Chapter 15
Two bodies.
Two bodies in less than a week.
Two bodies in less than a week, and a countrywide celebration is just around the corner.
It’s the next day and Emmie, Jordy, and I have run ourselves ragged trying to meet the list of demands Mackenzie sent over for what she’s calling the Stars, Stripes, and Seaside Spectacular.
As it turns out, she’s shortened the parade to just one hour, which means all eyes on the inn for the entire afternoon and well into sunset. Lucky me.
She’s requested I cordon off another corner of the beach for a private party.
Her private party. She’s also asked that I coordinate with the fire marshal for fireworks safety, arrange live band setup on the gazebo, order two hundred custom star-spangled napkins, install additional string lights along the cove perimeter, and organize parking for what she’s calling “overflow guests” but what I’m calling “half of coastal Maine.”
Oh, and there are beverage stations with patriotic cocktails, coordination with catering for seafood boil round two, strategically hidden porta-potties behind decorative screens, sound system testing for the national anthem, extended lifeguard coverage, a photo booth with an American flag backdrop, ice sculptures shaped like eagles—eagles—and day-after trash removal.
I’m one request away from a nervous breakdown.
I’m exhausted just reading the list, and I’ve already tackled half of it.
It’s almost five now, and Ella’s in her stroller at the reception counter while Sherlock and Biscuit Gravy run circles around her trying to make her laugh by way of hide-and-seek.
Fish has climbed into the stroller with her, and the two of them are chittering at each other in whatever language babies and cats share when adults aren’t paying attention.
Ella is tolerable, Fish mewls while batting at Ella’s tiny fingers. I think we should keep her, Bizzy.
“I’m glad you approve,” I say.
I think I’m winning! Biscuit Gravy announces from behind a potted plant.
You’re not hiding, Sherlock points out. We can literally see you.
My phone goes off and Mackenzie’s name lights up the screen. My stomach does a full revolution just at the sight of it.
Mackenzie: Get down to The Salty Spur STAT. Emergency friend meeting. You need to be here.
Emergency friend meeting. Because that’s a thing that requires my presence when I’m currently coordinating what amounts to a small scale patriotic invasion.
I try my best to find a sitter. Dad and Gwyneth went to Brambleberry Bay for dinner.
Jasper is still at work processing Tamsin’s crime scene.
Emmie’s swamped with menu prep. I can’t get in touch with my mother.
Her phone is going straight to voicemail, which is either suspicious or she’s napping.
My sister Buffy is bogged down at Sea Beans and Books until closing.
I briefly consider asking Georgie to babysit, then immediately decide I don’t have the stomach for whatever chaos that would unleash.
Which leaves me with exactly one option.
“Looks like you’re coming with Mommy,” I tell Ella, who claps her hands and laughs.
We’ll guard the inn, Fish volunteers. Not to mention the sunbeams are optimal for napping this time of day.
We’ll protect all the small rooms and eat any threats, Sherlock adds enthusiastically.
I don’t think that’s how guarding works, Biscuit Gravy says.
It does now, Sherlock barks as he licks up a crumb I can’t see.
I’m halfway to the parking lot when Mom and Georgie intercept me, both of them in summer dresses and looking suspiciously refreshed.
“Where have you two been?” I ask as Ella gives them a happy wave.
“Spa day,” Georgie says. “Got our nails done. See?” She wiggles her fingers. They’re painted red, white, and blue with little stars on the tips.
“Ooh, how very patriotic,” I say.
“I am a patriot,” Georgie says, placing a hand over her heart with all the drama she can afford.
Mom balks at the thought. “You were once called a national threat.”
“I’ve evolved.”
Mom gives Ella a quick pat on the head. “Where are you going with the baby?”
I fill them in on Mackenzie’s emergency at The Salty Spur.
“We’re coming with you,” Mom announces.
“You don’t have to—”
“We’re coming,” Georgie insists. “No argument allowed.”
We pile into Mom’s car, which she’s decorated with flag decals and a bumper sticker that reads These Colors Don’t Run. The drive to Edison takes twenty minutes through summer evening traffic, the sun still hanging stubbornly in the sky like it’s forgotten how to set.
We pass through Cider Cove—flags and bunting everywhere, red, white, and blue wreaths on every door, inflatable Uncle Sams dotting lawns—and cross into Edison.
