Chapter 8 #2
And there it is, Tamsin muses to herself as she blows past us. Tamsin flinches and keeps walking, and I watch Blaire’s smile widen. These people wouldn’t last five minutes in my world. Real society. They’re all just playing dress-up.
I clear my throat. “I guess we’re all getting to that age, aren’t we? Function over fashion is a very real thing,” I say, not feeling bad at all to launch a quasi-barb of my own.
Oh, she didn’t, Blaire thinks as she glares my way. “I guess we are.” She flashes a saccharin smile my way.
Any sympathy I had for her evaporates on the spot. The vulnerability, the warmth, the moment of genuine human connection—all of it was a performance. This is who she really is. Mean for sport. Cruel because she can be.
“Where were we?” Blaire asks, turning back to me like she didn’t just emotionally knife someone.
This woman is one to talk, Bizzy, Fish meows from my lap. Her shoes are ridiculous for a boat. Who wears heels on a yacht? Someone who’s never actually been on a working boat, that’s who.
I nod to Fish before looking back at the woman. “You were telling me about your walk,” I say.
“Was I?” She tilts her head. “I don’t remember. The whole night is rather fuzzy. I was in shock, I suppose.”
“Blaire, what did Brittany have on you? It seems she had dirt on just about everyone,” I say with a laugh like I’m teasing, but I think we both know I’m not.
The question lands like a slap, and Blaire’s smile freezes solid. What does this woman think she knows?
“What did Brittany have on me?” Now it’s her clearing her throat.
“Nothing. I’m an open book.” If anyone finds out about my father...
about who I really am... about where I actually came from...
“Brittany liked to pretend she knew things,” Blaire continues.
“She was nothing but drama for attention all the time. That’s all she was, really. Drama in designer clothing.”
I won’t argue with that, Fish mewls. But it doesn’t change the fact we have a murder to solve.
I nod because it’s true.
“Was she planning something for your party?” I ask. “Maybe some kind of surprise announcement?” If I were a betting woman, I’d land one serious chunk of change down in Vegas.
“Oh Bizzy.” Blaire’s sunglasses slip off her face and she catches them before they hit the deck, but just barely. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Preston’s gambling is nothing compared to the truth about me. Nothing.
The yacht engine changes pitch, and I can feel us turning, heading back toward the marina. Behind us, I can hear people gathering their things, checking phones, making plans for tomorrow.
“Preston seems nice,” I say, like I know of him. And seeing how social media- obsessed these women are, I have a feeling she thinks I should.
For just a second, Blaire’s face softens again. “Preston is wonderful. We’re perfect together.” She sniffs toward the horizon. “Even if some people disagreed.”
That was past tense, Biscuit Gravy gives a sharp bark.
I nod and don’t think I won’t jump on it, too.
“Brittany disagreed?” I ask rather boldly.
“Brittany had concerns. Financial concerns. Ridiculous concerns, really.” She waves it off. “But she did like to stir the pot.” The debt is manageable. Once we’re married, once I have access to my trust fund again, once everything is official...
I’m starting to see the picture. Preston might be marrying her for money. I bet Brittany knew about it. And Blaire either doesn’t know or doesn’t care because Preston’s the ticket to the life she’s built for herself.
I frown at the thought. A woman like Blaire should know she doesn’t need a man to achieve status or anything else.
“Did you argue about that with her last night?” Right before you stabbed her in the back, I want to add but don’t.
“Please.” Blaire groans. “That was the last thing I ever wanted to discuss with her.”
“Well, do you know if Brittany had any disagreements with anyone else?”
“No, but if you really want to know anything about Brittany, you should talk to Sloane.”
“Sloane?” I quickly scan the boat until I spot the redhead laughing and chatting it up with Mackenzie. And shockingly, Mackenzie looks like she’s having a good time for once. Miracles do happen, I suppose.
“Sloane and Brittany were thick as thieves lately,” Blaire goes on.
“Always whispering, always having private conversations. If anyone knew what Brittany was planning, it was Sloane.” She adjusts her blazer.
If only I knew more, then maybe things wouldn’t have had to turn out the way they did.
Her expression sours with the thought. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a party to perfect. ”
She starts to walk away, then pauses. “Oh, and Bizzy? That outfit is very,” she takes a moment to bleed a dark smile, “comfortable looking.”
Oh, for goodness’ sake. These women can’t go ten steps without trying to make someone feel bad about their lives.
But before I can respond, Georgie appears from behind a deck chair like a kaftan-wearing ninja.
“So what did our killer say?” she shouts at full volume, loud enough to compete with the wind. “Did she confess to stabbing her bestie in the back, in front of her face?”
I frown over at my octogenarian bestie.
My face is pure undiluted horror. But thankfully no one seems to notice.
“Because I’ve been watching,” Georgie continues, pulling out her phone, “and she touched her necklace seventeen times. That’s a clear murderous tell. I saw it on Criminal Minds.”
Mom materializes beside her. “Georgie, we talked about this.”
“We talked about a lot of things. Doesn’t mean I listened.”
Georgie aims her phone at Blaire. “Say cheese! I’m documenting the investigation for my podcast.”
“Your WHAT?” Blaire takes a step back.
“Murder and Mischief with Georgie. Episode one: “Rich Girls and Dead Bodies.” My daughter, Juni, is helping me set it up. We’re going to make a killing. Get it? A killing!”
She snaps a photo of Blaire’s horrified expression, and I have to give it to her—it’s a good shot. Pure terror mixed with indignation.
Blaire flees toward the safety of the group, her heels clicking against the deck.
Mom sighs. “You don’t have a podcast.”
“I do now. Minus the sponsorships.” Georgie grins. “Juni thinks it’s a great idea. Said we could sell ad space to local businesses. Maybe get the inn involved. This murder is brought to you by the Country Cottage Inn, where you can check in but you might not check out.”
I want to be on the podcast, Sherlock says with a hopeful bark. Do I get treats for being on podcasts?
Only if you’re the one that bit the big one, Fish says with a swipe of her paw.
This family is chaos and I’m here for it, Biscuit Gravy adds with a yelp.
We are family more or less, and we are certainly pure chaos.
We’re never solving this murder if Georgie keeps terrorizing suspects, Fish notes. But I have to admit, it is entertaining.
I watch Blaire rejoin the safety of her pack, still visibly shaken. She’s hiding something big—multiple somethings, probably—and the handbag is damning, the alibi is weak, and the motive is strong enough to build a case on.
But here’s the thing about Blaire Kensington—I have a feeling if she killed Brittany Vanderbilt, she wouldn’t have left evidence behind.
She would have planned it down to the last detail, hired someone else to do it, and had an airtight alibi involving at least three witnesses and a timestamped selfie.
Unless, of course, red-hot rage won out over careful planning and an Insta Pictures perfect life.
Murder is messy, and I’m starting to wonder if someone like Blaire dabbles in messy.