Chapter 16
Okay, I decided to leave Fish, Sherlock, and Truffle with Gwyneth and my father, who volunteered to pull babysitting duty this evening.
I had fully planned on bringing the four-footed detectives along for the ride, but Emmie assured me tonight’s venue wasn’t exactly animal-friendly.
Ella was more than delighted to have them with her anyway.
And true to her word, Emmie picked up Georgie, my mother, Buffy, and me and drove us out to the exact locale where tonight’s crime against bridal shenanigans is taking place—den of choreographed sin.
There’s something deeply philosophical about attending a strip club for women while investigating a murder suspect, but I haven’t figured out what that something is yet.
“I have to say,” I announce as Emmie pulls into the parking lot of what can only be described as Vegas’s trashy younger sister. “I completely agree with Charlotte and Piers about ditching the rehearsal dinner. Walking down a beach to get hitched doesn’t exactly require a practice run.”
“Unless you’re planning to trip over your own feet,” Georgie points out from the backseat, where she’s been primping in her compact mirror for the past ten minutes.
“Or trip over a dead body,” I mutter under my breath.
“What was that?” Mom asks from the passenger seat.
“Nothing. Just commenting on the romantic ambiance of Edison after dark.”
Edison would be the seedy town just west of Cider Cove. Everyone knows that nothing good ever happens in Edison—certainly not after dark—and certainly not in the nude.
The neon sign attached to the boxy brick building blazes THE SAUCY STALLION in letters so bright they could probably cause retinal damage, complete with a flashing silhouette of a rearing horse that strobes every three seconds.
The air carries the intoxicating blend of summer heat, car exhaust, and what smells suspiciously like deep-fried everything wafting from the food trucks parked along the street. I’d much rather visit the food trucks.
“Well,” Buffy says cheerfully, taking in the establishment with the wide-eyed wonder of a sister who’s clearly never been to a strip club, “this is certainly... educational.”
“That’s one word for it,” I say, watching a group of women stumble out of the entrance shrieking with laughter and clutching drinks that glow in colors not found in nature.
We migrate our way inside and immediately are hit with sensory overload. The hot pink swirling lights, the boisterous boom-chicka-bow-wow music, and last but certainly not least, the scent of burgers and fries. That last one actually brings me a modicum of comfort.
The inside of The Saucy Stallion is exactly what happens when someone with more money than taste decides to create their version of Western sophistication.
Red velvet drapes hang from the ceiling alongside rope and horseshoe decorations, weathered wooden beams support a mirrored disco ball the size of a small car, and neon lights flash in patterns that could trigger seizures in just about anyone.
The bass from the country-rock fusion music thrums through the floor so hard I can feel it in my ribcage.
There are throngs of bodies in the room—mostly women screaming their heads off, and a stage that eats up half the room is currently occupied with scantily clad police officers.
Have I mentioned the throngs of women begging to be arrested?
I’d like to arrest someone, all right. Macy and Camila, to be exact.
“Holy moly,” I breathe, taking in the dimly lit scene.
“Welcome to Edison’s finest entertainment establishment,” Emmie grins, clearly enjoying our collective shell-shock.
“This place makes What Ales You look like a monastery,” Mom points out, clutching her purse like it might protect her from whatever is about to happen. Fat chance there. But she might be able to use it as a weapon to ward off any half-dressed officers of the law.
The hostess, a woman in her twenties with platinum blonde hair piled high enough to flirt with the ceiling and wearing what appears to be a sequined cowgirl outfit with fringe that defies physics, approaches us with a smile bright enough to power the neon sign outside.
“Ladies! Welcome to The Saucy Stallion!” she beams at us with a toothy smile. “Are you here for the Van Buren bachelorette party?”
“That’s us,” Georgie announces with far too much enthusiasm. “Lead the way to the testosterone!”
“Excellent! Your party is seated front and center in our VIP corral. Follow me!”
“VIP corral?” Mom whispers to me as we follow the hostess. “Are we cattle now?”
“In Edison, I think maybe everyone is,” I whisper back.
She leads us through the controlled chaos, through an entire forest of overly enthused women, toward what can only be described as ground zero for bachelorette party mayhem.
Tables loaded with nachos, fruity cocktails in mason jars the size of fishbowls, and enough screaming women to wake the dead in three counties fill the front section of the club.
