Chapter 4
If someone had told me a week ago that I’d be running a hospitality boot camp for a traumatized Chihuahua while my nine-month-old daughter practices her new shrieking skills in the background, I’d have suggested they seek professional help.
But as it turns out, the one needing professional help is me.
The sun filters through the inn’s bay windows in golden streams, carrying the scent of dewy grass mixed with coffee and leftover kalua pork that’s somehow still clinging to the air from last night’s disaster.
Seagulls cackle outside like they know something I don’t, which, considering my track record with murder investigations, they probably do.
“Truffle, sweetie,” I say to the coffee-colored ball of anxiety currently barking at our mail depository, “guests generally prefer to be greeted with tail wags, not death threats.”
She thinks the mail slots are a portal to enemy territory, Fish mewls from her perch on the marble reception counter.
Can’t say I blame her. Have you seen what comes through there?
Bills, flyers for questionable pizza places, and last week, that thing from your stepmother about proper baby feeding schedules.
It’s true. Gwyneth has a lot to say about my style of parenting. But she’s a great babysitter, so I just bite my tongue and listen.
Give the little barking cutie some time, Sherlock adds patiently, and for a moment, I’m not sure if he’s talking about Truffle or Gwyneth. She’s had a rough night. Haven’t we all.
That’s the understatement of the century. Poor Truffle spent most of the night whimpering in my cottage, and Ella decided sleep was overrated now that she’s mastered sitting up on her own. But who needs sleep when you have caffeine and sheer willpower?
Me, that’s who. Heaven knows there’s not enough caffeine in the world to combat the serious shut-eye deficit I’m going through.
The massive billboard of Charlotte and Piers locked in their tornado-embracing engagement bliss now resides in the grand hall next to the bay windows, because apparently nothing says romance like a storm of destruction.
Someone—probably Jordy—moved it inside after the crime scene was secured, and at the moment it looms over the reception area like a very expensive reminder that this wedding week is most assuredly cursed.
Of course, I would never say that out loud. But after last night, we’re all thinking it.
“Morning, Bizzy!” Grady Pennington bounds through the front doors like he’s auditioning for a morning show host position.
He’s got enough energy to power a small city and wears his inn polo shirts like they’re runway couture.
He’s a dark-haired Irish cutie who gets more than his fair attention from the ladies and the tabbies around here, too.
“Do we have any flamingo floaties left? The guest in cottage eight wants twelve.”
“Twelve?” I raise an eyebrow. “What are they planning, a floating army?”
“Also, she wants someone to brush her labradoodle’s teeth before the wedding brunch,” Nessa Crosby adds, appearing behind him with her signature deadpan expression.
Nessa is never seen without her planner, matching pen, and that unbothered stare that says she’s witnessed horrors beyond human comprehension. “I volunteer you, Grady.”
“Why me?” Grady protests. “I don’t speak dog.”
“Because you have the most experience with difficult personalities,” Nessa replies smoothly.
Grady and Nessa are a good decade younger than me, in their early twenties.
They both started at the inn during college and have stayed on—and well, fell in love in the process.
Let’s just say, not a week goes by that I don’t find them canoodling in a nook or cranny.
Come to think of it, they’ve canoodled in just about every nook and cranny this place holds—and then some.
They both have dark hair and gorgeous eyes, and the sneaky ability to smooch any and everywhere—together, of course.
And they’ve never met a vacant room they didn’t appreciate. I’ll just leave that there for now.
I like Nessa, Fish purrs. She understands the natural order of things. Dogs and difficult personalities just seem to go together.
I’m not sure that’s what Nessa meant, but I’m too tired to untangle it anyway.
Grady lifts a dark brow my way. “I think we need new taglines for this place,” he says. “How about a dead body plus free brunch?” Grady continues cheerfully, ignoring Nessa’s insult. “Our TripAdvisor reviews are going to sparkle. ‘Come for the murder; stay for the continental breakfast.’”
“That’s terrible,” I say, though I’m fighting back a grin.
“Terrible but accurate,” Nessa agrees. “We’re booked solid through Labor Day for a reason.”
