Chapter 8
Blaire Kensington stands at the railing, gazing out at the ocean like she’s part of the view.
The sun is dropping lower now, turning everything golden and hazy, and the ocean breeze has picked up enough that her auburn hair is actually moving despite what I’m guessing is half a can of high-end hairspray.
She’s still clutching that champagne flute, and from this angle I can see her knuckles are white.
The yacht rocks gently beneath us, and somewhere behind me I can hear Georgie asking Mom if they sell barf bags on luxury vessels.
I make my way across the teak deck with Fish tucked in my arms, Sherlock and Biscuit Gravy trailing behind like the world’s least intimidating backup team. So much for staying with my mother. Let’s just say they were insistent.
She smells expensive, Fish observes. Like old money and new secrets. Also, is that Chanel? Because I’m getting strong Chanel vibes. This woman screams get me to a country club, stat.
She sort of does.
“Pretty view,” I say, coming in hot to stand beside her.
Blaire startles just slightly, then turns to look at me. Her hazel eyes do a quick sweep of my outfit—shorts, tank top, sandals, the type of thing normal people wear on a boat—and I can see her processing and dismissing me in real time.
“Oh Bizzy.” She offers a cold smile. “How practical you look.”
There it is. The passive-aggressive compliment dressed up as an observation. I’ve heard variations of this my entire life from people like Blaire—women who think being mean is an art form as long as you say it with perfect diction.
But then, something shifts on a dime and her shoulders drop a notch as she looks back out at the water.
“I needed a moment away from all that.” She gestures vaguely toward the group behind us. “It’s exhausting, isn’t it? Pretending everything’s fine all the time.”
The admission surprises me. Maybe she’s human after all. Maybe underneath all that designer linen and borrowed pedigree, there’s an actual person with actual feelings.
But knowing the sort of company Mackenzie keeps, probably not.
“It must be hard,” I say, keeping my voice even-keeled. “Losing someone you were close to.”
“Close to?” She gives a hollow laugh. “I’m not sure any of us were close to Brittany. She didn’t really allow closeness. More like proximity with benefits.” That sounds like a compliment she didn’t earn. The only thing being close to that witch ever brought was pain.
Fish shifts in my arms, and Blaire notices her for the first time. Her expression softens a touch as she reaches out to scratch Fish behind the ears.
“Oh, aren’t you sweet?” she coos. “I’ve always loved cats,” she says, as her voice loses that sharp edge. “They’re so refined. So selective about who they give their affection to.”
I’m selective about everything, including who gets to pet me, Fish thinks, but she’s purring as loud as a jet engine, so clearly she approves.
“What’s her name?”
“Fish,” I tell her.
Blaire blinks my way. “You named your cat Fish?”
“Trust me,” I say, patting her on her furry back. “It was her idea.”
“I see.” Blaire gives a little laugh, but I get the feeling she doesn’t see at all. In fact, she’s too polite, or too confused, to push it. She clucks her tongue, still mesmerized by my four-footed cutie pie. “I always wanted a cat growing up. My father said they were too messy. Too unpredictable.”
She’s not wrong, Sherlock gives a soft woof. I can never predict when Fish is going to steal one of your cookies and blame it on me!
He’s lying! Bizzy, I demand you step on his tail. The oaf doesn’t have a truthful bone in his body. And not even in his name.
I bite back a smile and refocus on the suspect at hand.
There’s something in the way Blaire says my father that makes me think this isn’t a happy topic, but before I can follow up, she’s already moving on.
“Preston and I are getting married next spring,” she says, and now she’s back to that cultivated uppity tone. “We’re having the engagement party at the Rolling Oaks Country Club.”
“That sounds snazzy,” I say, then wince. I’m pretty sure people in Blaire’s social circles or even her tax bracket don’t use the word snazzy.
“It has to be perfect.” Her voice cracks just slightly. “I’ve been planning it for months. I almost cancelled the entire thing. After... well, everything. But Preston said life goes on.” The party has to go perfectly. It’s all I have left.
Her thoughts hit me clearly, and there’s a desperation there. Real, genuine panic wrapped up in wedding plans and seating charts.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe she does have a soul.
“You probably think I’m terrible,” Blaire says quietly. “We all are, aren’t we? Brittany’s friends. A pack of shallow, vapid women who care more about our social media presence than actual human connection.”
“Oh, I didn’t say that. I wouldn’t.” I would think it. And boy, have I ever.
