Also, there’s definitely caviar somewhere. I can smell it. Dibs if I find it first.
Are we eating caviar? Sherlock lifts his head while sprawled at my feet on the teak deck. Please tell me we’re eating the caviar.
We’re on a boat with a killer and you’re thinking about fish eggs, Biscuit Gravy says, sitting primly next to a deck chair. Priorities, my friend. And also, second dibs once we find those fish eggs.
I’ve been eating caviar for years. I’m sort of a fan.
The rest of Mackenzie’s friends are scattered across the deck in various states of performative mourning. Most of them are in that background extra category—holding drinks, adjusting sunglasses, checking phones—but the four I’m actually interested in are front and center.
Sloane Fletcher-Ramsey is positioned in the shade beneath a white canvas awning, her ash blonde bob not moving despite the ocean breeze, which suggests either excellent hairspray or a deal with dark forces.
She’s wearing a scrumptious pale yellow sundress that screams I’m effortlessly elegant while probably requiring three hours to garner her approval and a professional stylist. Her wine glass is barely touched, and she’s got that composed, unruffled look that makes me want to poke her just to see if she’s real.
“It’s just so tragic,” Sloane says, and her voice has all the emotion of someone reading a grocery list. “Brittany had so much life ahead of her.” Thank goodness that’s over. Now I can breathe.
My mouth falls open when I hear the thought, and I almost drop Fish’s tote bag.
There’s relief there, pure and simple, wrapped up in a neat little bow of self-satisfaction.
She takes a delicate sip of wine while adjusting her sunglasses, and I’m struck by how calm she is.
Too calm if you ask me. Like she’s already moved on to planning her next vacation.
And I’m guessing, it’s not to the state penitentiary.
It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since their fearless leader was stabbed to death on the beach and none of these women seem all that broken up over it.
I glance over at Blaire and frown without meaning to.
Blaire Kensington is way too overdressed for a seaside romp, with her cream linen pants and matching blazer, gold jewelry that catches the sun every time she moves, and heels that have no business being on a boat.
She’s clutching her champagne flute like it’s a security blanket, and her knuckles are white because of it.
“I still can’t believe she’s gone,” Blaire says, and at least she sounds upset.
“We were just talking about my engagement party last week. My fiancé Preston and I are getting married next spring, and Brittany was helping with the planning. She had so many opinions.” At least his secret is safe now. Small mercies.
There it is—relief mixed with guilt, like she’s not sure if she’s allowed to feel grateful about something.
And did she say his secret? What secret?
Mental note: look into Preston and figure out what Brittany knew that has Blaire this relieved she’s dead.
Tamsin Rowe, the curvy woman with caramel highlights, is the only one who looks genuinely rattled.
She’s in head-to-toe athleisure—expensive athleisure, the kind that most people make monthly payments to own—and she keeps checking her phone like she’s expecting bad news.
Her leg is bouncing, and there’s a thin sheen of sweat on her forehead that has nothing to do with the heat.
“Brittany could be difficult,” Tamsin says with a short-lived smile, “but she didn’t deserve this.” Marcus keeps texting. What if someone finds out? What if I’m next?
Her thoughts are jagged and panicked, darting around like a trapped bird. She glances at Sloane and then quickly looks away, and I file that interesting exchange away for later.
And there’s Marcus again. A third mention of him in two days and I still have no idea who he is.
That tall leggy blonde who was having a tiff with Brittany yesterday is here as well, and since we haven’t met yet, I take the initiative.
“Hi, I’m Bizzy,” I say, holding out a hand her way, and she gives a little shake. Her fingers are ice-cold despite the triple digit temps we seem to be having. It could be worse. She could be melting like the rest of us.
She inches back and blinks. “Oh right! Nice to meet you. I’m Kennedy Mills. I saw you at the inn last night. I guess it’s your inn. It’s actually lovely.”
“Thank you,” I say, surprised she’s refreshingly sweet. Or at least seemingly so.
Kennedy Mills is trying so hard to blend in it’s almost painful to watch.
