Chapter 3
There are very few things worse than falling face-first into sand, but landing nose-to-nose with a corpse definitely tops the list.
Nothing ruins a perfectly romantic beach evening quite like discovering a dead wedding planner with a knife sticking out of her chest.
I let out a scream that could shatter coconuts and probably wake the dead in three counties.
The scent of sunscreen and barbecue smoke still hangs in the humid night air, but now it’s mixed with something metallic and wrong.
The tiki torches continue their cheerful flickering, completely oblivious to the fact that our luau just became a crime scene.
“Stay back,” Jasper says, dropping to his knees beside Tessa’s body. He checks for a pulse on her neck, then shakes his head grimly. “She’s gone.”
He whips out his phone, already switching into detective mode. “I need to call this into the station and get the coroner down here.”
He helps me to my feet, brushing sand off my sundress, then steps away to make the official call. His voice carries over the gentle lapping of waves as he reports our latest disaster to dispatch.
Oh, not another body. Fish gives a sharp meow, trotting onto the scene with the casual air of a cat who’s seen this show one too many times before. Bizzy, your inn really needs a better way to screen guests. Providing the killer is a guest at all.
That makes what—seven bodies this year? Sherlock pants. This place is cursed. I’m starting to think we need a pet psychic. Or holy water, he adds, sniffing delicately around the perimeter. This has officially turned into a murder mystery party. Murder and mai tais— Hey? It’s got a ring to it!
Cinnamon and Gatsby bound up behind them, neither looking particularly shocked by the corpse situation.
Oh, good grief. It’s another average night in Cider Cove, Cinnamon says with a bark. At least this one didn’t happen at the buffet.
There’s always a silver lining, Gatsby agrees. Though I was hoping for more shrimp at this party, less corpses.
The four of them immediately surround poor Truffle, who’s still yipping frantically beside the woman lying among us, and I hitch my head toward Fish because frankly, she knows exactly what to do in situations like these.
Come on, little one, Fish mewls gently. You don’t need to see any of this. You’re staying with us tonight. We’ve got snacks.
And Bizzy will track down whoever did this to your lady, Sherlock promises with a soft bark. She’s got a perfect record for these things. Well, perfect if you don’t count the number of times she almost gets herself killed in the process.
It’s true. I cringe a little at the thought. It’s been a rough few years around here, but I always get my man—or woman. And thankfully, I’ve lived to tell the tale.
We’re taking Truffle back to the cottage, Fish meows my way, and I give a quick nod. She needs somewhere safe to process all this chaos.
The pack trots off together with Truffle nestled protectively in their midst, leaving me alone with a corpse and way too many questions on my hands.
I look back at the body and quickly scan the sand around it. I can’t help but note deep footprints everywhere—some from Jasper and me, but others that were clearly here before we arrived. The sand is churned up like there was a struggle, which means some of these prints must belong to the killer.
I pull out my phone and snap a quick picture of the scene. The flash goes off like lightning, and suddenly half the beach starts migrating toward us as if they’ve been summoned by a dinner bell.
“Jordy,” I say his name as I shoot my handyman—and on occasion, security detail—a quick text. Bring rope. And maybe a tranquilizer dart. People are starting to circle like buffet vultures. There’s been another murder and I need you to help with some serious crowd control.
The howl of sirens wails in the distance, getting closer by the second. And no matter the fact that Jordy shows up as quick as lightning, he can’t seem to corral the guests back toward the inn. There’s nothing stopping the mob that’s wandering this way like curious zombies drawn to drama.
“What in tarnation is going on over here?” Mom appears first, an entire ten feet ahead of the crowd, still clutching her wide-brimmed hat, with Georgie right behind her, coconut shells and all.
“Well, somebody’s been naughty.” Georgie gasps, then immediately perks up. “Our lives are just like one of those mystery shows, but with better catering. I’m excited to get the whodunnit done.”
