Chapter 15
The afternoon sun beats down on our beach canopy with the intensity of a celestial body who clearly didn’t get the memo about taking it easy on exhausted party planners and their equally exhausted friends.
It’s the very next day after the infamous Storytime After Dark incident which went down exactly as one might think—half the women mortified beyond belief, the other half giggling like teenagers, and Buffy refusing to read anything involving ropes or treasure chests, which prompted Camila and Macy to take over with theatrical performances that turned the library into an R-rated dinner theater none of us asked for, but quite frankly, all of us expected.
Thankfully, though, that’s over now, and I’m sitting on the cove with Mom, Georgie, Emmie, Elliot, and Ella on a wonky quilt on the sand, amusing ourselves with every beach toy imaginable.
The ocean sparkles like liquid diamonds just twenty feet away, with waves lapping against the shore in that hypnotic summer rhythm that makes you forget you have actual responsibilities.
The salty breeze carries hints of coconut sunscreen, seaweed, and the distant yummy scent of someone grilling burgers for an early beach lunch.
“I’m never volunteering for wedding coordination duty again,” Mom groans from her beach chair, wearing oversized sunglasses and nursing what appears to be her third iced coffee of the day.
A seagull perches nearby, eyeing her breakfast sandwich with the calculating stare of a tiny feathered criminal—and his thoughts attest to as much.
Mom sniffs. “Georgie had us running around town like headless chickens this morning.”
“Hey, I was being thorough,” Georgie protests weakly from her own chair, where she’s sprawled like a starfish that’s given up on life.
The heat shimmer rising from the sand makes her look like she’s melting into the beach furniture.
“Charlotte’s final dress fitting, hair and makeup trial runs, bouquet consultation, and emergency shoe shopping don’t just handle themselves. ”
“Emergency shoe shopping?” I raise an eyebrow while reapplying coconut-scented sunscreen to my arms. The stuff smells like vacation in a bottle, which feels wildly inappropriate when you’re investigating murder—and wildly needed.
“Don’t ask,” Mom mutters, waving away a particularly aggressive seagull that’s edged closer to her sandwich. “It involved three different shoe stores, a minor breakdown in the bridal salon, and Georgie insisting that heel height affects emotional stability.”
“It’s scientifically proven!” Georgie insists, though her voice lacks its usual conviction. “Higher heels, higher confidence. It’s basic psychology.”
“Basic something,” Mom agrees dryly.
The sound of waves crashing mingles with the distant laughter of other beachgoers, creating that perfect summer soundtrack that normally makes me want to nap in the sun for three hours straight.
Instead, I’m mentally cataloging murder suspects while watching my daughter discover the joy of eating sand.
Grandma looks as if she’s been through a natural disaster, Fish mewls from her shady spot next to Ella, her black and white fur glowing against the sand. A very well-organized, rhinestone-covered natural disaster.
I tried to warn her about following Georgie on her missions, Sherlock adds, digging a hole in the sand with the dedication of a cute pooch who’s found his life’s calling. His fur alone can qualify him as a living sandcastle. But did she listen to the wise dog? Nope.
Like you’re so innocent, Fish gives a sharp meow his way. You and Truffle jumped into Georgie’s car this morning and took off with them. And don’t think for a minute that Bizzy and I aren’t on to you. We know you only went for the snacks.
OH MY GOODNESS, YES, THE FOOD WAS AMAZING!
Truffle yips excitedly, vibrating with enthusiasm as she spins in a circle.
Georgie gave me THREE different cookies, and I met a poodle named Princess and saw seventeen squirrels and a really interesting trash can, and did I mention the CAKE?
Because there was so much cake, and, also, I think I love everyone in this entire town. When can we get back to the food?
A particularly bold seagull makes a dive for Mom’s sandwich, causing her to jump up and wave her arms frantically. “Shoo! Find your own lunch, you flying menace!”
The seagull retreats exactly three feet away and continues staring with the patience of a creature that’s clearly done this before.
