Chapter 18
The sun hangs low over the ocean, painting the sky in streaks of peach and lavender, and the Stars, Stripes, and Seaside Spectacular has been going strong since noon.
It’s nearly seven now, that magic hour when the heat finally breaks and the light turns everything golden.
The beach is packed wall-to-wall with blankets, lawn chairs, coolers, and approximately three thousand people who’ve spent the last seven hours eating hot dogs and waiting for things to explode in the sky.
Kids are running around with sparklers, drawing figure-eights in the air while their parents pretend to supervise. The smell of charcoal and grilled onions mixes with cotton candy and ocean salt, and somewhere a live band is murdering “American Pie” while the crowd sings along anyway.
Jordy followed Mackenzie’s strict orders and cordoned off a corner of the beach with velvet ropes—yes, velvet ropes on a beach—and set up a white tent with a battery-powered chandelier that’s already covered in sand.
The Designer Mafia is gathered inside on lounge furniture with white cushions that were pristine approximately twenty minutes ago and are now definitely not.
Okay, so I probably shouldn’t have given them such a harsh nickname. After all, they’ve been through a lot in one week. But in all fairness, so have I.
Earlier today, Sloane caught me near the buffet setup and mentioned she could hold one spot open for next week with her architect if I could get her a fifty-thousand-dollar deposit.
I wrote her a check on the spot.
My sunroom is finally happening! I’m so excited I can barely think straight, and Jasper is going to be thrilled when I tell him I went ahead with it. The architect is already drafting the plans.
I take a moment to glance around at the tent area as the women mill around and mingle.
Mackenzie splurged on enough red, white, and blue hydrangeas to outfit a wedding.
Maybe two weddings. This must have cost her a fortune.
It’s like she can’t open her wallet wide enough to impress these women, or at least what’s left of these poor women.
The food is another story, and yet another one of Mackenzie’s over-the-top displays where she’s thrown money like confetti.
The buffet situation is absurd. While the rest of Cider Cove is noshing on hot dogs, hamburgers, potato salad, and sheet cake, Mackenzie’s VIP section is sporting lobster tail skewers, seared scallops with mango salsa, beef tenderloin crostini, prosciutto-wrapped asparagus, smoked salmon on cucumber rounds, mini crab cakes, truffle mac and cheese in individual ramekins, an artisan cheese board, and a champagne fountain that’s working overtime.
None of Mackenzie’s friends have eaten more than two bites of anything. They’re pushing food around their plates, sipping champagne, checking their phones like they’re expecting news that the world is ending.
Spoiler: it kind of is.
Jasper and Leo are standing nearby, and both of them have that look—the one that says they’re on duty even when they’re off duty.
I head on over and shed a forlorn smile.
“Any news on the case?” I ask as Fish, Sherlock, and Biscuit Gravy bolt on past me. And after them comes an entire slew of other dogs that have come down to the cove along with their owners. I’ve never seen so many pets or bodies here at once.
“I won’t have access to Tamsin’s phone until tomorrow,” Jasper says. “The lab is backed up with the holiday.”
Leo shifts his weight, hand drifting to his holster. “I’ve got a dark feeling about tonight.” He scans the crowd, cataloging faces, exits, and potential problems. “I’m going to patrol the grounds,” he continues. “Keep eyes on everyone.”
“I’ll do the same,” Jasper says. “We can cover more area that way.”
He turns to me and kisses my forehead, and I can feel the worry radiating off him. “Please steer clear of danger.”
“That’s asking a lot on a normal day.”
“I’m serious, Biz.”
“So am I.”
He gives me a look of resignation mixed with the knowledge that telling me to stay out of trouble is about as effective as telling the ocean to stop having waves—and then he’s gone, disappearing into the crowd he’s hoping to protect.
Leo heads the opposite direction just as Emmie appears and touches my arm.
“I need to keep the buffet topped off. Mackenzie sent me fourteen texts about the shrimp situation.”
“What shrimp situation?”
“Exactly.”
She disappears toward the catering tent, and Gwyneth appears with Dad, who’s holding a completely unconscious Ella in his arms. She’s clad in pajamas, thumb in her mouth, and dead to the world.
