Chapter 11
Sloane Fletcher-Ramsey is standing where the sand meets the rocks, looking out at the water with a stillness that suggests she’s either deep in thought or actively avoiding going back to the table.
I couldn’t blame her for that second one.
The sun’s completely gone now, just a smear of deep purple and faded orange on the horizon, and the string lights back at the lobster carnage are twinkling like we’re at a wedding instead of a murder investigation disguised as a lobster boil.
The ocean is doing its rhythmic crash thing against the rocks, and the air smells like salt and seaweed and the lingering ghost of a thousand pounds of melted butter.
Red, white, and blue bunting flutters between tiki torches, and there are miniature American flags stuck into the sand every few feet like we’re preparing for a very patriotic invasion.
The whole setup is aggressively festive, which feels wildly inappropriate given that someone was stabbed just a few days ago.
I walk up beside her, stealth, with my feet quiet on the sand.
“Nice view,” I say.
She turns and smiles, and it’s the first time tonight I’ve seen her look actually relaxed. “I was just thinking the same thing. Though I’m not sure if I mean the ocean or the fact that I can’t hear anyone complaining about their manicure from here.”
I laugh. “The butter casualties were significant.”
“They really were.” Sloane grins. “Your sister’s demonstration of proper lobster-cracking technique was both helpful and vaguely threatening. I’m not sure Kennedy will ever recover.”
“Macy has a very specific teaching style.”
“I noticed. Her philosophy of if you can’t crack it, you don’t deserve to eat it is a mantra I can get behind.” Sloane’s laugh is genuine. “She’s got zero patience for incompetence, doesn’t she?”
“None whatsoever. And she has opinions about everything. Ask me how I know.”
“The stain remover emergency kit was a nice touch. She’s very prepared. Very ‘I told you this would be a disaster.’”
I can’t help but laugh. “That’s Macy in a nutshell. She’ll tell you exactly what’s going to go wrong, show up with supplies to fix it, and then remind you that she was right.”
“And somehow you still love her for it.”
“Somehow I always do.” I frown out at the water. “Macy’s got a memory like a steel trap and zero filter when she’s annoyed.”
“I noticed.” Sloane grins. “She reminds me of someone I used to know. Same energy. Same refusal to back down, even when she probably should.”
There’s affection in her voice, something warm and genuine, and I realize I might have been wrong about Sloane being ice all the way through. Maybe she’s just careful. Maybe she’s just good at protecting herself in a group that doesn’t seem to protect anyone.
“Macy’s protective of people she cares about,” I say. “Which is a short list, but if you’re on it, she’ll go to war for you.”
“I can respect that.” Sloane looks back at the table where Macy is now showing Kennedy the proper way to extract meat from a lobster tail like she’s a surgeon. “She’s built something real with that shop. That takes guts.”
“It does.”
We’re quiet for a moment, just listening to the waves, and it’s surprisingly comfortable. Not the tense standoff I was expecting. Just two women taking a breather from a chaotic evening.
“This whole week has been exhausting,” Sloane says finally. “Mackenzie means well—I think she genuinely does—but grief isn’t a group activity. You can’t schedule it between booze cruises and lobster boils.”
“Agree,” I say, kicking up a little sand because I’m about to do just that verbally, too. “Were you and Brittany close?”
Her expression shifts, something complicated crossing her face. “We were. For a while. We had similar goals, understood each other’s ambitions. But...” She trails off like she’s choosing her words carefully. “Friendships change. People grow apart. Priorities shift.”
“Oh? What shifted?”
“Everything, really.” She turns to face me fully now. “Brittany was brilliant at what she did—real estate, social media, networking. But she was also exhausting. Everything was content. Everything was an opportunity. After a while, it felt less like friendship and more like a transaction.”
There’s genuine sadness there, and I believe her. Whatever happened between them, it left a mark.
She looks out at the water and nods. At least that problem solved itself. One down.
The thought is there and gone, so quick I almost miss it, but it leaves a cold spot between my ribs.
One down.
One down from what?
“That must have been hard,” I say, keeping my voice neutral. “Losing someone, even when the relationship sounds complicated.”