“Georgie!” Mom swats at her. “Show some respect for the deceased.”
“I am! I’m respectfully excited.”
Conrad shows up next with Piers in tow, both men looking appropriately grim until Georgie’s coconut bra decides this is the perfect moment to stage a wardrobe malfunction as her boobs spring free like a couple of skinny snakes popping out of one of those fake cans of peanuts.
“Oh, good heavens!” Mom lunges forward, trying to preserve Georgie’s modesty, and somehow ends up juggling Georgie’s assets like she’s trying to keep beach balls in the air—or deflated beach balls as it were. Very tired-looking beach balls.
Oh wow. Is that what the future holds?
“This is not how I planned to meet the best man,” Georgie announces cheerfully, making no effort to help with the coverage situation.
Instead, she’s actually pulling her shoulders back.
“Georgie Conner at your service,” she tells both Conrad and Piers.
“And before you ask, the girls are a part of the welcome package.”
“Welcome to the loony bin,” Mom hisses as she yanks Georgie to herself.
“What the heck?” Piers steps forward to get a better look at the grim situation, as does Conrad.
“Geez.” Conrad gasps. “What the heck happened here?”
“I don’t know,” I pant. “I just found her like this.”
Two deputies from the sheriff’s department come running up, take one look at the chaos, and immediately try to arrest everyone in sight—starting with Georgie and her feral boobs.
“Whoa, whoa!” Jasper appears, flashing his badge. “Detective Wilder, Seaview County. This is a crime scene, not a public indecency charge.”
Leo jogs up behind him, quickly wrapping his jacket around Georgie and escorting her toward the inn. “Come on. Let’s get you somewhere with fewer witnesses—and fewer arresting officers.”
“But I was just getting to the good part,” she protests as Leo guides her away.
Macy and Huxley appear next, with two-year-old Mack waddling between them at the speed of a caffeinated toddler.
Macy is in a short red dress so sparkly I nearly go blind.
Her blonde bob is cut as sharp as her attitude, and her smile could slice through steel when she’s plotting something.
She’s a year older than me and ten lifetimes spicier in general.
My brother has the Baker signature dark locks and denim blue eyes, and behind Huxley is little Mack, his son, who is currently licking a sand shovel.
Huxley happens to be married to Mayor Mackenzie Woods.
She’s not only the town mayor and my sister-in-law, but she’s sort of my nemesis, too.
Fun fact? She’s sort of responsible for my mind-reading quirk since she’s the one who tried to drown me the day it seemed to have kicked into gear about two decades ago.
It’s a long story involving a game of bobbing for apples gone very, very wrong.
“Uncle Jasper!” Mack squeals, making a beeline for the crime scene with his shovel drawn like a weapon.
“Oh no, you don’t, little man,” Mom says, swooping in to redirect him. “Let’s go find some ice cream at the inn, shall we?”
She herds him away before he can get a good look at the body, because nothing says family trauma quite like a toddler’s first corpse.
“Thank goodness,” I sigh in relief as I close my eyes.
I’m about to turn back to the groom and the best man when Candy and Cane come bounding up, two fluffy white Samoyeds who are clearly head-over-paws in love with each other. Candy is Macy’s aforementioned bestie, and Huxley is the proud papa of Cane.
Another exciting evening at the inn, I see. Candy gives a soft bark while nuzzling against my hand. Macy says we should be worried about the property values. She says it’s too late for any of us to move! Do you think it’s just a matter of time before the killer hunts us down next?
Nah, Cane barks back, leaning into my scratch. Bizzy always sorts these things out. Plus, the food here is amazing. We wouldn’t go anywhere if we could.
“The others went to my cottage,” I whisper to them, giving them both a good scratch behind the ears. “Go keep little Truffle company, okay?”
They bound off together, probably to plan their next romantic beach walk. Not even a homicide can keep those two down for long.