“We’re taking her back to the cottage,” Gwyneth says. “The fireworks will be too much, but we’ll bring her back if she wakes up in time.”
“She’s been down for the count for twenty minutes,” Dad adds. “She didn’t even wake up when Georgie dropped a tray.”
“Poor baby. She’s all tuckered out.” I kiss Ella’s forehead—warm, sweaty, smelling like baby shampoo and sunscreen and everything good in the world—and watch them disappear into the crowd as well.
There’s a pang in my chest because I’m missing her already and worrying about what’s coming.
Too many hoomans. Too many feet. Too many loud noises incoming, Fish grumbles as she lands somewhere near my ankles.
But SO MUCH FOOD, Sherlock counters, eyeing the buffet with single-minded focus. And it smells like hot dogs. Why can’t every day be the Fourth of July?
The fancy hoomans aren’t eating. Can we have their treats? Biscuit Gravy asks so politely, I’m almost moved to give it to them.
“Treats incoming soon,” I tell them and all three yip for joy.
Mom and Georgie materialize with red, white, and blue snow cones, while Mom checks her phone every few seconds.
“Ben just texted. He’s here somewhere,” she lights up at the mention of her handsome boyfriend.
“Good luck finding my little brother in this crowd,” Georgie says. “He once got lost in a Walmart for three hours.”
It’s true. Ben is Georgie’s little brother. But shockingly, genetics took a turn in an entirely different direction in every way possible.
“Your brother is a successful businessman,” Mom adds. “He can navigate just about anything. A crowd this size isn’t even a challenge.”
“Who navigates like a drunk pigeon.”
Mom laughs and heads off to find her boyfriend while Georgie parks herself at the buffet with a purse that’s comically large and starts loading it with crab cakes.
I’m certainly not going to stop her.
And before I can join her in the raid, everyone’s phone starts going off at once.
Mackenzie’s buzzes. Then Blaire’s. Then Kennedy’s. Then Sloane’s. Every phone in the VIP section lights up simultaneously, and I watch faces go from confused to pale to absolutely furious in the span of five seconds.
And my phone isn’t left out of the fray either.
I pull out my own phone and watch the disaster unfold in real time.
The buzzing intensifies as post after post drops. It appears Brittany’s scheduled Insta Pictures stories are finally going live.
Some of you are about to learn that secrets have expiration dates. Mine expired tonight. #TruthBomb #WatchThis
Remember that friend who’s ALWAYS at the gym? Maybe she’s working out her guilt. Or working ON someone else’s man. #HomeWrecker
When you’re the mayor of a small town but can’t even manage your own friends... #MayorMess
Mayor Woods using town funds for “business development trips” that look suspiciously like luxury vacations with her hot hubby. Receipts coming soon. #TaxpayerMoney #Corruption
Boston U grad? More like Boston U DROP-OUT. But hey, those fake credentials look great on LinkedIn!
Some people build dream homes. Others build SCAMS. Ask the 40+ clients who never got their renovations finished.
$400K in casino debts? That’s not a gambling problem, that’s a LIFESTYLE.
They keep coming. Twelve posts total. Each one more incriminating than the last. Exposing affairs, embezzlement, fraud, lies. The entire friend group getting torched from beyond the grave.
Mackenzie grabs my arm and drags me away from the group, her face a mask of fury and panic.
“We need damage control,” she hisses. “This is a catastrophe.”
“It looks like that dark feeling Leo had is panning out,” I mutter as I take in the panicked faces of the women all staring down at their glowing screens. “I’m sorry, Mackenzie, but there’s not a lot I can do. These are scheduled posts from a dead woman. Not much we can do.”
Mackenzie belts out a short-lived scream. “It’s bad enough two people died during my weeklong staycation, but now Brittany’s ghost is airing everyone’s dirty laundry on social media!”
Her phone buzzes again. She looks at it and her jaw clenches. I catch a glimpse and it’s another tidbit of gossip that I’m sure has crawled under someone’s skin.
“Look, the fireworks are set to start any minute,” I say. “That will be just the distraction we need.”
“Oh, they’ve started, sister.” She’s seething. “And we’re all going up in flames.”