“It is.” She’s quiet for a beat. “I think half the people here are relieved she’s gone, and the other half are pretending not to be. And I’m somewhere in the middle, trying to figure out which half I’m supposed to be in.”
The honesty surprises me. It’s the most real thing anyone in Mackenzie’s friend group has said all week.
“For what it’s worth,” I offer, “I don’t think there’s a right way to grieve someone who made your life difficult.”
“Thank you for that.” She smiles as she sniffs back tears. “You’re easier to talk to than I expected.”
“Should I be insulted?”
“Probably not. I just meant—” She laughs. “Mackenzie’s been singing your praises all week. The brilliant innkeeper, the amateur detective, the woman who can do it all. It’s a lot to live up to.”
I blink. “Mackenzie said that? My Mackenzie? The one who told me this morning I attract crime scenes like a magnet attracts metal shavings?” Not to mention I’m a fire hazard in the kitchen.
Sloane smiles. “She also said you’re the smartest person she knows. And that if anyone could figure this out, it’s you.”
“Huh.” I’m genuinely surprised. “She usually just threatens to murder me herself if I find another body.”
“I suspect you’re being modest.”
“I’m really not.”
Her phone buzzes in her clutch and she glances at it, her expression tightening for just a second before smoothing back to pleasant.
“Sorry,” she says, silencing it without looking at the message. “That’s my husband. He’s dealing with a client situation. Someone unhappy about timeline delays.”
She says it casually, but there’s something in the way she says client situation that sounds rehearsed. Like she’s said it a hundred times before.
“Renovation projects always have unhappy clients,” I say.
“They do. Occupational hazard.” She tucks the phone away. “But speaking of renovations—I’ve been thinking about that sunroom addition you mentioned. Off the library, right?”
My entire face lights up. I can feel it happening and I don’t even care.
“You remembered?”
“I did. And I’ve been thinking about it all week.
” She pulls out her phone, swipes through what appear to be architectural sketches.
“South-facing exposure, floor-to-ceiling windows, French doors leading out to the gardens. We could use reclaimed wood to match the existing library architecture, keep everything feeling cohesive. Add heated floors, UV-protective glass so the books don’t fade. Maybe some built-in window seats?”
She’s describing my dream. Literally. I’ve been sketching this exact sunroom in the margins of my planner for over a year, let alone in my mind for at least five.
“That sounds perfect,” I say, and I can hear the excitement in my own voice. “I’ve wanted to do something with that space forever, but every quote I’ve gotten has been astronomical.”
“Historic properties are tricky,” Sloane agrees.
“A lot of contractors don’t know how to work with them properly.
They either want to gut everything or they’re too scared to touch anything.
But my husband and I specialize in this kind of work.
It’s what we love. We just finished a gorgeous project for the Hendersons over in Rolling Oaks—added a conservatory to their 1890s Victorian. It turned out beautifully.”
The Hendersons. Rolling Oaks. It sounds impressive, and I make a mental note to ask around about them later. Just to see the finished work, obviously.
“When do you think you could start?”
“How about after the Fourth?” She tucks her phone away.
“We’re actually booked solid through September, but I could squeeze you in if we get started right away.
I’d just need a deposit to get things rolling.
We typically ask for fifty percent upfront to secure materials and the architect’s time.
Then I’ll have our architect draw up some preliminary plans.
He’s amazing. He can turn plans around in forty-eight hours.
You and Jasper can review everything before we break ground. ”
Fifty percent seems high for a deposit, but then again, I don’t know anything about construction costs. And if it means getting the sunroom done by fall...
“I’ll need to talk to Jasper first,” I say, trying to sound responsible even though I’m already mentally decorating the sunroom. “But I’m very interested. Really interested.”
“Of course. Talk to him. Think about it.” Sloane’s smile is genuine. “But honestly, Bizzy, if you decide to move forward this week, I can stop by the inn whenever works for you to pick up the deposit check. And we’ll get the ball rolling right away.”
Perfect, she thinks. Can’t wait to get this ball rolling. It feeds my account and it meets her needs, win-win all the way.
She’s not wrong there.
“I’ll talk to him tonight,” I promise.