I notice the tables are actually designed to look like wagon wheels, because apparently, The Saucy Stallion commits fully to its theme.
“BIZZY! EMMIE! BUFFY! REE! GEORGIE!” Charlotte’s voice cuts through the music like a lunatic with a megaphone.
She’s waving both arms above her head from her front-row table, bouncing in her hot pink cowboy boots.
“GET OVER HERE! The night is young, and so are these cowboys! I’ve already scoped out the talent.
There’s enough man-candy here for everyone to go home satisfied!
Well, except me because I’m getting married, but the rest of you better saddle up because it’s about to get WILD! ”
A little laugh rumbles through me. “I’m sure my husband will be thrilled.”
“Don’t be such a killjoy,” Georgie says while waving at the stage. “I’ll take your man-candy and mine!”
“Look at those decorations,” Buffy marvels, clearly trying to distract herself from Charlotte’s enthusiastic match-making announcements while pointing to what appears to be a collection of saddles mounted on the walls alongside neon horseshoes and rope lighting. “They really went all-in around here.”
“All-in is one way to put it,” I say, dodging a waitress dressed as a saloon girl carrying a tray of drinks that are literally smoking. “I feel like we’ve stepped into a Wild West fever dream where Charlotte is the appointed town madame.”
And there, at the prime table directly in front of the main stage, sits the wedding party in all their pre-matrimonial glory.
“Oh my word,” I mutter, spotting our crew.
Macy and Camila are already three sheets to the wind, waving glow sticks and cheering at the stage with the enthusiasm of sports fans whose team just won the Super Bowl.
Charlotte has her phone out, naturally, documenting every moment for her Hot Mess Heiress brand with nothing less than professional dedication.
Kiki sits ramrod straight while nursing what appears to be a drink that keeps changing colors. The other women in the wedding party are swaying and screaming, and begging to be handcuffed to the anatomical parts of the male anatomy that I’m not repeating.
And there, at the far end of the table, sits Bea Van Buren looking like she’d rather be getting a root canal performed by actual cowboys.
“There’s our girl,” I say to Emmie, nodding toward Bea.
“The one who looks like she’s attending her own execution?” Emmie asks.
“That’s the one.”
“What do you think, ladies?” Charlotte shrieks, jumping up and nearly knocking over her glowing cocktail. “Isn’t this place amazing? Look at these decorations! And the drinks! And the nachos!”
She’s wearing a sash that says brIDE’S SQUAD in glittery letters and a cowboy hat with a veil attached, apparently having fully embraced The Saucy Stallion’s Western theme. And from the looks of it, she appears to have consumed at least half of the club’s fruity cocktail inventory.
This is a social media jackpot, she thinks with tipsy satisfaction. Wedding week drama featuring actual abs and chaps? I have a feeling tonight’s entertainment is going to break the internet. I should probably get “rescued” by someone with biceps for the full damsel-in-distress aesthetic.
Charlotte might break the internet, but if Georgie tries climbing on that stage, she might break a hip.
“It’s certainly immersive,” I reply, settling into an empty chair that puts me within striking distance of my target.
“Immersive is one way to put it,” Kiki says dryly, though I notice she’s not exactly suffering.
Her emerald eyes are bright with amusement despite her attempts at maintaining professional composure.
She’s even wearing a small sheriff’s badge that someone clearly pinned on her at some point during the evening.
Not to mention, she has an inch’s worth of one-dollar bills that she’s using as a coaster. I have a feeling when this legal eagle lets loose, the bills are going to fly—and her professional reputation is going to gallop off into the sunset with them.
“I see you’ve been deputized,” I say, nodding at her badge.
“Camila’s doing,” Kiki replies with what might actually be a smile. “Apparently, I’m the law and order of the bachelorette party.”
“Well, someone has to maintain civilization,” I agree.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” a voice booms over the sound system, causing half the crowd to shriek with excitement. “Welcome to The Saucy Stallion! Are you ready for some red-hot Western entertainment? Who’s up for riding a stallion?”
“And here we go,” Mom mutters, sinking lower in her chair.
“I think I need to start drinking,” Buffy announces, flagging down a waitress with impressive speed.