The decline is immediate.
Edison is sort of the armpit of Maine, if sweet innocent Maine had an armpit to begin with. In this case, it most certainly does.
We pass pawn shops, check-cashing places, bars with broken neon signs, and a tattoo parlor advertising FREEDOM INK - Patriotic Tattoos Half Off.
The Salty Spur is a square boxy building flanked by a laundromat called SUDS & DUDS and an all-night deli with a hand-painted sign that reads MEAT ME ANYTIME.
The neon sign above the bar flickers THE SALTY SPUR—WHERE EVERY NIGHT IS TACO TUESDAY.
There are pickup trucks, motorcycles, and one pristine white SUV that I recognize as Mackenzie’s in the parking lot.
“Oh my goodness,” Mom says, staring at the building. “Are you sure Mackenzie and her ritzy friends are meeting up here?”
I shrug at the place. “That’s what the text said.”
Georgie unbuckles herself in haste. “Look at all the hot men. Hubba hubba! Who cares where those witches went? All the more man candy for me!”
A shirtless man in leather chaps—just chaps, nothing else—walks past our car.
Georgie lunges for the door handle. “Mama wants!”
Mom yanks her back. “Would you STOP? Obviously, Mama is insane!”
“What? I’m window shopping!”
“You’re eighty-eight!”
“And I’ve still got eyes that work!”
We make our way inside, and the assault on the senses is immediate.
Country music blares from speakers mounted in every corner—something about trucks and beer and heartbreak.
The air smells like grilled meat, fryer oil, and something vaguely spicy mixed with cigarette smoke that shouldn’t exist since Maine banned smoking indoors but clearly someone didn’t get the memo.
The floor is covered in wood shavings and peanut shells. Waitresses in short-shorts and red, white, and blue tasseled bikini tops weave between tables carrying platters of food. String lights shaped like chili peppers hang from the ceiling. Neon beer signs advertise an array of booze.
There’s a dance floor on the right where people are line dancing to the music, and a long bar on the left where the bartender’s juggling bottles for tips.
Ella latches onto me and laughs. However, I’m not laughing. And I have a feeling Jasper won’t be either. Ella’s first bar crawl and here he’s missing it.
A giant chalkboard near the entrance reads: “EVERY NIGHT IS TACO TUESDAY! $1.50 TACOS! QUESTIONABLE MEAT, GUARANTEED FLAVOR.”
Georgie gasps. “I’ve found my new hot spot. This is happening. I’m a regular now.”
“You’ve been here thirty seconds,” Mom points out.
“Long enough to fall in love.”
We spot Mackenzie and her friends near the front, taking up a long table that’s meant to accommodate twenty people. Designer handbags are hooked over chair backs, suspended safely above the sawdust-covered floor like they might catch a disease, and someone has actually brought wine glasses.
Actual stemware. To a dive bar.
Mackenzie stands when she sees us. “You came! Thank goodness!”
A waitress with a name tag that reads DESTINY appears with a high chair. “Aren’t you a cutie!” she coos at Ella. “Want some chips and salsa, baby girl?”
“I’ll mind her,” Mom says, settling into the chair next to the high chair. “So you can work and we can get out of Dodge faster.”
I sit between Mom and Kennedy, who gives me a tentative smile.
Mackenzie is at the head of the table, naturally, and she’s standing up with a fork in one hand, clinking it against a wine glass.
“Friends!” She looks around the table. “And... Bizzy. I want to thank Bizzy personally.” I wouldn’t have chosen Tamsin to eliminate, but hey, desperate times call for desperate hit lists.
I take a moment to glower at her for those thoughts alone.
“For clearing my name.”
There’s scattered applause, like I just performed a mediocre magic trick.
“That’s a low bar,” I tell her. “Not murdering someone isn’t exactly an achievement worth celebrating.”
“Nevertheless, you’ve proven I’m not the killer, and for that, I’m grateful.” At least everyone’s looking at her instead of me.
I catch the relief in her internal voice and blink over at her trying to figure out exactly what she means by that.
Blaire leans forward, wine glass in hand. “But we still don’t know who the killer is.” She’s wearing a white sleeveless top that looks expensive, and her engagement ring catches the chili pepper lights every time she moves. Preston hasn’t texted back in three hours. THREE HOURS.
