Chapter 13
It’s the very next day and I’ve been on my feet since six this morning, coordinating Fourth of July prep for the big day coming up, and if one more vendor asks me where the patriotic decor goes, I’m going to start answering in the ocean just to see what happens.
Every inch of my sweet inn looks like it’s been touched by Uncle Sam.
Red, white, and blue bunting is draped across every available surface, miniature flags sprout from planters like a very aggressive crop, and there’s an inflatable bald eagle the size of a compact car positioned near the gazebo that keeps deflating on one side so it looks perpetually drunk.
Mackenzie’s vision of “tasteful Americana” has devolved into what can only be described as patriotic chaos, and really, I’m too tired to care.
It’s late afternoon, that golden hour when the heat finally starts to break and the ocean breeze picks up.
The air smells like sunscreen and fresh-cut grass and the faint char of barbecue.
Ella’s been at the beach with Gwyneth and Dad all day.
I can see them from my office window, with Dad building an elaborate sandcastle while Gwyneth reads under an umbrella.
And Ella is napping now, which means I have exactly forty-five minutes of peace before the evening shift starts.
I’m collapsed at my desk, staring at a spreadsheet that might as well be written in ancient Greek, when Mom and Georgie burst through the door in their beach cover-ups.
Mom is wearing a white mesh cover-up over a retro one-piece with high cut legs that suggest the ’80s had very different ideas about modesty. Her shoulders are sun-spotted and glowing, and she’s got her sunglasses pushed up on top of her feathered red hair.
Georgie is in a tropical print kaftan over a floral tankini with enough ruffles to qualify as a craft project. Her gray tumbleweed of hair is piled on top of her head and secured with a bedazzled roach clip featuring actual peacock feathers.
Because, why not?
They’re both sandy, tanned, and radiating the type of energy that says they’ve been discussing something important.
“We’ve been talking about your case,” Georgie announces, dropping her beach bag on my desk.
“My case?”
“The murder. Keep up.” She pulls out her phone. “We have thoughts.”
Mom settles into the chair across from me. “So what’s your next move?”
I’ve been thinking about exactly that question ever since Jasper asked it last night. Between setting up sound systems and arguing with vendors about outlet placement, my brain’s been circling back to one person.
Tamsin.
“I’d like to talk to Tamsin Rowe,” I say.
“The wellness guru?” Mom asks. That woman’s had more work done than a 1952 Buick.
“That’s her.” I choose my words with precision because Mom doesn’t know I can read minds and I’d like to keep it that way. “I noticed some tension between her and Brittany the night of the murder. And she made a comment that stuck with me. Something about real society versus playing dress-up.”
Georgie winks at me. “I got you covered,” she says and starts scrolling through her phone. “Let’s see what Little Miss Athleisure is up to.” Her fingers fly across the screen. “Tamsin Rowe... personal trainer... here we go. Her Insta Pictures account is public. Rookie mistake.”
She turns the phone so Mom and I can see. Tamsin’s feed is a parade of gym selfies, protein shake promotions, and motivational quotes about grinding and hustling and other words that make me tired just reading them.
“She’s always at her gym,” Georgie says. “Sculpt and Slay Studio in Seaview. Every single post is tagged there. The woman is either dedicated to her body or has no life outside of squats.”
“Probably both,” Mom murmurs.
Georgie looks up with a glint in her eye that I recognize as trouble. “Why don’t we drive down and corner the killer?”
Mom rolls her eyes. “I’m in, but don’t get any funny ideas about making me do hot yoga or goat Pilates or whatever ridiculous trend rich people are subjecting themselves to these days.”
“We’re just going to talk to her,” I say.
“Sure, we are.” Georgie heads for the door. “That’s how these things always start.”
Ten minutes later, we’ve changed into what can only loosely be described as workout attire.
Georgie emerges from the bathroom in a bright purple kaftan-style cover that has NAMASTE bedazzled across the chest in rhinestones, paired with leopard print leggings and bedazzled sneakers that catch the light like a disco ball.
Her hair is in a top knot secured by the same peacock-feathered roach clip from earlier, and the whole effect is somewhere between yoga instructor and Vegas showgirl.