I glance over at my bestie and smile. Emmie looks surprisingly fresh considering she spent the evening serving glowing cocktails to half the female population of Maine.
She’s managed to achieve that perfect beach glow that suggests she actually knows how to vacation properly, unlike the rest of us who treats relaxation like a competitive sport.
“I still can’t believe how well the storytime event went,” she says, adjusting her floppy hat. “We should totally make it a monthly thing.”
“Please no,” I beg, watching Ella and baby Elliot as they begin to shriek at one another.
They’re babbling at each other in what sounds like a secret language only babies understand, occasionally clapping their hands when one of them makes a particularly profound gurgling noise.
The ocean breeze keeps trying to steal their sun hats, creating an ongoing battle between babies and wind, and making a good case for hats that tie off under the neck.
I’ve already watched two of Ella’s cute little bonnets cartwheel into the ocean this summer.
And that’s why every other hat I buy her will be strapped to her body from here on out.
“Oh, come on, Bizzy. Naughty book clubs are all the rage,” Georgie says, fanning herself with a magazine that’s already starting to curl in the humidity.
“But if we do make it a monthly deal, we’ll need security.
Specifically, Conrad-shaped security. That man’s rescue technique was poetry in motion. ”
“You’re still thinking about the chandelier incident?” Mom asks, eating her turkey sandwich while maintaining aggressive eye contact with the seagull.
“I’m thinking about those arms. And that chest. And the way he just swooped in and saved me from becoming a permanent light fixture.
” Georgie fans herself with far more vigor, and I have a feeling it has nothing to do with the heat.
“I need more Conrad in my life. Preferably shirtless and carrying me away from danger on a regular basis.”
“You’re going to give yourself a heat stroke with that kind of thinking,” I point out, feeling sweat already beading on my forehead despite the canopy shade—and Conrad Carrington has nothing to do with it.
Georgie belts out a laugh. “There are worse ways to go.”
Hooman mating rituals are so complicated, Fish muses, delicately licking sand off her paw. Why doesn’t Georgie just bring the man a dead mouse and be done with it?
Because hoomans are weird, Sherlock replies sagely, now so deep in his hole that only his wagging tail is visible above ground. They prefer flowers and chocolate to practical gifts.
Conrad would probably prefer beer.
I quickly translate to Emmie, and we share a laugh.
“Speaking of complicated mating rituals,” Emmie says, adjusting the canopy to block more sun, “how is the investigation going? Any progress on figuring out who killed Tessa?”
The question cuts through the lazy beach atmosphere like a knife through wedding cake. Even the seagulls pause their relentless quest for sandwich crumbs to eavesdrop.
“I don’t know. I guess there’s been some progress,” I say, mentally reviewing the clues I’ve gathered while watching a sailboat drift across the horizon.
“Conrad is looking increasingly suspicious. Everyone keeps pointing fingers at Charlotte’s mother, Bea.
And speaking of Bea, she may have revealed to me that her late husband’s fortune isn’t what it used to be, thanks to the gambling problem he had. ”
Mom is the only one here who doesn’t know about my mind-reading quirk, so I’ll just let her think that Bea actually divulged that info to me the old-fashioned way.
“A gambling problem?” Mom sits up straighter, accidentally giving the seagull an opening to swoop in and steal a corner of her sandwich. “Hey! That’s a serious motive for murder, not a snack invitation!”
Emmie shrugs. “I don’t know if that’s a motive, but I heard that Bea is paying for this entire wedding safari. And if she’s broke, well, that’s going to be hard to do.”
“Well, she doesn’t have to pay the wedding planner anymore,” I point out, ignoring Mom’s ongoing battle with local wildlife. “And I guess you never know. I mean, financial desperation makes people do desperate things.”
“Speaking of Bea,” Emmie continues, “what’s your plan for questioning her? You mentioned wanting to corner her after the storytime disaster.”
“I’d love to talk to Bea, but I couldn’t seem to get close enough to her the other night. She was like a ghost during storytime—there one minute, gone the next.”