“You didn’t have to.” She takes a sip of her champagne. “It’s what everyone thinks. You’re just a small-town girl who made good, runs an inn, and probably thinks we’re all monsters.”
The small-town girl comment stings more than it should, probably because there’s truth in it. I did grow up here. I do run an inn. And yeah, I’m definitely judging them.
Maybe I’m the monster.
“Did you know Brittany well?” I ask, trying to steer us back on track. She already said they weren’t close, but there has to be a way into this conversation that makes a modicum of sense.
Blaire’s face hardens. Just like that, the warmth evaporates like it was never there.
“I guess I knew her well enough.” Thank goodness she won’t ruin everything that has to do with my wedding. Talk about your small mercies.
And there it is. The relief. The gratitude that someone’s dead and gone and no longer a problem. Spoken like a true killer, or at least thought like one.
“She had a gift for finding people’s vulnerabilities,” Blaire continues, and now her voice has that brittle, dangerous quality. “Not everyone is as secure in their position as others. Some of us have reputations to maintain.” Some of us have secrets that would destroy everything if they got out.
I give a little gasp without meaning it. I can’t help it. That was a juicy tidbit.
I glance down at Sherlock, who’s sniffing the deck like he’s trying to find evidence, while Biscuit Gravy sits perfectly still, watching Blaire with an intensity that says he’s taking mental notes.
This lady talks pretty, but she doesn’t mean it, Biscuit Gravy observes. Don’t fall for it, Bizzy. I don’t trust her.
“I heard you two were arguing,” I say, keeping my tone casual. “At the party. Near the beach.”
Blaire stiffens. “Who told you that? Mackenzie?” That little snitch.
“Does it matter?”
“I suppose not.” She finishes her champagne in one long swallow and tosses the glass over the edge.
Wow, I’m pretty sure that’s against the boat’s policy, but something tells me Blaire isn’t too bothered by a little marine littering.
“Brittany had opinions about my engagement party.” She sighs.
“Unsolicited opinions about who should and shouldn’t be invited.
About who belonged in certain social circles.
” She was going to destroy me. Expose Preston.
Humiliate us in front of everyone who matters.
She was such a jerk-bag. I’m so glad she’s gone. I should throw a parade.
“That must have been frustrating,” I muse with all the sarcasm I could muster.
“Frustrating?” Blaire laughs, and it’s not a nice sound. “I guess that’s one word for it.”
“Where were you?” I ask. “When it happened?”
Her hand tightens on the railing. “I was inside. Freshening up. The humidity was atrocious, and my makeup was melting. You really should do something about the weather system on your property.”
My weather system? If I could control that, I would rule the world. Or in the least, coastal Maine. And you could bet your britches it would only snow for three days out of the year. Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and maybe Valentine’s Day if I’m in the frozen mood.
“So you were alone?” I ask.
“Yes, I was alone.” She meets my eyes, and there’s a steely resolve in them now. All the softness in her is gone. “Is that a problem?” As in no witnesses. Of course, there weren’t any witnesses. Why would there be?
“Just asking.”
“Well, don’t.” She turns back to the water. “I was fixing my face, and when I came back out, everyone was screaming about a body on the sand. That’s all I know regarding Brittany’s death.” I went for a walk. To clear my head after the argument. I needed air. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
Her thoughts are scrambling now, adjusting, creating a narrative that works. She’s changing her story in real time, and I’m not sure if she even realizes she’s doing it.
“Someone found a designer handbag near the dunes,” I say, watching her face. “Pale yellow. It actually matches your dress. And it looked expensive.”
“Of course, it’s expensive,” she hisses, then slaps her hand to her lips.
Blaire goes pale, which is impressive given the amount of bronzer she’s probably wearing.
“That’s mine.” The words come out too fast. “I must have dropped it. When I was walking. After I freshened up. I went for a walk to clear my head.” Talk about strongarming the truth out of me. I’d better ditch this conversation before I’m moved to throw myself in the water.
That’s one handbag-shaped mystery solved. But let’s be honest. I can’t help but wonder if it leads to another far more homicidal mystery.
A woman from the group—Tamsin, the athletic one with the fitness studio—walks past us and Blaire’s entire demeanor shifts like someone flipped a switch.
“Hey, Tamsin,” she calls out, her voice dripping with a faux sweetness. “Love the shoes. They’re so practical.”
“Thank you,” Tamsin says with a frown. Why can I feel another zinger coming?
Blaire’s lips curve with the hint of a sly smile. “It’s so brave of you to choose function over fashion.”