Chapter 11
If there’s one thing I’ve learned about running an inn during wedding season, it’s that chaos comes in waves—first, the cake emergency, then the sugar crash aftermath.
The Country Cottage Inn’s lobby buzzes with that perfect summer afternoon energy at half past two, with golden sunlight streaming through the tall windows and casting everything in honey-colored light.
The air carries the intoxicating mix of salt breeze, of blooming beach roses, and the faint scent of Emmie’s leftover vanilla frosting that somehow permeates everything within a three-block radius.
Soft acoustic guitar music drifts from the speakers, mixing with the cheerful chatter of guests heading in and out from their beach adventures, flip-flops slapping against the polished hardwood floors in that quintessential summer rhythm I’ve come to love.
I’m stationed behind the registration desk, looking as if I’m helping Nessa and Grady with the afternoon check-ins, but really I’m using Fish, Sherlock, and Truffle as my official greeting committee and thinking about the case.
All three pets have positioned themselves strategically near the front entrance, tails wagging and purrs rumbling as they work their charm on incoming guests.
The hoomans love us more than those fancy fluffy towels you bought, Bizzy, Fish mewls with satisfaction as an elderly couple stops to give her a quick pat. We should ask for raises.
I work for treats, Sherlock points out. My salary demands are simple yet delicious.
You work for the possibility of dropped food, Truffle corrects. There’s a difference. I think snacks should be mandatory. Plus, it would give us something to look forward to throughout the day.
“Treats!” I announce without hesitation. “I think you’re right, Truffle,” I say as all three run my way, and I quickly offer up the goods. “Treats are a given all day long from here on out.”
Nessa approaches the desk with a clipboard and the expression of a poor soul who’s been dealing with demanding guests all afternoon. “Bizzy, we’ve got a situation with the Weatherby party in room twelve. They’re complaining that their ocean view is insufficiently oceanic.”
I blink at her. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Apparently, they can see trees between their balcony and the water. They want a room where it’s nothing but pure, unadulterated ocean as far as the eye can see.”
“Did you explain to them that we’re an inn, not a cruise ship?”
“I tried. They asked if we could remove the trees.”
Grady perks up. “Ooh, I know a guy with a chainsaw!”
“No,” Nessa and I say in unison.
“You people have no sense of adventure,” Grady says while shooting a sly wink to Nessa. I think an adventure down on the beach is in order. Nessa does like her midnight swims. And I must say she looks great in her birthday suit.
I cringe a little as the rest of his thoughts turn into white noise. That’s sort of nature’s way of protecting me from indecent thoughts, and I’m more than glad about it.
“We have a sense of property values,” I counter.
“Tell the Weatherbys that if they want nothing but ocean, they’re welcome to book passage on a ferry.
Otherwise, they can enjoy our perfectly lovely tree-enhanced coastline.
” I sigh hard for a moment. “Tell them we’ll gladly move them into another suite.
203 has a better view, and the guests just left. ”
“Got it.” Nessa grins and heads back to deliver the diplomatic version of that message—and offer them a room upgrade in the process.
The front door opens with a gentle chime, and Mom appears pushing Ella’s stroller with one hand while holding her stomach with the other.
Georgie shuffles beside her in the same position, both of them moving with the careful precision of people who’ve made some questionable choices involving excessive frosting consumption.
“Well, well,” I greet them, “if it isn’t the Great Cake Massacre survivors. You two look like you wrestled a bakery and lost.”
It’s true. They both have frosting in their hair, on their foreheads, chins, lips, and sundresses.
“We didn’t lose,” Georgie protests weakly. “We achieved total victory. Those cakes didn’t stand a chance.”
Mom winces as she parks the stroller next to my desk. “Emmie said she couldn’t sell the cakes from the tasting since they weren’t on the regular menu. We couldn’t let perfectly good cake go to waste.”
“Sounds like a good time was had by all,” I say, peering into the stroller where Ella is completely knocked out, her little hands still clutching what appears to be a frosting-covered teething ring. “I see someone else got caught in the confection crossfire.”
“Poor baby is in a sugar coma,” Mom says as she coos her way. “She kept reaching for our plates, so we might have let her lick a few fingers’ worth of buttercream.”
“A few fingers’ worth?” I raise an eyebrow. “She looks like she face-planted into a wedding cake.”
“Don’t judge,” Georgie groans, gingerly settling into one of the lobby chairs. “That brown butter cinnamon was calling our names. Loudly. And in harmony.”