Before I can respond to this disturbing revelation about our business model, Emmie appears in the hallway, with her cheeks flushed, her apron askew, and her hair in a messy topknot that suggests she’s been wrestling with industrial kitchen equipment.
And knowing she’s been in that kitchen since five this morning, I know for a fact she has.
“Bizzy!” she shouts down the corridor. “Get to the café. Now. We’ve got a Macy-and-Camila situation involving the bride!”
Oh, fantastic. Because my morning wasn’t complete without sister drama and ex-girlfriend chaos.
I grab Ella’s stroller and push it down the corridor as if I’m in a derby race, with Fish, Sherlock, and Truffle bounding after me like my own personal furry entourage.
The Country Cottage Café hits me with a scent explosion that would make any decent foodie cancel all future plans—bacon, fresh cinnamon rolls, vanilla coffee beans, and enough maple syrup to make Canada jealous.
The black and white checkered floors gleam under the morning sun streaming through the sunroom windows, and the menu boards display Emmie’s latest creations in cheerful chalk script.
Fish and Sherlock immediately dart toward a pile of bacon crumbs and cookie remnants near the kitchen door—probably dropped by an overeager toddler guest earlier.
It’s the breakfast of champions, Fish purrs, delicately licking up bacon bits.
Don’t forget the peanut butter cookies, Sherlock barks, crunching happily. Nothing says good morning like finding treasure on the floor.
Truffle vibrates around the room at lightning speeds.
I’m SO FULL, but I can’t stop eating because everything tastes AMAZING, and my tummy is happy, but my mouth wants more, and OH MY GOSH, these crumbs are like little flavor explosions, and snacks always make everything better, especially when I’m worried about things, but now I’m not worried, because FOOD, and thank you, thank you, THANK YOU, Bizzy, for all the delicious treats! the little cutie yips excitedly.
“You’re welcome,” I say as the escalating sound of voices takes over.
After their impromptu snack, Fish and Sherlock bound toward the back door, heading out for their early morning run down to the cove, leaving me with Truffle, who’s still convinced every shadow is a potential assassin.
That’s when I spot three familiar faces seated at a corner table in the sunroom. Charlotte Van Buren sits looking like she slept on a blender setting.
Her platinum hair resembles a bird’s nest that lost a fight with a hurricane, her eyes are puffy and red-rimmed, and she’s got mascara smudges that tell the tragic tale of a very long night.
She’s weeping into a monogrammed napkin while Macy and Camila flank her like well-dressed bodyguards who’ve run out of ideas.
“My wedding planner is dead,” Charlotte sobs, “and so is my wedding. I’m doomed! Everything I’ve ever wanted is doomed!”
Honestly, the only one that is truly doomed is Tessa. But I’ll be the last person to point that out to the bride.
Camila sips iced coffee through a lipstick-stained straw while Macy taps her glitter acrylic nails on the table in a rhythm that lets us know she’s plotting something nefarious. And knowing my sister, she so is.
“Here,” Emmie presses a cinnamon roll and hot coffee into my hands. “You’ll need this. Consider it ammo—or a peace treaty.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, approaching the table with caution. “Charlotte, I’m so sorry about Tessa. This must be devastating.”
“You think we didn’t try consoling her already?” Macy snaps my way. “She’s been crying for two hours straight!”
“The wedding is in five days,” Camila growls at me. “Five. Days. Do you know how impossible it is to plan a wedding in five days?”
Without thinking, I blurt out the stupidest thing possible, “I’ll help plan the wedding.”
I shrug over at the bride, because let’s face it, I’ve done ten stupider things before breakfast on any other given day.
Both Macy and Camila gasp as if I just announced I was joining the circus. Honestly, that would not be a stretch as far as career pivots go.
“We’ll help, too!” they shout in unison.
And here it is. The moment my life officially spirals into madness.
“Really?” Charlotte looks up with hope shining in her tear-stained eyes. “You’d do that for me?”
“Of course,” I say, because apparently my mouth operates independently of my brain during crisis situations. And it’s a fact my handsome husband is well aware of.
Camila whips out a glittery notebook that sparkles like a disco ball, just as Macy pulls up a calendar app on her phone with the efficiency of a wedding planning ninja.