“Make that two,” I add, because if I’m going to interrogate a murder suspect in a Western-themed strip club, I’m definitely going to need liquid courage. But then, I am still nursing Ella at night. “And make mine a virgin.”
The music shifts to something with heavy bass and a twangy guitar that vibrates through the red velvet walls, and the lights dim even more to create the ultimate mood lighting—that is, if you’re in the mood to ogle half-dressed men.
“This is better than pay-per-view TV!” Georgie shouts over the music while doing her best to climb onto the table, and my mother quickly jerks her back down into her seat.
“Nice save,” I mouth to my mother. Heaven knows she wouldn’t hear me over the music.
“Note to self: find out if Conrad owns chaps,” Georgie shouts while eyeing the stage with far too much interest. “And if not, I’ll make him wear a pair for the wedding!”
“Georgie, focus,” Mom hisses. “We’re in public.”
“We’re in Edison,” Georgie corrects. “Different rules for different fools.”
Mom rolls her eyes. And this room is certainly filled with its fair share of those.
Macy stands up on her chair, waving her glow stick like she’s conducting an orchestra—a near-naked orchestra. “brING ON THE HOT COWBOYS!” she bellows.
This is the most fun I’ve had in months, she thinks with satisfaction.
I should get out of Cider Cove more often.
Jordy can’t get mad over this. I mean, I’ll just let him go to the gentlemen’s club across the street.
She gives an audible gasp. If he even thinks about a gentlemen’s club, he’s a dead man.
On second thought, he can never find out about this.
It will be my fun, flirty, filthy secret.
Besides, every relationship needs a little mystery.
Isn’t that how Jasper and Bizzy keep the flames of love alive?
Via corpses? Everyone knows Bizzy’s love language is murder.
I make a face. Technically, she’s not too far off base.
“MACY, GET DOWN FROM THERE!” Camila shouts, laughing so hard she’s crying. “YOU’RE GOING TO FALL!”
“I’M FINE! I’M INVINCIBLE!” my sister shouts back, then promptly proves she’s not by wobbling dangerously and nearly breaking her neck.
Mom clutches at her chest as if she’s just had ten heart attacks.
Kiki, moving with the reflexes of a legal eagle who’s spent years in courtrooms dealing with dramatic witnesses, reaches up and steadies Macy before she can topple into the nacho platter.
“Crisis averted,” she announces to no one in particular.
“Don’t anyone else dare drop dead before my wedding!” Charlotte shouts with a giggle. “I need all my bridesmaids vertical and my cowboys horizontal!”
Good grief, I’m starting to understand why Piers was attracted to Charlotte, Kiki thinks with sharp resentment. She’s the perfect mark—stunning, loaded, and naive enough to believe everything he tells her.
Bitter much? Or does she know something the rest of us don’t?
“WOO-HOO!” Charlotte howls while managing to position herself for optimal selfie angles while the chaos unfolds around her. “This is going to be such great content!” she announces. “Hashtag bachelorette party, hashtag squad goals, hashtag Western nights!”
I hope none of this ends up on the evening news, Bea thinks desperately from her corner of misery.
What will people think? What will the country club say about The Saucy Stallion?
The ladies who lunch will have a field day with this gossip.
I can already see the headlines: Van Buren Heiress Celebrates at Strip Club.
My bridge club will never let me live this down, and the hospital auxiliary will probably ask for my resignation.
Frank’s gambling addiction was embarrassing enough—now I have to add “mother of the bride caught at male revue” to my list of social disasters.
Perfect. Bea is in full panic mode, which means her defenses are down. Time to make my move.
The lights suddenly flash, the music reaches ear-piercing levels, and somewhere a fog machine starts pumping out enough artificial clouds to simulate weather patterns.
“LADIES!” the announcer booms. “PUT YOUR HANDS TOGETHER FOR THE SAUCY STALLION’S FINEST! INTRODUCING... THE WILD WEST RIDERS!”
The collective shriek from the assembled women could probably shatter windows in a three-block radius.
And as the first performer takes the stage, wearing what appears to be a fireman’s costume and enough oil to lubricate a small planet, I realize that this ridiculous, over-the-top, completely insane Western-themed bachelorette party is about to give me the perfect cover to finally corner my prime suspect and get some answers about a certain murder.