Chapter 22
Nothing says successful wedding reception like watching your groom get dragged away in handcuffs while a nine-foot LED robot continues pumping up the crowd and the guests post every moment to their social media accounts.
The salt air carries the scent of melting ice sculptures and abandoned shrimp cocktail as red and blue lights from the patrol cars strobe across the dance floor, creating the most surreal arrest scene in Maine wedding history.
Crystal chandeliers sway in the ocean breeze as confused wedding guests stand around clutching champagne flutes and looking like they can’t decide whether this is the best wedding ever or the worst nightmare possible.
“Well,” Charlotte announces, appearing beside me with zero traces of distress and a phone already in her hand, “this evening just got a whole lot more interesting.” She’s traded her glowing LED gown for a little black dress, but her makeup remains flawless despite the fact that her husband of less than twenty-four hours just confessed to murder.
I stare at her. “Your husband was just arrested for killing your wedding planner.”
“I know! Poor Tessa.” She snaps a selfie with the police cars in the background. “I mean, murder at your own wedding? Talk about ruining the vibe.”
Jasper appears at my elbow, looking like a man who’s just wrestled a knife away from a killer and somehow managed to keep his shirt tucked in. “Charlotte, I know this must be overwhelming—”
“Oh, honey, no,” she interrupts, waving him off. “I mean, I’m devastated, obviously. But honestly? I’m mostly shocked that someone actually died over this whole mess. Piers always was dramatic, but murder? That seems like a lot of effort to get rid of a wedding planner.”
The woman has the emotional depth of a puddle in August, but at least she’s consistent.
She’s taking this remarkably well, Fish mewls from a nearby cocktail table that’s still decorated with rose petals and what appears to be glow-in-the-dark glitter. Almost suspiciously well.
I agree.
Maybe she’s in shock, Sherlock suggests, though he sounds doubtful. Hoomans react weird to trauma. Mostly, they stuff their faces with muffins and cookies whenever they can. And I wholeheartedly approve of that method of coping.
You would, Fish mewls.
OR maybe she’s just REALLY happy to be rid of him because he was probably a terrible husband anyway, and now she can do whatever she wants, and OH MY GOSH, she smells like expensive perfume and happiness and also maybe cake!
Truffle yips excitedly, bouncing on her tiny paws near Charlotte’s feet like she’s auditioning for a new family.
The wedding reception continues around us in the most bizarre fashion possible.
Servers weave between deputies, guests take selfies with the crime scene tape, and the DJ provides the background music as Leo coordinates with the coroner.
Tiki torches flicker along the expanded deck, and somewhere in the distance, I can hear waves crashing against the rocks that have witnessed more drama tonight than a Shakespearean tragedy with a body count.
“Hey,” Charlotte continues, crouching down to scoop up Truffle, “what about this little angel? Who’s taking her in?
She’s absolutely precious, and her previous owner is dead, and her previous owner’s killer is my now-ex-husband.
It’s like one of those complicated custody situations, except with more murder. ”
Oddly enough, Charlotte just managed to sound a lot like Truffle just now.
I realize I haven’t given Truffle’s future much thought beyond making sure she’s fed and safe. “I haven’t contacted anyone about her yet. No one has inquired either.”
Charlotte’s eyes light up like someone just offered her a brand endorsement deal.
“Can I keep her? Please? Look at this sweet face!” She holds Truffle up, and the little Chihuahua licks her nose with obvious approval.
“She needs a good home, and I need a fresh start. We could be perfect together, couldn’t we, baby? ”
Truffle wags her entire body in response, which I’m taking as enthusiastic consent.
“Plus,” Charlotte adds, kissing Truffle’s tiny head, “she’s the perfect size for travel. Much more portable than Piers ever was.”
“Looks like you’ve got yourself a new home, Truffle,” I tell the little dog. “Try not to let the paparazzi go to your head.”
Conrad chooses this moment to materialize, looking remarkably composed for a man whose best friend just got arrested at his wedding reception. His tie is loosened and there’s sand on his dress shoes, but otherwise he appears unfazed by the evening’s dramatic turn of events.
“Bizzy, Jasper, I wanted to thank you both for finding Tessa’s killer. Justice needed to be served.” Tessa was incredible in bed. What a complete waste of talent.
I nearly choke on my words just hearing his thoughts, but manage to keep my expression neutral, nonetheless. “Well, you certainly sound like a good citizen.”
“It’s a tragedy, really,” Conrad continues with what sounds like genuine sympathy but feels about as real as a plastic Christmas tree. “She was so young, with so much ahead of her.”
“Well, the party must go on!” Charlotte says, bouncing Truffle in her arms as she winks at Conrad with all the subtlety of a fireworks display. “No reason to waste a perfectly good dance floor and an even better DJ.”
Without warning, she grabs Conrad by the tie and plants a kiss on him that would make a romance novel cover blush. Right there in front of the swarm of deputies, the remaining wedding guests, and anyone with a functioning cell phone camera.