“Okay,” Camila says, clicking her pen with authority.
“We need cake tasting, twice, in case of flavor confusion. I’m thinking a luau-themed bachelorette bash with coconut cocktails—unless we come up with something better.
And by better, I mean strippers. Of course, we’ll have a pre-wedding massage day with champagne foot soaks. That’s mandatory.”
“Dress rehearsal fashion show with music and applause,” Macy adds, typing furiously. “Speed-gift-unwrapping contest—I’ll sponsor that one. How does yoga with goats in flower crowns sound?”
“Like a horror story,” I quickly insert.
She wrinkles her nose before deleting it all.
“Bonfire beach karaoke night,” Camila continues. “Love Ballads and Betrayals theme.” She grips Macy by the arm. “We’ll call ourselves the Bridal Rescue Brigade!”
“Yes!” Macy shouts as if she’s just won the matrimonial lottery.
My brain short-circuits halfway through their list. What have I done? I run an inn, not a circus. Although at this point, the inn sort of qualifies as both.
“That sounds wonderful,” Charlotte sniffles, brightening a touch. “You ladies are angels.”
Angels of chaos, maybe. Ella coos and laughs from her stroller as if she agrees.
A movement outside the sunroom window catches my eye. A brunette is waving at Charlotte through the glass, and I recognize her immediately.
Oh my word. It’s the brunette who slapped Tessa into next Tuesday—and maybe the afterlife.
“Who is that?” I ask, nodding toward the window.
“Oh, that’s my bestie, Kiki Parker,” Charlotte says, her face lighting up for the first time since I’ve seen her this morning. “She’s been my rock since college.”
Fantastic. A slapping bestie. Definitely getting suspect energy from this one.
Charlotte stands up, dabbing at her eyes with the monogrammed napkin. “I should go meet her. Text me the schedule, okay? I just need a hug from my best friend more than anything.”
“We’ll start this afternoon!” Macy calls after her as Charlotte hurries toward the door.
“Can’t wait!” Charlotte chirps back, sounding almost human again.
I turn back to my co-conspirators, my suspicion meter rising like a hot air balloon at the county fair. “What exactly is this afternoon’s kickoff event?”
Macy and Camila whisper to each other as if they’re planning a covert operation, then grin at me with matching expressions of barely contained glee.
“Champagne and Complaints gossip circle,” Camila announces with pride as if she’s just invented the wheel. And she might have—the gossip wheel.
“With traveling nail techs doing pedicures while we dish about everyone we hate,” Macy adds with a satisfied smirk. “It’s like therapy, but with better alcohol and prettier feet.”
They rush off to gather supplies like overly caffeinated cruise directors, leaving me standing in the café wondering how my quiet inn turned into a wedding command center.
“Bizzy, honey, there you are!” Mom’s voice echoes through the café as she swoops in wearing giant neon green earrings that could guide the mothership home. She scoops up Ella from her stroller, and my daughter immediately starts babbling and tugging on Mom’s plastic baubles with her chubby fingers.
Ella shines like a princess in my mother’s arms with her dark wavy hair that’s finally growing in properly, light gray eyes just like Jasper’s, and enough dimples to start a trend.
She’s also discovered the joy of squealing at maximum volume, which she demonstrates with enthusiasm every chance she gets. And I love every single happy sound.
“I heard something about a bridal rescue mission!” Georgie appears behind Mom, draped in a watermelon-print kaftan and white sunglasses the size of salad plates. “I’m in. What’s the plan?”
Mom adjusts Ella on her hip, bouncing her gently to stop the squealing but to no avail. “Is it time to kick this investigation into gear?”
I nod, narrowing my eyes toward the patio where Charlotte and Kiki are now embracing like long-lost relatives at a family reunion.
“Yes,” I say. “And we’re starting with our first suspect.”
I lock eyes with the brunette through the window, watching as she and Charlotte settle into chairs with their heads bent together in what looks like a serious conversation about something that definitely involves opinions.
In fact, I’m formulating a few of my own.
Kiki Parker, we’re coming for you.