Meanwhile Mom has gone full eighties aerobics fantasy.
Hot pink leotard over black leggings, white leg warmers bunched at her ankles, pristine Reeboks, and a sweatband around her forehead with matching wristbands.
She looks like she’s about to lead a Jane Fonda class, and I can’t decide if I’m mortified or impressed.
I’ve managed to pull together whatever was clean—purple leggings with a mysterious stain I’m choosing to ignore and a bright yellow tank top that says RUNNING LATE IS MY CARDIO in block letters. My hair is in a messy ponytail that’s already giving up on life.
Mom produces three neon pink headbands from her beach bag. “I bought these for exactly this purpose.”
“What purpose?” I ask.
“Undercover fitness investigation. Obviously.”
We all put them on. We look absolutely insane.
“We look like a workout-themed circus act,” I say.
“Perfect.” Georgie adjusts her roach clip. “We’ll blend right in.”
We will absolutely not blend in.
The pets have wisely decided to stay behind. Fish is perched on the reception desk accepting treats from passing guests, Sherlock is sprawled in a patch of sunlight, and Biscuit Gravy has discovered that if he sits near the café entrance feigning innocence, people give him bacon.
Lots and lots of bacon.
I’d rather greet guests and accept treats than voluntarily participate in exercise, Fish mewls as we leave.
Same, girl. Same.
Running is for when someone’s chasing you or holding food, Sherlock adds. This is neither.
No, it isn’t.
The drive to Seaview takes twenty minutes through summer traffic. Mom has her eighties playlist cranked up—Madonna, Cyndi Lauper, something that involves a lot of synthesizer—and Georgie keeps adjusting her feathered roach clip in the visor mirror.
I’m wondering if this is a terrible idea, but it’s too late to back out now.
Sculpt and Slay Studio is less gym and more luxury spa masquerading as a place of physical exertion.
The building is all glass and steel. The lobby features marble floors and a waterfall feature that’s probably supposed to be calming but just makes me need to pee.
The air smells like eucalyptus and money, and everyone inside looks as if they shower in expensive activewear and consider kale a personality trait.
We stick out immediately.
The receptionist—young, fit, with the kind of judgmental eyebrows that could hurt you—tries very hard not to stare at Georgie’s bedazzled kaftan.
“Can I help you?” Her smile is professional but strained.
“We’re here to see Tamsin Rowe,” I say.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“We’re friends,” Georgie lies smoothly. “It’s a surprise visit. I brought lobster.” She holds up her purse and both Mom and I groan.
The receptionist looks skeptical but checks her computer. “She should be in her office. Down the hall, last door on the right.”
We navigate the pristine hallway—more marble, motivational posters about pushing limits, the distant sound of weights clanking—and find Tamsin’s office at the end.
The door is closed.
I knock.
No answer.
Try the handle.
Locked.
“Maybe she’s on the gym floor?” Mom suggests.
We backtrack through the lobby, and I’m about to suggest we check the main workout area when Georgie’s roach clip catches on a decorative plant.
“Ow! Hang on—”
She yanks it free, but the clip goes flying. It bounces across the marble floor with a series of metallic clinks, the peacock feathers fluttering dramatically, and rolls toward the back exit like it’s making a break for freedom, that or taking flight.
“That cost me twelve dollars at a craft fair!” Georgie takes off after it.
Mom and I follow because we’re apparently committed to this chaos.
The clip rolls right out the back door, and we burst into the employee area—right through the parking lot, past the dumpsters, and into the landscaping bushes that are trying very hard to look expensive.
“Got it!” Georgie lunges for the clip.
Her foot catches on something.
She goes down hard, landing on her hands and knees in the mulch.
“Ow! What the—”
She looks down at what tripped her.
It’s a leg.
Attached to a body.
Tamsin Rowe is face-down in the bushes behind her own gym, and there’s a knife sticking out of her back.
We all scream.
Another body. Another knife. Another suspect gone before I could ask her what she knew.
Tamsin Rowe is dead in the bushes behind her own gym with a knife in her back, and the only witness to her final moments might be Georgie’s twelve-dollar feathered roach clip—which somehow feels like the most dignified thing about this entire disaster.