She’s in a sundress that’s two seasons out of date, and she’s laughing too loud at everything everyone says.
She’s got Biscuit Gravy with her, sitting at her feet with a devotion that lets us know he’d put his life on the line to defend her.
Unless, of course, she’s the killer. Then he should absolutely bite her ankle.
“I’m sorry about your friend.”
Friend? Kennedy blinks away the thought. “Yes, thank you. Oh, it’s just awful,” she says, nodding enthusiastically. “I mean, who would do something like that? To one of us?”
At least the blackmail stops. But now what? Should I tell someone? Would they even believe me?
The tiny dog in her arms gives a few quick barks.
I can’t believe we’re on a big fancy boat surrounded by potential killers with nowhere to run or hide! Biscuit Gravy gives another quick bark like his anxiety is kicking in. But on the bright side, we’ve got snacks. SNACKS!
Sherlock barks and Biscuit Gravy joins the doggie chorus until Fish hisses at them both to stop.
Georgie leans over to Mom. “Which one of these Hashtag Harpies do you think did it? My money’s on the one in the fancy dress. She looks like she could snap at any moment.”
“Georgie,” Mom hisses, but she’s already eyeing Sloane like she’s about to pull on a loose thread.
“What?” Georgie says at full volume. “I’m just saying, the quiet ones are always the most psychotic.”
Mackenzie shoots them a look that could make all of their hair fall out on cue. “This is supposed to be a healing circle. A safe space to process our grief.”
“Is that what we’re calling it?” one of the girls behind us mutters, and someone else snorts into their champagne.
Mackenzie takes a breath, clearly trying to salvage the moment.
“You know what? Let’s change the subject.
Let’s talk about something positive. Summer vacations!
Where is everyone going this year?” She brightens immediately, like she just pulled the perfect topic out of thin air.
“Huxley and I are spending two weeks in Santorini next month. There’s a business development conference, and we’re making a whole trip out of it.
Sun, spa, incredible food—I cannot wait. ”
Kennedy perks up. “Oh, that sounds amazing. I’ve always wanted to go to Greece.”
“You should,” Mackenzie says warmly. “It’s supposed to be absolutely stunning. What about you, Blaire? Any trips planned?”
Blaire smiles, swirling her champagne. “Preston and I are doing the Amalfi Coast in September. We rented a villa.” Santorini? Blaire tips her head with a look of surprise. On a mayor’s salary? Right. Someone’s spending taxpayer money.
“The Amalfi Coast sounds gorgeous,” Mackenzie gushes. “Tamsin, what about you?”
Tamsin shrugs, looking uncomfortable. “Nothing fancy. Just a long weekend in Vermont with my family.” I can’t believe Mackenzie gets two weeks in Greece, she thinks to herself, eyeing Mackenzie.
Huxley works part-time and she’s a small-town mayor.
Where’s that money coming from? Actually, I don’t want to know.
“Vermont’s lovely,” Mackenzie says quickly, like she’s trying to salvage Tamsin’s answer. “So peaceful.”
The conversation shifts, but I catch the look Blaire and Tamsin exchange—just a flicker, but it’s there.
It seems they’re both having thoughts about Mackenzie’s summer getaway—as am I.
A crew member in a crisp white uniform appears with a tray of appetizers—shrimp cocktail, smoked salmon on crackers, what might actually be caviar—and Sherlock’s entire body quivers with hope. Please tell me some of that is falling on the floor. Something. Anything.
“We should do a toast,” a woman in head-to-toe rhinestone holds up a glass as she says it. “To Brittany!”
The suggestion lands like a dead fish on the deck. Nobody moves. Nobody speaks.
Each one of them is standing here holding drinks and pretending not to be relieved that Brittany Vanderbilt is no longer around to make our lives miserable.
Sloane finally raises her glass. “To Brittany. May she forever rest in peace.”
It’s possibly the most insincere toast I’ve ever heard, and I’ve been to a lot of weddings where the bride and groom clearly hate each other. In fact, there was one just last month.
