Chapter 17
The pounding Western music provides a perfect cover as I slide into the chair next to the mother-of-the-bride, who’s gripping her mason jar mojito like it’s a life preserver in a sea of sequins and testosterone. And judging by the way The Saucy Stallion just exploded with screams, it just might be.
“Bea,” I say warmly, leaning in close enough to be heard over the chaos.
“I heard from Piers that your late husband made a fortune in medical supplies. That must have been fascinating work. My father was once in medical sales.” It’s true in a roundabout way.
When he was a teenager, he worked in the local supermarket, and everyone knows you can buy all the bandages you want there.
Bea all but rolls her eyes, and I catch her thoughts crystal clear. That lying snake of a gold digger couldn’t even get it right. He wants all the financial glory but is willing to do none of the work—even as far as finding out how they really made their fortune.
She arranges her face into a polite smile.
“Actually, it was the canning industry. Frank built Van Buren Industries from the ground up—we owned factories all over the world. Food preservation was our specialty. We revolutionized how the world stores and distributes canned goods. We did donate generously to medical facilities around the world, so I can see where the mix-up must have been. We made millions.”
Not that it lasted long, she thinks bitterly. And thanks to Frank’s inability to leave well enough alone, we lost all those millions gambling on bad investments and worse business partners.
They lost all those millions? As in they’re broke? That can’t be.
“That’s incredible,” I say, watching her face carefully. “It must be quite an empire. What happened to the business after Frank passed?”
Sold it all to pay off his debts, she thinks grimly. The great Frank Van Buren, captain of industry, left me with more red ink than a butcher shop and a daughter who thinks money grows on social media trees.
“We transitioned out of the business,” she says without missing a beat. “Frank always said it was important to diversify investments.”
Diversify right into the hands of con artists and Ponzi schemes, apparently.
“You know,” I continue, “Charlotte mentioned that Tessa was being very particular about payment schedules for the wedding vendors. It must be stressful coordinating all those financial details now that she’s gone.”
Bea’s jaw tightens until it looks as if it might snap. “Yes, well, Tessa was thorough about her billing practices. She had a business to run.”
Thorough like a tick, she thinks acidly. That woman was charging premium prices for basic services and acting like we should be grateful for the privilege. And that was before I found out what other services she was providing. Some things are worth more than money to protect.
I inch back. I wonder what that could be?
“Did you have much interaction with her during the planning process?”
“More than I would have preferred,” Bea admits, her gaze drifting to where Charlotte has somehow ended up on stage, riding the bare back of one of the performers while shrieking with laughter.
My daughter, the social media influencer, getting piggyback rides from half-naked cowboys at a strip club.
If her father could see her now, he’d roll over in his grave.
Though considering the financial mess he left us in, maybe this is exactly what we deserve.
At least she’s happy. For now. Until she finds out there’s no trust fund waiting for her after the wedding.
“Charlotte seems to be enjoying herself.” I nod to the stage where she’s currently spanking two different men.
“She’s always been... spirited,” Bea replies with a frown. “Though I have to say, I’m not entirely comfortable with some of the people she’s chosen to surround herself with for this wedding.”
“Oh? Anyone in particular?”
“Well, I don’t trust Kiki as far as I can throw her,” Bea says bluntly.
“That woman has an agenda, mark my words. She shows up to her ex-boyfriend’s wedding looking like she stepped off a magazine cover, playing the supportive friend?
Please. I’ve been around long enough to recognize a woman plotting to get her man back. ”
I see right through her. Her thoughts continue with venom. She’s biding her time, waiting for the perfect moment to make her move. And I have a feeling she’ll strike any minute now.
I hate to say it, but I think she’s right.
“What about the groomsmen?” I ask. “Conrad seems energetic.” I frown in Georgie’s direction when I say it.
Where is Georgie, anyway?
“Conrad...” Bea shudders delicately. “He’s a cad of the highest order.
” I’m not entirely sure Piers is far behind him, to be perfectly honest. And Conrad has been sniffing around Charlotte like a dog in heat while Piers just stands there letting it happen.
What kind of man doesn’t protect his own fiancée?
Though given what I suspect about his finances, maybe he’s hoping Conrad will steal her away and solve his problems for him.
Two broke men fighting over my daughter’s bank account. I’m just living the dream.
“Wow, that is quite an assessment,” I say carefully.
Is Piers really broke? Or maybe Bea is just so frustrated with everything this week that her thoughts are shooting off in all directions.
“I’ve lived long enough to recognize character flaws,” Bea says crisply.