Mom huffs a laugh. “Can you blame her? Hey, wait a minute…” She suddenly perks up, having successfully defended the remainder of her sandwich from aerial assault. “You’ll see her tonight. You can talk to her then.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, sensing there’s information I’m missing.
Emmie tips her head at me with obvious amusement. “You don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“Tonight is the bachelorette party,” Georgie shouts it out like a battle cry, somehow finding the energy to sit up straighter. “Macy and Camila sent out a group text to all of us gals yesterday while you were dealing with Jasper and bedtime duties.”
I pull out my phone and check my messages. Nothing. “I didn’t get a group text.”
“That’s because you’re not in the Bridal Chaos Coordinators group chat,” Mom explains. “Macy created it after the cake tasting fiasco to coordinate girl activities.”
“I’ve never been more insulted in my life,” I say, and ironically, I think I mean it.
You’re not really insulted, Fish points out. You’re plotting. I can tell by the way your eyebrows are doing that wiggling thing.
What thing? Sherlock asks from his underground bunker.
That scheming thing, Fish all but smiles my way because we both know she’s secretly scheming, too. Same look she gets when she’s planning to investigate something she probably shouldn’t investigate.
INVESTIGATION TIME! Truffle yips with pure joy as she leaps a foot off the sand.
I love investigations! There are always interesting smells and new people, and sometimes someone drops snacks, and did I mention I’m really good at being sneaky?
Well, I try to be sneaky, but I get excited and bark a lot, but that’s helpful, too, right?
she says it all in one quick bark, and I can’t help but laugh as she jumps into my lap.
“You are adorable.” Her incessant barking not so much, but I’ll never tell.
I give her a hearty scratch between her ears and drop a kiss on her nose.
“Well, insulted or not, I’ll be tagging along tonight come heck or high water,” I announce.
“Or another body, depending on how this murder investigation goes.”
“Please don’t manifest another body,” Emmie begs. “One murder per wedding is quite enough, thank you.”
“I make no promises. We both know the universe seems to enjoy dropping corpses in my general vicinity.”
Mom moans at the thought. “Why do I feel like we’re tempting fate?”
“Because Bizzy is tagging along,” Georgie deadpans.
“So where are we going for this bachelorette extravaganza?” I ask, already mentally planning to corner Bea and get her to tell me everything she knows—and maybe confess to a murder.
Emmie, Mom, and Georgie exchange a look before they burst out laughing.
“What’s so funny?” I ask, sitting up straighter.
“You’ll see soon enough.” Emmie grins with far too much mischief in her denim blue eyes. “I’ll drive. And I have a feeling you’ll get a thrill out of everything Macy and Camila have planned.”
“That’s not ominous at all,” I mutter.
I’d be afraid if I were you, Bizzy, Fish mewls my way. I’ll bet all the treats at the inn that those two are planning something that involves secrets and probably embarrassment. And maybe a prison sentence—mostly for Georgie and you.
Should we be concerned? Truffle chatters at lightning speed. Because concerned sounds scary, but also kind of exciting, and I don’t know what embarrassment means, but if Georgie is involved, it’s probably LOUD and chaotic, and I LOVE chaos, did I mention I love chaos and mysteries?
Of course, we should be concerned, Sherlock says with a simple woof, now completely buried in his sand hole except for his tail. When the hoomans start making mysterious plans, chaos follows. Also, Truffle, your enthusiasm is making my ears ring.
As if on cue, Ella lets out a delighted squeal and throws a handful of sand directly at Elliot, who responds by clapping and giggling like it’s the funniest thing that’s ever happened.
Both babies dissolve into giggles, completely oblivious to the murder investigation, bachelorette party melee about to ensue, and general chaos surrounding their perfectly innocent beach day.
Because apparently, tonight’s bachelorette party is going to be a mystery within a mystery, and I hope that before the evening is over, I’ll finally get all the answers I’ve been looking for.