Everyone else raises their glasses in a halfhearted salute, and we all take awkward sips while the yacht rocks gently beneath us.
“Did they say what time she died?” Blaire asks, and her voice cracks just slightly. “I mean, for the investigation?”
“Between nine and ten is when I last saw her,” Mackenzie says, and she’s eyeing this crowd like they owe her money.
In the least, they owe her an alibi. But then, I suppose that’s what I’m here for.
Playing amateur detective despite the fact that she’s the one who literally had the murder weapon in her hand.
“Which means whoever did it was still at the party. And whoever did this, is definitely not me.”
Blaire gives a little laugh. “Me thinks the killer doth protest too much.”
A round of titters circles the vessel.
I’ll admit, I had to bite back a laugh myself.
“We were all at the party,” Kennedy says with a shrug. “And that doesn’t mean anything.”
It means one of us is a killer and the rest of us are sitting ducks. She winks at Mackenzie with the thought.
What was that wink for? Is she the killer? And is Mackenzie next?
Oh good grief, it wasn’t bad enough that I have to help clear Mack’s name, do I have to stop her from being the next victim, too?
And more importantly, would I?
“I saw her arguing with someone,” one of the background friends offers. “Near the dunes. Around eight-thirty?”
“Who?” three people ask at once.
“I don’t know. I couldn’t see from where I was standing. But she was definitely upset.”
I saw that argument. That was Kennedy. But I don’t dare say anything because right now, I’m more interested in watching how everyone reacts to the information.
They’re all so predictable, Sloane thinks. Give them something to gossip about and they’ll tear each other apart without any help.
Preston better not mess this up. Blaire’s thoughts race. If anyone finds out about the money...
Kennedy’s eyes dart around the group like she’s expecting someone to point at her and yell “Murderer!” I should have just paid her. This is so much worse.
And Tamsin—poor, scared Tamsin—is practically pulsating with anxiety. I need to tell someone. But who? What if they find out I’m talking?
“Well,” Georgie announces, standing up and nearly toppling over as the boat hits a wave, “I think we should play a game. Twenty questions. Everyone asks the person next to them where they were when Brittany died.”
“Georgie, sit down,” Mom says, grabbing her arm.
“What? I’m just trying to be helpful.”
“You’re trying to start a riot.”
“Same thing.”
Mackenzie pinches the bridge of her nose. “Can we please just have one civilized gathering without someone accusing someone else of murder?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Georgie mutters, but she sits back down anyway.
The yacht starts turning, heading back toward the marina, and I can see the coastline getting closer. The sun is starting to dip lower in the sky, painting everything in that golden late-afternoon light that makes even murder investigations look pretty.
This has been the longest boat ride of my life, Fish says. And I once got trapped in a fishing boat for six hours.
I’m just saying, if anyone wants to share that caviar, I’m available, Sherlock barks.
We’re all going to die on this boat, Biscuit Gravy says dramatically. I can feel it. Death by rich people and bad decisions. It happened before—in fact, just last night to Brittany.
He’s got a point there.
Blaire bolts up suddenly, her champagne sloshing over the rim of her glass. “I need some air.”
We’re literally surrounded by air, and far too much of it, but nobody points that out.
She makes her way toward the back of the yacht—the stern, I think they call it, though I’m not about to start using nautical terms now—and positions herself near the railing, staring out at the water.
There she is. All alone. She’s practically begging me to pay her a visit.
I catch Mackenzie’s eye and give her a subtle nod. She understands immediately, because despite our complicated history, we’re both good at reading a room.
“Fish, Sherlock, Biscuit Gravy—stay with Mom and Georgie,” I murmur.
Finally, Fish says. Some action. Try not to get us pushed overboard.
If you need backup, just whistle, Sherlock offers.
You don’t know how to whistle, Bizzy, Biscuit Gravy points out. I heard you try it this morning.
I start making my way across the deck toward Blaire Kensington.
Time to find out exactly what secrets died with Brittany Vanderbilt, and why Blaire’s so relieved about it.