Tiny Ella learned a valuable lesson about sugar consumption today, Fish muses, jumping onto the registration counter. Unlike Grandma and Georgie, who apparently learned that nothing tastes better than butter and carbs.
There are no truer words.
“So,” Georgie asks, leaning in hard, “where’s our investigation taking us next? I’m ready to grill some suspects. Metaphorically speaking. I can’t handle actual grilling right now. It’s climbing toward triple digits out there today.”
“It is a scorcher,” I say, fanning myself with my hand.
“Actually,” Mom says, checking her watch, “Ben and I have an appointment at three. We’ve got a date.”
“Ooh.” I wiggle my shoulders. Ben would be my mother’s steady Eddie, and he also happens to be Georgie’s younger brother. “What kind of a date?” I ask. “I hope it’s something fun.”
“Oh, it is,” Mom is quick to assure me. “He’s arranged for us to get our feet measured.”
Georgie and I blink over at her as several seconds’ worth of silence drift by.
“Did you say feet?” I ask, and she’s quick to nod.
Georgie’s eyes light up with mischief despite her sugar high. “Ooh, Ben is into feet? I knew there was something kinky about my little brother.”
“Georgie!” Mom swats at her. “Not for that! For shoes! Custom-made shoes. After we get our measurements, we’ll be able to order a pair that fits us perfectly.”
“Custom shoes?” I ask. “Well, I guess that’s actually really thoughtful. And practical. And hopefully it will be comfortable, too.” It’s also weird, but I decide to leave that part out.
I really do like Ben. Georgie might be a hippy at heart, but Ben is a reputable businessman with a great sense of humor. And apparently, he has the need for prescription footwear.
“Ben says life’s too short for uncomfortable shoes,” Mom explains. “Plus, with all the wedding events this week, we’ll be doing a lot of standing and walking.”
“Speaking of standing and walking,” I turn to Georgie, “how are your bridal brigade duties coming along?”
Georgie perks up at the mention of her new venture.
“It’s going swimmingly, Biz. I’ve already talked to our resident Bridezilla, and she’s letting me handle the final dress fitting coordination, the bridal party hair appointments, bouquet delivery logistics, wedding day timeline management, and I’m putting together what I call the Wedding Emergency Survival Kit. ”
Mom’s mouth falls open. I can’t believe any bride would trust Georgie with all of those important details. That woman must have it out for her very own wedding.
“Dare I ask what’s in the emergency kit?” I cringe a little because I’m not sure I want to know.
“Just the essentials,” Georgie says with a touch of pride. “Tissues, bobby pins, safety pins, stain remover, breath mints, antacids, aspirin, smelling salts, a flask of whiskey, and a backup bouquet made entirely of silk flowers in case someone’s allergic to the real deal.”
Mom and I exchange glances. “That’s... actually pretty comprehensive,” Mom admits.
“I’m shocked,” I add. “You’re off to a legitimately great start, Georgie. Color me impressed. You might even have a full-fledged career after this.”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” Georgie sniffs. “I’ve been watching wedding shows for years. I practically have a PhD in bridal crisis management.”
She watches wedding shows the way other people watch sports, Mom muses to herself with a mixture of admiration and concern. Here’s hoping she’s not planning a touchdown with the best man during the vow exchange.
I nod her way because I, too, share this fear.
“You know,” Georgie says thoughtfully, “if I’m going to be a professional wedding planner, I should probably invest in some business cards.
Maybe with a catchy slogan. Georgie’s Gorgeous Disasters: Making Memories One Mishap at a Time!
Or Wedding Warrior Georgie: I Survive so You Don’t Have to!
Or Georgie’s Guide to Glorious Chaos: Your Crisis Is My Coffee Break! ”
Mom huffs a dull laugh. “That sounds about right.”
“How about Georgie’s Wedding Services: Somehow Still in Business,” I tease.
“Hey! I resemble that remark,” she shoots back with a wink. “I’ll have you know I’m a natural at this. Charlotte said I have excellent organizational instincts.”
“Charlotte also thinks Spark & Spice is a legitimate dating app,” Mom points out.
“It worked for her,” Georgie points out.
“Temporarily,” I whisper. “The jury’s still out on whether it’s working long-term.”
Especially since the groom is not quite off my suspect list, I think, but don’t dare say it out loud. And if he didn’t kill Tessa, he still might kill Conrad.
Mom checks her watch. “Well, I’d better head off.”
“Speaking of heading off somewhere,” Georgie leans forward, “who, where, what, and why are our next moves? Who’s our next suspect? Please tell me it’s someone interesting. I need entertainment to distract me from my frosting-induced misery.”