“Conrad thinks every woman is impressed by his investment banking credentials and his gym membership. And Piers...” She pauses, choosing her words carefully.
“Piers has a tendency to let other people solve his problems for him.”
Like assuming I’ll bankroll his entire wedding without even asking, she thinks furiously.
The audacity is breathtaking. I can’t believe I’m getting stiffed with the bill, she thinks with a grunt.
How dare Piers just assume I’d cover everything?
And poor Charlotte agreed as if it were a given.
They’re in their thirties, for Pete’s sake.
They’re both gainfully employed—or at least that’s what they lead the world to believe.
I’ve seen my daughter’s income statements—she’s not profitable, and I have no proof that the idiot she’s about to legally leash herself to has a single dime rolling around in his bank account.
For all I know, he’s expecting to live off her earnings while hiding his own financial disasters.
And if the Ponzi scheme rumors are true, Piers won’t be headed to the country club—he’ll be headed to prison.
Ponzi scheme? What?
And is he really letting his soon-to-be mother-in-law hoof the financial weight of his wedding?
I know in the past it was traditional for the bride’s family to foot the bill, but for some reason, I didn’t think Piers and Charlotte were doing that entirely.
Besides, Bea is a widow—and apparently, a broke widow at that.
“Well,” she says, “at least Charlotte chose a beautiful venue for the wedding. Thank you for hosting it at the inn on such short notice.”
“Of course,” I say without hesitating. “Anything for the bride and groom’s happiness. And you’re very generous.” I mean it, too. “Not every mother would be so supportive.”
“Charlotte deserves the wedding of her dreams,” Bea says firmly. “Even if it means I have to mortgage what’s left of my dignity to pay for it.”
If Frank hadn’t been such a gambling fool, none of this would be necessary. Charlotte would have had her trust fund, I’d have my retirement security, and we wouldn’t be scrambling to maintain appearances while our bank account dwindles to nothing.
Oh wow, my heart just breaks for the woman.
Before I can probe deeper into this goldmine of information, the music suddenly shifts to something with more banjo and far less clothes.
“Ladies!” the announcer’s voice booms across the club. We need some volunteers for our next performance! How about some beautiful girls from the audience?”
“Oh no,” I mutter, but it’s too late.
A performer dressed as a sheriff with abs that could probably deflect bullets is already heading straight for our table. Behind him, two more cowboys are scanning the crowd for victims.
“Don’t even think about it,” I warn, but the sheriff isn’t listening.
“Ma’am,” he drawls in an accent that’s probably fake but effective, tipping his hat to Bea. “We’re gonna need to deputize you for some very important law enforcement business.”
“Absolutely not,” Bea says firmly.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist.” He grins, and before she can protest further, he scoops her up in his arms and carries her toward the stage.
“BIZZY!” she shrieks, reaching for me as if I could somehow save her from this nightmare.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer continues, “let’s give a warm welcome to our brave volunteers!”
I watch in fascination and horror as Mom, Georgie, and Buffy are also escorted to the stage by various cowboys. Emmie puts up a valiant struggle, actually managing to duck under one performer’s arm and dart behind a table, but she’s outnumbered.
“I’M A PROFESSIONAL BAKER!” she shouts. “I HAVE A BABY AT HOME AND STRETCH MARKS! NOBODY WANTS TO SEE THIS!”
“Ma’am, resistance is futile,” one of the cowboys drawls out the words, and somehow manages to convince her to join the group on stage through what appears to be pure charm and possibly the promise that she won’t have to do anything that requires the general public to see the aforementioned stretch marks.
“This is not happening,” I mutter to myself, just as a particularly muscular cowboy approaches my chair.
“Your turn, little lady,” he says with a grin that says he’s enjoying this way too much.
“I’m investigating a murder,” I protest weakly.
“Well then,” he says, producing a plastic badge from thin air, “looks like you’re exactly what we need for this next number.”
Before I can come up with a proper defense, I’m swept up onto the stage where I find myself face-to-face with the most mortified collection of women in Maine’s recent history.
“If we survive this,” Mom hisses in my ear, “we are never speaking of it again.”
“Deal,” I whisper back, just as the music kicks into high gear and I realize that my murder investigation has taken a turn I definitely didn’t see coming.
Because nothing says professional detective work like being abducted by half-naked cowboys at a strip club while your prime suspect gets a proverbial front-row seat as you make a complete fool of yourself.
And I still don’t know if she did the deadly deed.
Bea Van Buren nods my way, and she just so happens to be wearing a killer smile.