Macy staggers my way and gasps when she sees it. “For Pete’s sake, Bizzy. This is just perfect,” she snaps, appearing at my elbow with her hands on her hips. “Wedding buzzkill doesn’t even begin to cover it. Piers is never going to forgive us for this disaster.”
“You know the groom?” I ask, surprised, while glancing behind me where he and Conrad are conferring with Jasper.
My sister makes a face at me. “Piers and I might have had a few encounters back in my lusty days. Nothing serious. Just a little fun.”
“Ooh, baby,” Camila sidles up next to her, “I’ve had the same experiences with that hot honey. He certainly knows how to show a girl a good time.” She sighs wistfully.
Hot honey? Do I want to know what that’s referencing?
Camila winks my way. I gave Jasper the hot honey treatment once, too. And yes, the visual is just as spicy as it sounds. You’re welcome.
I gasp at her. Good grief. Where’s the killer when you really need them?
Huxley steps up and frowns at both of them. “You two realize you’re swooning over a man whose wedding planner just got murdered, right? There’s literally a corpse at our feet.”
Camila looks down at Tessa’s body for the first time and gasps, her face going pale. “Would you look at that? She’s, like, really dead.”
“Yes,” I all but hiss her way. “She’s, like, really dead. And you’re being really rude, so I’d appreciate it if you kept your lusting after the groom to a minimum.”
Within seconds, Leo starts stringing up yellow caution tape around the scene, creating a proper perimeter just as a warm breeze picks up. Jordy reappears, looking harried but determined, and does his best to push the growing crowd back toward safer ground, but still no dice in that department.
Face it, if there’s a body to be seen, a crowd will form, and there’s no stopping that human wall of looky-loos from getting what they want. And sadly, most of the time, what they want is a picture for posterity, and maybe their social media accounts.
“Nothing to see here, folks,” Jordy calls out. “Let’s give the authorities some room to work.”
Of course, no one is listening to him. But in his defense, the crowd’s murmurs sound more like a deafening roar at this point. So, I doubt anyone really heard him anyway.
Huxley steps over to Piers and Conrad with a somber expression. “I’m so sorry about your friend. This must be terrible for you both.”
Apparently, Hux knows the groom and most of the groomsmen as well. Emmie and I were the only two out of the wedding loop.
Both men give appropriately grave nods, though I notice Conrad’s eyes keep darting around the crowd as if he’s looking for someone. Most likely the killer. Unless he’s the killer. Then he’s most likely waiting for his impending arrest.
A woman with dark chestnut hair approaches, flanking Charlotte on one side. This is the same woman I saw arguing with Tessa earlier—the one who darn near slapped the woman’s face off.
The silver-haired woman from the supply table steps up on Charlotte’s other side, and all three look soberly down at the body.
The crowd has grown to at least fifty people now, all craning their necks to get a better look at our latest tragedy. The murmur of voices creates a low buzz that mixes with the distant sound of approaching emergency vehicles.
And then the thoughts start hitting me.
She’s gone forever, someone muses, and I can’t tell if it’s sad or relieved.
She’s dead. I couldn’t be happier, comes another voice, definitely pleased.
Is it too early to pop the champagne? This one is practically gleeful.
My head whips around, trying to pinpoint the sources, but with this many people crowded together, it’s impossible to tell where the thoughts are coming from or even if they’re from men or women unless I’m standing right in front of them.
I have never seen a better use of a butcher knife, thinks someone else, clinical and cold.
The very best part of the night? This one. Because dead women tell no secrets.
That last thought sends a chill down my spine that has nothing to do with the ocean breeze.
I scan the faces around me—friends, family, wedding guests, strangers—and realize that somewhere in this crowd of concerned mourners stands a killer who’s absolutely thrilled with tonight’s entertainment.
I’m not thrilled. But I will be once I land them in handcuffs. And I certainly won’t stop until that happens. My inn, my rules, and the very first rule at the top of the list—justice.