The nine-foot robot dancer chooses this moment to pulse his lights in what I can only interpret as electronic approval, while guests gasp and fumble for their phones.
“Plus,” she announces when they finally come up for air, “now we don’t have to sneak around anymore!”
She gives a whoop that probably registers on seismic equipment and drags Conrad toward the dance floor where the LED robot is still doing whatever nine-foot robots do to keep parties alive.
“Watch out, world,” Charlotte calls over her shoulder while holding Truffle close, “I’ve got a new man, a tiny new BFF, and a fresh start!”
Did she just publicly announce her affair at her husband’s arrest? Fish asks, sounding impressed despite herself.
She’s either completely honest or totally shameless, Sherlock says with a soft woof.
I like her, Truffle declares from Charlotte’s arms. She smells like expensive shampoo and possibilities. And I think she might be the type of person who gives really good treats and belly rubs, and did I mention she smells like POSSIBILITIES, which is my favorite smell after bacon!
The crowd on the dance floor parts for Charlotte and Conrad as if they were A-list celebrities, and within seconds, they’re dancing together while the robot pulses around them with his synchronized lights.
The whole scene looks like a music video directed by someone with questionable judgment and an unlimited budget for special effects.
“Should we arrest her for making poor decisions?” Leo asks, appearing beside us with his handcuffs in tow and an expression of pure bewilderment.
“She declared herself single as of thirty minutes ago,” Jasper points out. “Technically, she’s free to make spectacularly poor life choices.”
“Plus,” I add, watching Charlotte and Conrad basically recreate their secret affair for the entire internet, “at least we know she’ll handle the divorce well. Hard to claim emotional distress when you’re making out with the best man.”
The LED robot chooses this moment to point directly at our little group and flash his lights in what I can only interpret as an invitation to join the dance floor chaos—or else.
Mom appears at my elbow, looking flushed and happy from dancing with Ben. Rose petals cling to her hair, and there’s champagne in her hand. “Are you just going to stand there analyzing everyone’s questionable decisions, or are you going to celebrate the fact you solved another murder?”
“I was leaning toward the analyzing option,” I admit.
Georgie materializes next to Mom, her sequined dress somehow still sparkling despite the fact that it looks as if she shed half the sequins.
Sand clings to her heels, and her lipstick is slightly smudged from what I can only assume was enthusiastic celebrating.
“Come on, Bizzy! Life’s too short to spend it watching other people have fun.
Besides, Huxley’s over there doing something that might charitably be called dancing, and Mackenzie’s trying to convince Emmie to run for city council.
This might be our only chance to see the mayor campaign while intoxicated. ”
The furry among us are having a beach race, Sherlock announces, perking up as Skittles bounds past us with sand flying from her paws. Want to join them, Fish? I bet we can beat them.
Let’s show them how it’s done, Fish replies, hopping down from her table. Although my money is on Gatsby. Golden retrievers are surprisingly fast when cake is involved.
Someone dropped a load of leftover wedding cake by the tide pools, Skittles calls out as she races by. Last one there gets the fondant flowers!
All three pets take off like furry missiles toward the shoreline, leaving a trail of sand and pure joy in their wake.
Jasper nudges my shoulder and nods toward the dance floor, where our entire extended family has somehow congregated under the swaying chandeliers and twinkle lights. “When in Rome, dance with the Romans?”
“When in Cider Cove,” I reply, letting him pull me toward the pulsing lights and heart-thumping music choices, “dance with the criminals, their accomplices, and anyone else who’s had too much champagne to question their motives.”
We join the crowd just as the robot dancer launches into what can only be described as interpretive dance meets laser light show.
Mom and Ben sway together near the ice sculptures, Georgie flirts shamelessly with a server who clearly didn’t sign up for this level of personal attention, and Huxley attempts something that might be called dancing while Mackenzie shouts municipal policy suggestions over the music.
Emmie, Leo, and Buffy dance nearby, looking like the only three people at this reception who have their lives figured out, while Charlotte and Conrad continue their public display of affection with the enthusiasm of people who’ve been waiting months to stop hiding.
The tiki torches flicker in the ocean breeze, flickering shadows across the most bizarre wedding reception in the history of the state of Maine, while somewhere in the distance, I can hear pets barking and yowling with joy and waves crashing against rocks that have witnessed more confessions than I care to count.
And as Jasper spins me under twinkling lights while a murder suspect’s wife makes out with his best man twenty feet away from where he got arrested, I realize that nothing says case closed quite like dancing to music alongside a nine-foot robot while a cute little Chihuahua gets adopted by a socialite who thinks drama is a lifestyle choice.
Because at the end of the day, there’s nothing more satisfying than watching handcuffs close on someone who thought they were too clever to get caught.
And when all the champagne is gone and the lights come down, justice is the only party favor that really matters.