There’s a commotion back at the table with Georgie’s voice rising above the others—something about needing me right this second—and both Sloane and I turn to look.
Mom’s waving at me with a frantic energy that suggests either someone’s injured or Georgie has said something she can’t take back.
“Duty calls,” I say as both Sloane and I move toward the group.
Sloane meets up with her cohorts who have all moved away from the tables and are now dipping their toes in the water.
But back at the table, Georgie is doing something that can only be described as a crime against fancy dinner parties.
She’s loading lobster into her purse—not discreetly tucking away a claw or two, not wrapping anything in a napkin like a civilized person, just straight-up grabbing chunks of lobster meat with her bare hands and dropping them into her enormous tote bag like she’s at a buffet with a to-go container.
“Georgie, what are you doing?” Mom hisses.
“Taking home leftovers. What does it look like I’m doing?”
“It looks like you’re committing a felony against shellfish!”
“There’s perfectly good lobster going to waste here, Preppy. I’m being economical.”
Macy’s been observing this whole scene with pure glee, and apparently she’s decided Georgie’s onto something because suddenly she’s reaching for her own purse.
Within seconds, she’s committed—corn on the cob vanishing into her bag, potatoes rolling in after, and then she grabs an entire lobster tail, wraps it in a napkin, and stuffs it in like she’s packing a lunch.
“Macy!” My voice comes out strangled. “You, too?”
“What? Georgie’s right. This is like fifty dollars of lobster per person. I’m not letting it go to waste.”
Mackenzie’s friends look like they’ve just witnessed a crime. Mouths open. Wine frozen halfway to their lips. They’re not wrong; this is grand theft lobster, and we’re not even pretending to be sorry.
I have never been more proud, Fish announces.
Wait, they can just TAKE the food? Biscuit Gravy sounds like his entire worldview just shattered. Like, just grab it and PUT IT IN A PURSE? Why doesn’t everyone do this ALL THE TIME?
I need a purse, Sherlock says urgently. Bizzy, I need a purse immediately.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” Mackenzie appears from nowhere, her voice hitting a pitch usually reserved for dog whistles. “YOU CANNOT PUT LOBSTER IN YOUR PURSE!”
“Why not?” Georgie asks, utterly unbothered. “You said this was a casual Maine experience. Well, this is how we do leftovers in Maine.”
“In CONTAINERS! In PROPER CONTAINERS! Not in DESIGNER HANDBAGS!”
“Eh.” Georgie shrugs. “My purse is from a craft fair. It’s seen worse.”
Macy nods along. “And mine is leather. It’ll wipe clean.”
“That is NOT the point!” Mackenzie is about to have a stroke. “You’re supposed to be CIVILIZED! You’re supposed to be CLASSY!”
“We are classy,” Georgie says, dropping another chunk of lobster into her bag. “We’re just also practical and hungry at odd hours in the night. Like you’ve never craved a good lobster at three in the morning.”
Strangely, I have. More than once.
Mom puts her head in her hands. “I don’t know them. I’ve never seen these women before in my life.” Never mind the fact I gave birth to one of them.
Blaire looks like she’s witnessing a felony and can’t decide whether to call the police or faint.
Tamsin’s filming the whole thing on her phone—probably for blackmail purposes.
Kennedy’s trying not to laugh and losing the battle spectacularly, wine threatening to come out of her nose.
And Sloane—Sloane’s got a real, genuine smile on her face, the kind that says she wishes she’d thought of this first.
“You know what?” Macy says, grabbing one more piece. “Emmie made this lobster, and Emmie wouldn’t want it wasted. So really, we’re honoring her hard work.”
“By putting it in your purse?” Mackenzie growls like she’s about to pounce.
“Exactly.”
Mackenzie makes a sound that’s half shriek, half sob, and storms off toward the parking area.
Georgie looks at Macy. Macy looks at Georgie.
They both dive for more lobster.
I love these women, Fish declares. I want to be exactly like them when I grow up.
Between Mackenzie’s meltdown and Georgie’s seafood smuggling operation, I’m starting to think the real mystery this week isn’t who killed Brittany—it’s how any of us are going to survive each other until the Fourth of July.