Chapter 23
“Igive Charlotte and Conrad six weeks,” Emmie says, settling baby Elliot in his high chair while Leo helps arrange his toys. “Long enough for the novelty to wear off, short enough to avoid any real commitment.”
There’s something beautifully ironic about eating leftover wedding cake for breakfast while the cleanup crew dismantles the crime scene where you caught a killer.
The morning sun beats down on the patio just outside the Country Cottage Café with an intensity that promises another scorching summer day, while the scent of bacon mingles with leftover roses and the faint smell of champagne that someone definitely spilled on the deck last night.
Seagulls circle overhead like feathered vultures, probably hoping Jordy drops something edible while he directs the staff in breaking down what’s left of the most spectacular wedding reception Maine has ever witnessed.
“Pass the mimosas,” Georgie announces, sliding into her chair wearing oversized sunglasses and what appears to be the same sequined dress from last night. “I need something to wash down the taste of witnessing a public make-out session between the bride and the best man.”
“It’s ten in the morning,” Mom points out, though she’s already reaching for the pitcher. Her hair looks like she stuck her finger in an electrical socket, and there’s glitter on her cheek from heaven knows where.
“Liquor. It’s what’s for breakfast,” Georgie replies. “Plus, I earned this mimosa. Do you know how traumatic it is to watch your crush get tongue-wrestled by a woman who was married to a killer for exactly four hours?”
The hoomans are being dramatic again, Fish yowls from her sunny spot on the railing. Though I have to admit, last night was entertaining.
I still can’t believe Charlotte kissed Conrad right in front of the wedding guests, Sherlock woofs, sprawled under the table where he’s clearly hoping for strategic food dropping. That takes guts.
Or complete shamelessness, Candy adds with a bark while trotting up from the beach with sand on her fluffy white paws. I missed all the good drama because Macy locked me in the cottage during the arrest.
You would have just barked at the patrol cars, Fish points out.
Exactly! Candy counters. That’s what makes it fun.
“Speaking of Conrad,” Macy says, appearing with a plate of leftover wedding cake that probably costs more per slice than most people spend on a week’s worth of groceries, “anyone else want to place bets on how long that relationship lasts? Emmie says six weeks; I say three.”
She’s wearing a tank top and shorts, her vanilla blonde hair pulled back into a messy bun, looking like the only person at this table who actually got a decent night’s sleep. By contrast, Jordy looks as if he was up all night. It just goes to show my sister was born to party.
“Three weeks?” Camila scoffs, setting up her camera to document what she’s probably going to call Post-Murder Brunch: A Cider Cove Story. She smirks. “I give it three days. The man just watched his best friend get arrested for murder. He’s either completely heartless or running on pure adrenaline.”
“Could be both,” Leo suggests, appearing with a tray of coffee that smells like heaven and looking surprisingly awake for a deputy who spent half the night processing a crime scene. “Some people compartmentalize trauma by jumping into the next available distraction.”
“Or,” I add, accepting the coffee gratefully, “some people are just really, really good at being terrible human beings.”
Jasper joins us holding our sweet baby girl in his arms, looking like he actually managed to shower and change clothes, which puts him ahead of most of us in the personal hygiene department.
Ella is babbling happily and trying to grab the ribbons from last night’s decorations that are still clinging to Mom’s hair.
“Did I miss the character assassination portion of brunch?” Jasper asks as he lands next to me, and I steal that peanut from his arms and kiss her face silly.
“We’re just getting warmed up, hot stuff,” Georgie announces with obvious glee. “I was about to dissect Conrad’s commitment phobia and analyze his daddy issues, while Emmie here was going to explain why men think biceps solve emotional problems.”
“I was not going to explain anything about biceps,” Emmie protests. “I was making an observation about human behavior patterns.”
“Same thing,” Mom says, liberally applying syrup to what appears to be leftover wedding cake disguised as French toast. “Pass the bacon. Murder investigations make me hungry.”
Pass the bacon my way, too, Sherlock barks, and Mom is quick to oblige him with enough salted meat to qualify as a religious experience. Mom doesn’t have to read minds to know what that cute pooch was asking for.
Jordy appears at the edge of our little breakfast gathering, looking harried and holding what appears to be a clipboard covered in glitter. “Bizzy, I’ve got good news and weird news about the cleanup.”
“Hit me with the weird news first,” I tell him. “I need to ease into good news these days.”
Ella claps and squeals as if she can hardly wait to hear everything, weird news and all.
“We found over a dozen cell phones hidden in various flower arrangements, all apparently belonging to Charlotte’s social media team, who were documenting every angle of the reception.”
“That’s not weird, that’s terrifying,” Macy scoffs. “How many people does it take to film one wedding?”
“According to the phones, approximately seventeen,” Jordy replies. “The good news is that most of the decorations are reusable, so we can probably rent them out for future events. Assuming anyone wants to book the location where a groom got arrested for murder.”
“Oh, they will,” Camila says with confidence. “Nothing sells wedding venues quite like a good murder story. You should add it to your marketing materials.”
She’s not wrong, Mom thinks. At least the bodies are good for business—morbid curiosity pays the bills. Bizzy should jump at the chance.