Kennedy shifts in her seat. “What if it’s a serial killer? What if they’re picking us off one by one?”
“We could be next!” a woman I don’t recognize shouts above the country music that just ratcheted up a notch.
“At any moment!” another one cries.
And yet not a single one of them is shedding a tear for poor Tamsin who is still cooling off in the morgue.
“Let’s not panic,” Sloane says, sitting across from me in a navy sundress that somehow looks elegant even in this setting. Stay calm. Keep them talking. The more they talk, the less I have to.
“Easy for you to say,” Kennedy says. “You’re not freaking out.”
“Panicking won’t help,” she assures them.
Blaire sets down her wine glass. “But she’s right. We could be targeted. We’ll never know when it’s our turn!” She pauses, her face genuinely distressed. “We’ll never know what outfit will be our last.”
There’s a beat of silence as they take a moment to contemplate this odd fashion emergency.
Mom and I exchange a look. And despite the grim circumstances, I can tell that Mom is trying very hard not to laugh.
Thankfully, Ella has all but fallen asleep on my shoulder.
Hey? Maybe I need to crank up some country music at two in the morning to get her back to bed. I’m sure the neighbors will love it.
I blink back to the women before me. I can’t believe they’re worried about coordinating their final outfits. Someone murdered two of their friends and they’re concerned about fashion choices for their own potential demise.
None of this seems right. Although, to be fair, Brittany would probably appreciate the concern.
The tacos arrive on massive platters—piled high and falling apart with meat spilling everywhere, excessive amounts of sour cream and guacamole threatening to slide off onto the table. The smell of cumin and chili powder and something indefinably greasy fills the air.
And I am so here for it.
Georgie digs in like her life depends on it. And with this crowd, it just might.
Blaire stares at her plate in horror. “Is there a fork?”
“It’s a taco, honey,” Georgie says as she scoops up another one.
“But it’s so messy.”
“That’s the point.”
Blaire orders a salad instead and gets openly mocked by three different people.
Kennedy grabs a taco and starts eating fast—too fast, like she’s trying to prove something. She’s already on her third when the first one was probably enough. Fit in. Eat what they eat. Laugh when they laugh. You belong here.
Why wouldn’t she belong here?
Sloane eats her taco perfectly, somehow managing to stay completely clean despite the structural integrity issues plaguing everyone else’s food. She’s good at that—staying clean when everything around her is messy.
There’s probably a metaphor for life in there somewhere.
At seven o’clock sharp, the music shifts and a man in a cowboy hat steps onto the dance floor with a microphone.
“All right, folks! Time to learn the Tush Push!”
His name tag reads BUCK and it seems to me, he takes line dancing more seriously than most people take their marriage vows.
The entire bar has livened up and yet our entire table groans.
“Come on, ladies!” Buck shouts with a mischievous look in his eyes. “Let’s go!”
We’re dragged to the dance floor—all of us, including Georgie who’s spotted the man in chaps and is making a beeline for him. Mom stays with Ella, phone out, already recording what’s about to be a disaster.
Buck demonstrates. “Step, together, step, KICK!”
Kennedy, who’s suddenly donned a hot pink cowboy hat, tries too hard and kicks someone behind her.
Blaire refuses to participate fully, just swaying vaguely to the music.
Sloane actually knows what she’s doing. Her feet hit every beat, every turn is clean, and she looks completely comfortable doing choreography that’s making everyone else look like they’re having small seizures.
Turns out, luxury renovation contractors know how to work more than just a construction site. I’m impressed.
Someone twists their ankle—a minor injury that creates a major dramatic response involving shrieking and loud demands for ice.
The group progressively gets drunker and the dancing gets progressively worse until they abandon all pretense of choreography and just start bouncing around to the music.
Georgie is line dancing with the chaps guy. Mom is laughing so hard she’s crying. Ella is catching some serious zzz’s that lets me know we’ll be dancing later.
And I’m watching Kennedy, who’s dancing alone even though she’s surrounded by people, checking her phone every thirty seconds the way people wait for news that isn’t coming.
The song ends, and everyone heads to either the bar or the bathroom.
Kennedy sits down at the table alone, scrolling through her phone, and I see my opportunity.
I’m about to find out if she’s a killer, a victim, or just another woman in over her cowboy hat-laden head.