Chapter 9 #2
Emmie grunts. “I’d rather sail the open seas with a killer.”
I can’t help but chuckle.
Blaire Kensington comes to mind and I sober up. That was quite the conversation we had.
Leo clears his throat. “Blaire Kensington, did you say?”
“You don’t fight fair,” I say, shooting him with a frown.
Jasper looks between us. “All right. Share with the class. Not all of us are mind readers around here? It’s a bit creepy when you do that,” he says with a wink.
“It’s not creepy,” Leo and I say in perfect unison.
“It’s a little creepy,” Emmie adds, unveiling the third dish. “Mexican street corn elevated to fine dining, each cob slathered in chipotle-lime aioli, rolled in cotija cheese, and finished with chili-lime seasoning and fresh cilantro.”
The corn is perfectly charred, and the smell of smoky spice and citrus is making my mouth water.
Everyone reaches for a piece at once, and for a solid thirty seconds, the only sound is appreciative groaning.
This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted, Sherlock announces, and I once found an entire pizza in a dumpster behind the inn!
That’s not something to be proud of, Fish says. Although I do appreciate you sharing.
Says the cat who ate three-day-old tuna from the trash, Sherlock fires back. And, by the way, thank you, too, for sharing and caring!
That was one time, Fish growls. And I was young and foolish.
I’m just sorry we were sick for three days straight, she mewls and I nod. And I’m sorry the vet bill was enough to put Ella through college.
Cinnamon and Gatsby have abandoned their positions and are now engaged in a tug-of-war with a rope toy in the corner, growling and play-fighting while the rest of us gorge ourselves on all things delicious.
Amateurs, Fish observes, watching them. If you’re going to fight over something, make sure it’s food. Toys don’t fill your stomach. Although apparently hair does.
She wretches for a moment and I give her a look that says please anywhere but here.
“Mackenzie wants twelve dishes,” Emmie says, like she’s reporting a crime. “Twelve. For fifty people. On a beach. In July.”
“She’s not asking for food,” I say. “She’s asking for a miracle.”
“So, invisible, but impressive,” Leo adds with a laugh.
Em nods. “She’s asking for several miracles,” Emmie corrects, pacing like mad. “She wants it catered but not catered-looking. Elegant but beachy. Sophisticated but approachable.”
“Maybe she wants it to fail,” Jasper says. “It gives her someone to blame.”
Emmie stops pacing. “You think?”
“I don’t think,” I say. “I know because I’ve met her.”
Emmie inches back as if she’s just been hit in the face with a pie.
Leo pulls Emmie in and brushes a kiss to her lips. “Then you’ll crush it. All of it. Every dish.”
“She’ll still find something wrong,” Emmie mutters.
“Of course, she will,” I say. “That’s part of the experience.”
Leo smiles. “Mackenzie will be the one who’s wrong. And we’ll all know it.”
Emmie unveils dish after dish—mini crab cakes with remoulade that make Biscuit Gravy actually whimper with joy, watermelon feta salad with mint and balsamic that’s so light and refreshing I could eat an entire bowl, blueberry balsamic chicken with rosemary that’s perfectly cooked and makes Jasper go back for seconds.
The babies are getting increasingly sticky and happy, tossing bits of food to the pets who have wisely positioned themselves like tiny furry vacuum cleaners.
Elliot signs something in baby sign language, very official about it, and Ella watches him like he’s conducting a master class.
She tries to copy him and ends up windmilling her arms like she’s summoning a storm, which, honestly, is on par for this family.
“They’re friends,” Emmie says with a laugh.
“Best friends,” I agree. “Let’s hope they’re the kind that share snacks and don’t keep secrets. Wild concept in today’s world. They’re going to be just like us.”
She tips her head. “Let’s hope with zero murders in their future.”
I make a face. “Bold of you to assume there won’t be murders.”
Jasper places his hands on my shoulders, his thumbs working small circles into the tension he finds there. “Tell me about Blaire.”
This man really does know which buttons to push to get me to do his bidding.
So I do. The handbag. The weak alibi. The way her thoughts screamed relief that Brittany was gone. The passive-aggressive cruelty wrapped up in perfect diction and designer clothing.
“But here’s the thing,” I say, accepting a strawberry shortcake parfait from Emmie that’s layered with pound cake, fresh whipped cream, and berries in a way that looks almost too pretty to eat. “Blaire won’t even eat carbs in public. You really think she’s going to risk a murder charge?”
Leo raises an eyebrow. “That’s your defense? She’s too vain?”
“I’m saying people who care that much about appearances don’t usually commit crimes that involve blood spatter.”
Emmie brings out the final dishes—mini beef Wellington bites that make everyone moan, blue cheese stuffed dates wrapped in prosciutto that shouldn’t work but absolutely do, and lemon blueberry tarts that are so good I immediately eat two.
The pets are getting increasingly spoiled, and Sherlock has abandoned all pretense of dignity in favor of sitting directly at Jasper’s feet with an expression that says I’m starving, and if you don’t feed me, you’re a monster.
Of course, he’s fed, by all of us.
I’m never eating regular dog food again, Sherlock barks with glee.
Me neither. This is the life I was meant for, Biscuit Gravy agrees.
You’ll eat anything, Fish counters. Including that questionable thing you found in the parking lot yesterday. We still don’t know what it was.
Sherlock maintains it was “crunchy and delicious,” which narrows it down to approximately nothing helpful.
He lifts his chin. Doesn’t mean I can’t have standards when I want to.
The babies are starting to fade out for the night. Elliot is rubbing his eyes, and Ella is fighting sleep with everything she has, still trying to grab at anything within reach even as her eyelids droop.
Jasper carries Ella now, cradling her against his chest like she’s made of spun glass, and we walk across the inn grounds toward our cottage with Fish in my arms and Sherlock and Biscuit Gravy following behind.
The night air is warm and soft, full of cricket song and the distant sound of the ocean. Twinkle lights are strung between the trees, and the whole property glows with that magic-hour light that makes even mundane things look romantic.
“She’s beautiful,” Jasper whispers, looking down at Ella.
“She is,” I agree.
“So are you.”
I lean into him, breathing in the smell of his cologne mixed with sea air and whatever dish soap he used when he helped Leo clean up.
“When this is all over...” His voice drops lower, meant just for me.
“When what’s all over?”
“The murder. The investigation. Mackenzie’s weeklong reign of terror.”
“That’s a long list.”
He nods. “I’m taking you away. Just us. Somewhere with no dead bodies and no mean girls and no civic budget constraints.”
“Is there such a place?”
He laughs softly and the sound vibrates through his chest. “We’ll find it. Maybe somewhere tropical. With umbrella drinks and terrible Wi-Fi.”
“Terrible Wi-Fi is the dream,” I say with a moan.
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
We reach our cottage, the porch light glowing soft and welcoming, and Jasper shifts Ella carefully, reaching for the door with his free hand.
“Let’s get her to bed,” he says.
“And then?”
The smile he gives me is pure promise. “And then I have plans.”
“What kind of plans?”
“The kind that don’t involve murder investigations or yacht clubs or budget negotiations.”
Between the lobster rolls and the lemon tarts and the way Jasper’s looking at me right now, I’m starting to think maybe murder investigations aren’t entirely terrible—at least not when they come with a found family, exceptional food, and a husband who can make even a nightmare week sound like foreplay.