“No,” I tell her without hesitation.
“I didn’t say anything!” Mom protests.
“You were thinking it loud enough for the neighbors to hear.”
“No!” Ella shouts and claps, and Elliot is quick to parrot her.
They really are the cutest angels on the planet. Even if they hang their halos up each night when refusing to sleep for more than four minutes straight. Neither Emmie nor I have slept since they’ve been born. But who needs sleep when you can kiss these cutie pies?
The sound of crystal being carefully packed drifts over from the reception area, mixed with the occasional shout from the families infiltrating the beach. The robot dancer’s costume is sprawled in a heap on the sand, looking like a technological scarecrow that lost a fight with gravity.
“So,” Leo says, settling into his chair with the satisfied expression of a man who’s successfully closed a case, “anyone want to recap the final score? One killer arrested, one bride liberated, one dog rehomed, and one reception that will probably end up on social media for time immemorial.”
“Don’t forget one best man who’s about to discover what dating a social media influencer actually entails,” I add. “Conrad is in for a rude awakening when he realizes every moment of his life is now going to be documented for public consumption.”
“Including the breakup,” Camila adds cheerfully. “Which I will absolutely be filming if I’m in town when it happens.”
“You’re terrible,” Emmie tells her, but she’s laughing.
“I prefer entrepreneurial,” Camila replies. “Speaking of which, Bizzy, I don’t suppose you’d be interested in a reality show about innkeepers who solve murders? I’m thinking we can call it Checking Inn with Corpses or maybe Death Bed and Breakfast.”
“Absolutely not.”
“How about Murder, She Hosted?”
“Still no.”
“The Inn-vestigator?”
“Camila.”
“Fine, but I’m keeping those titles in case you change your mind.”
Georgie perks up as if she’s just remembered something important. “What am I thinking? I completely forgot to tell you the best part about last night!”
“There’s a best part?” Jasper asks. “Beyond catching a murderer and preventing a knife attack against my wife?”
“The robot dancer gave me his card!” She pulls out a business card that pulses to life with glitter. “His name is Derek, he’s six-foot-two without the stilts, and he does birthdays, bar mitzvahs, and most importantly, he does private parties.”
“Please tell me you’re not planning to hire a nine-foot robot for your birthday,” Mom begs.
“I’m not planning to hire him for my birthday,” Georgie says with a grin that suggests she’s planning something much worse. “I’m planning to hire him for my bedroom.”
“You want to date the robot dancer?” Macy asks. I wonder if he’s cute?
“He’s not actually a robot,” Georgie points out. “He’s a performance artist. Very avant-garde. Very flexible.”
“Oh, good heavens,” Mom mutters.
Lucky Georgie, Macy muses.
“Well,” Jasper says, raising his mug, “here’s to another case closed, another killer behind bars, and another day in paradise where the most normal thing that happened was a nine-foot-tall robot dancer covered in lights.”
“Here’s to summer in Cider Cove,” I add, clinking my mug against his while the ocean breeze carries the scent of salt air and roses, and somewhere in the distance, a seagull steals someone’s breakfast. “Where the season is just getting started and I’ve probably got even odds of finding another body before the Fourth of July. ”
Some people spend their summers sipping cocktails and getting tan lines—but here in Cider Cove, we spend ours untangling murder plots and apparently watching our friends fall for nine-foot robot dancers, which means it’s only a matter of time before murder comes calling on our little slice of paradise again.
Because in this town, killers check in, but they don’t check out.
Until next time, when I’m sure someone will find a creative new way to ruin a perfectly good celebration with a side of homicide.
I have a feeling the Fourth of July will be explosive, and the fireworks will have nothing to do with it.
Because in Cider Cove, murder doesn’t take a holiday.
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See you in Cider Cove!
It’s summer in Cider Cove and someone is about to have a killer Fourth of July.
I’m Bizzy Baker Wilder, and nothing says summer disaster quite like Mayor Mackenzie Woods booking my Country Cottage Inn for her mean girl squad’s Fourth of July stay-cation in Cider Cove.
Between beach parties, fireworks, and frozen cocktails, these women screenshot private texts for sport and weaponize social media as if it’s a contact sport. So naturally, when their self-proclaimed queen bee turns up dead during the patriotic kickoff party, Mackenzie ends up looking guilty as sin.
Suddenly I’m clearing the name of a woman I can barely tolerate, armed with my mind-reading quirk, my talking pets Fish and Sherlock Bones, and Mackenzie herself—who’s discovering that being framed for murder is way less fun than framing people on social media.
But before I can unmask the killer, another body drops at our seaside celebration.
Now I’m running out of time to stop a murderer who’s willing to kill anyone who gets too close to the truth—all while managing summer festivals, dodging a shady contractor, and keeping my new baby away from the chaos.
My pets are stealing every treat they can get their paws on, my sister’s viral candle disaster keeps getting worse, and my detective husband is solving a double homicide during fireworks season. Good thing I can read minds—because in a group this backstabbing, thoughts are deadlier than secrets.
Head back to Cider Cove with Red, White, and Blue-Collar Murder (Country Cottage Mysteries 33)!