Mayor Woods is making the high-pitched noise again, Biscuit Gravy gives a few wild yips. Is she hurt? Should I get help?
She’s fine. She’s just dramatic, Fish says with a flick of her tail.
She’s not usually wrong. Although this might be the exception.
But why are all the fancy hoomans staring at their little glowing boxes and making sad faces? Sherlock sounds genuinely confused. Did someone steal their food?
They’re phones, you freckled menace, Fish sighs. And nobody stole their food. Look at this buffet. There’s enough here to feed a small army.
All the more for me! Sherlock barks cheerfully.
“Okay, fine,” Mackenzie says, rounding on me. “Let’s solve this. Right now. Before anyone else kicks the bucket.”
We spot Blaire by the champagne fountain, alone, checking her phone with an expression that suggests she’s reading her own obituary.
“Follow me,” I say as Mackenzie and I speed in the blonde’s direction.
Blaire looks up, startled. “Well hello, ladies.” She sheds a toothy smile as she wags her phone at us. “How do you like this?” Her expression darkens. “A little revenge from the great beyond.”
“It’s more than a little unnerving,” I say.
Mackenzie grunts. I’m so over Bizzy’s goody two-shoes routine. Blaire had a motive to kill Brittany, at least. That’s good enough for me. I say we sock it to the witch and haul her away in handcuffs.
“Brittany was going to ruin your engagement,” Mackenzie says, and Blaire’s expression doesn’t change. “She was going to expose Preston at your engagement party—tell everyone he’s four hundred thousand dollars in debt from gambling and only marrying you for your money.”
Blaire blinks at us.
“She had proof,” Mackenzie continues, clearly enjoying this. “Credit reports, casino surveillance footage. She was planning a whole presentation. You killed her to keep her quiet, didn’t you?”
A deep, loud belly laugh comes from the woman. It’s not exactly the reaction I was expecting.
“You think I killed Brittany?” She blinks over at the two of us.
“You had a motive,” Mackenzie is quick to point out.
“So did half this beach.” She sets down her champagne flute. “But I didn’t kill her. You know why?”
“Enlighten us,” Mackenzie says.
“Because killing Brittany doesn’t solve the problem.
Preston still owes four hundred grand. The casinos still have his signature on file.
Murdering her just adds homicide to the list of disasters I’m managing.
” She laughs bitterly. “I was trying to pay her off, not shut her up permanently. I didn’t need to kill her. I was handling it.”
I’m not sure if I believe her.
I didn’t do it. Blaire shrugs with the thought.
I didn’t kill Brittany or Tamsin, and no matter how much I say it, I have a feeling these women will never believe me.
I’ll admit, whoever did kill Brit timed it perfectly with me in the vicinity.
Someone out there is staging this to make me look guilty.
And here I thought the toughest thing I’d have to face is dealing with my shiny new fiancé.
The mud on my face is so thick I could plant flowers in it.
“Anything else you want to accuse me of?” Blaire asks.
“What about Tamsin?” Mackenzie snaps and I shake my head at her.
“I think we’ve heard enough for now,” I say.
“You want to know something interesting?” Blaire says, and both Mackenzie and I lean in despite ourselves. “The last time I saw Brittany—the day before she died—she said something strange.”
“What’s that?” Mackenzie asks.
“She said, ‘I finally figured out who the real criminals are. And it’s not who anyone thinks.’”
My pulse kicks up. “What did she mean?”
“I don’t know. But she was looking at Sloane when she said it.” Blaire pauses. “She also said, ‘Some people are so good at playing the victim, you never see them coming as the villain.’”
Blaire picks up her champagne and walks off, calling over her shoulder, “Good luck with your investigation, detectives. Try not to accuse anyone else without evidence.”
Mackenzie groans. “Well, that was humiliating.”
But I’m not listening. I’m pulling out my phone, fingers flying across the screen. I scroll through Brittany’s posthumous posts and one catches my eye.
Something about it feels off.
I pull up Google and type in a hunch—three words, that’s all it takes.
The search results load and my stomach drops.
Article after article. All saying the same thing.
“Oh wow.” I look up at Mackenzie. “I think I know who killed those women—and why.”