Chapter 17
The big day is finally here! Fourth of July has arrived in all its red, white, and blue glory, and if I have to see one more inflatable Uncle Sam, I might defect to Canada.
Main Street is packed shoulder-to-shoulder with tourists and locals, the air thick with the smell of funnel cake frying in oil, hot dogs on grills, and approximately three gallons of sunscreen per square foot.
It’s eighty-seven degrees and climbing, the kind of heat that makes asphalt shimmer and popsicles melt faster than kids can eat them.
The parade has been going for twenty minutes—Mackenzie’s shortened version, one hour sharp—and I’m standing curbside with Jasper and Ella, who’s wearing a tiny stars-and-stripes romper and has a red bow pinned in her dark hair that keeps sliding sideways.
She looks like a patriotic cherub, if cherubs clapped at fire trucks and tried to grab everything within arm’s reach.
The Cider Cove High School marching band passes by playing “Stars and Stripes Forever” with more enthusiasm than accuracy.
Huxley and Mackenzie are standing next to us—Hux in a polo shirt already sweating through it, and Mackenzie in white linen that looks so pristine I’m half-afraid to look at it.
Gwyneth and Dad have little Mack somewhere in this crowd, probably bribing him with cotton candy to stay still for five consecutive minutes.
A float rolls past advertising Lather and Light, and Macy’s perched on top waving like she’s in the Rose Parade. She’s got a giant rendition of her stink bomb candle displayed front and center—three feet tall, labeled SEASIDE SERENITY in glittering letters—and people are actually cheering for it.
Leave it to my sister to figure out how to capitalize off a disaster.
She spots me and blows a kiss. And, of course, Ella claps like mad for auntie.
“She’s going to be insufferable about this for weeks,” I tell Jasper.
“Your sister or your daughter?”
“Both.”
We share a warm laugh.
Fish, Sherlock, and Biscuit Gravy come barreling through the crowd, weaving between legs and strollers with the determination of small furry race cars with no brakes.
Ella leans down and waves at them with pure delight.
They wave back—or at least Sherlock does something with his paw that’s close enough.
That float has a giant eagle on it, Biscuit Gravy yelps as the garden club float passes by.
I could take that eagle, Sherlock says, eyeing it like it stole a bone from him.
That’s because it’s made out of paper, Fish points out with a chittering laugh.
Still counts, Sherlock counters with a bark.
Huxley turns to Mackenzie, and his expression shifts to something serious that makes my investigative senses perk up.
“Tell them,” he says.
Mackenzie goes very still. “Tell them what?”
“About the text. Show them the text.”
“Hux, I don’t think—”
“Show them or I will.”
The temperature seems to drop five degrees despite the brutal sun. I shift Ella to my other hip and she grabs a fistful of my hair.
“What text?” I ask.
Mackenzie sighs—long, defeated, the sound of someone who knows they’ve been caught. She pulls out her phone, scrolls through messages with her thumb, then hands it to me without looking at it.
The text is from Tamsin. Timestamp: 12:47 AM the day she was killed.
Tamsin: Mack, I’m so sorry about this morning at the gym. I was out of line. Let’s meet up for dinner tonight? There’s something you need to hear. I know exactly why Brittany was killed and I have a feeling I know who did it. You are never going to believe this.
I read it twice while Jasper reads over my shoulder.
“When did you get this?” he asks, and his voice has that dark quality that means he’s three steps ahead.
“About three hours before she was killed.”
Jasper sighs. “And you didn’t mention this because...?”
“Because it makes me look guilty. Again.” Mackenzie’s voice rises, and a couple of people nearby glance over. “She wanted to meet me, and then she turned up dead.”
Huxley crosses his arms. “Which is exactly why you should have told them immediately.”
Jasper takes Mackenzie’s phone and photographs the text with his own. He studies the timestamp, reads it again, and I can see the wheels turning.
“Forensics has Tamsin’s phone,” he says. “They haven’t released it to me yet.”
“She knew who killed Brittany,” I say. “Or thought she did.”
“And whoever she was about to tattle on got to her first,” I say.
The parade music swells—someone’s float with a terrible rendition of the national anthem played on what sounds like a kazoo orchestra.
Kids are running into the street to grab candy someone is throwing.
The whole scene is aggressively cheerful while we’re standing here discussing premeditated murder.
“I need to call the lab,” Jasper says. “See if there are other texts that might lead to the killer.”
He steps away with his phone to his ear, weaving through the crowd toward a quieter spot.
Which leaves me holding Ella, standing with Huxley and Mackenzie, while the biggest clue yet sits in a text message from a dead woman.
Everyone looks worried, Fish mewls. Why does this feel like a disaster?
Should we be worried? Biscuit Gravy asks.
With Bizzy’s talent for finding the dead? Always assume yes, Fish advises.
I shoot her a wry look because of it.
Mom and Georgie appear through the crowd like patriotic apparitions—Mom in a red sundress with white polka dots, Georgie in star-spangled sunglasses and a blue kaftan dotted with red and silver rhinestones. They’re both holding snow cones in red, white, and blue and a funnel cake in the other hand.
“There you are!” Mom dumps her food into Huxley’s hands and reaches for Ella immediately. “We’ve been looking everywhere! Come to Grammy, sweet girl. Let Mommy have a break.”
Ella goes happily, and my arms feel lighter and strangely empty all at once.
Georgie is eating a blue snow cone and getting it all over her lips and teeth. “The parade is awesomesauce! Did you see the firefighters on the ladder truck? Spectacular abs.”
Mom laughs. “Georgie, they were wearing full gear.”
“Were they? Well, they had spectacular energy.”
Huxley checks his phone. “Gwyneth and Dad have Mack. I’m going to go find them.”
He disappears into the crowd, and Mackenzie immediately plants herself next to me with the determination of a barnacle.
“I’m not leaving your side,” she announces like a threat.
I blink at her. “What?”
“You’re not going to pull another Grim Reaper impression without me as a witness. This isn’t cute anymore, Bizzy.”
My mouth falls open. “When was murder ever cute?”
Georgie perks up, snow cone paused halfway to her mouth. “So you admit it! You’re a killer, Bizzy Baker Wilder!” She strikes a dramatic pose that nearly makes her drop the snow cone. “I’m placing you under citizen’s arrest!”
“Georgie, knock it off and enjoy the parade.” Mom adjusts Ella on her hip. “Ignore her, Bizzy. We all know you’re not a killer.” I hope, Mom thinks, and I catch the edge of genuine uncertainty. Oh, I really hope. She holds Ella a little tighter.
I’m about to protest—or defend myself, or possibly strangle Georgie with patriotic bunting—when I spot Blaire across the street by the town fountain.
She’s alone, checking her phone, and she looks agitated in the way that people do when they’re trying very hard to look casual and failing spectacularly.
“I’ll be right back,” I say.
Mackenzie follows. “I’m coming with you.”
We weave through the crowd with a lot of excuse me, pardon me, sorry, and the heat is worse away from the shade. The fountain is surrounded by American flags stuck in the ground, and kids are throwing pennies and making wishes that probably involve more candy and staying up past their bedtime.
Blaire looks up as we approach. Her expression shifts from surprised to guarded in half a second.
“Mackenzie. Bizzy.” Her expression goes from serene to quizzical. She certainly doesn’t look thrilled to see us. But her tone is cool and measured, even if she’d rather be literally anywhere else.
“Can we talk?” I ask.
“About?” She blinks at the two of us.
“About Brittany. And Tamsin.”
Her jaw tightens. “I’ve already spoken to the sheriff’s department.”
“What about the casino footage?” Mackenzie asks, and I have to give her credit—she doesn’t ease into it.
Blaire’s face goes white, then red. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” How does she know? Did Kennedy say something? That little—
I pick up the thought clearly.
“Preston’s gambling problem,” I say quietly.
Blaire’s hand tightens on her phone so hard her knuckles go white. “That’s none of your business.”
“It is if Brittany was blackmailing you about it.”
A long pause goes by. The parade music swells behind us as the fire department floats by with its siren and waving firefighters. Somewhere in the crowd a child is screaming for ice cream. Life goes on around us while we’re having a conversation about blackmail and murder.
“Fine,” Blaire says finally. “Yes. Brittany knew about Preston’s debts.”
“How much debt?” Mackenzie demands.
“Four hundred thousand dollars,” she says it flatly. “He’s been trying to get clean. We’ve been trying to fix it.”
“By marrying you for your money,” Mackenzie says, and it’s not a question.
Blaire flinches. “That’s not—we love each other.” Keep telling yourself that. The thought is bitter, defensive, scared.
“Where were you when Tamsin was killed?” I ask.
“At the gym. With everyone else.”
“Can anyone verify that?”
“Half of Seaview saw me. I was in the Zumba class.”
“For the whole class?” Mackenzie presses.
Blaire’s eyes narrow. “What are you implying?”
“Just asking.”
Someone had to cut those wires to the security footage.
Her phone buzzes. She glances at it, and something changes in her expression—something cold and calculated that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
“I’ll see you both tonight,” she says. “At the cove for the fireworks.” A wicked gleam twinkles in her eye. Maybe by then one of you won’t be around to see it.
The thought hits me clear as a bell, and I go cold despite the heat.
Blaire walks away, disappearing into the crowd, and I’m left standing by the fountain with Mackenzie while the parade rolls on and kids chase candy and the whole town celebrates freedom while someone might be planning murder number three.
“Do you think she’s the killer?” Mackenzie asks.
I watch Blaire’s white linen disappear around the corner. “I don’t know. But I have a feeling if she had her way, the body count would double tonight.”
“What do you mean?”
“As in you and me.”
Mackenzie’s face goes pale under her perfect makeup. “She wouldn’t—”
“Wouldn’t she? Just how well do you know your friends, Mackenzie?”
Understanding dawns on Mackenzie’s face slowly, like sunrise over the ocean.
There will be fireworks tonight, and it’s starting to look less like a celebration and more like the perfect cover for murder number three—and maybe four.