It’s the very next morning, and the sun is already searing a hole through the roof of the inn as the heat gives the air conditioner a run for its money.
Fish and Sherlock are in top form, greeting every guest that steps into the lobby with a wag of the tail and a cheerful little hop.
Fish jumps up onto the counter in one gravity-defying move.
Why so glum? I haven’t seen you this grumpy since Camila tried to turn you into a pushpin for the government.
It’s true.
A while back, Camila tried to shove me in the direction of some government paranormal investigation agency and it was a big supernatural mess.
“Funny you should ask,” I whisper. “I was just thinking about the wicked witch.”
Jane Olsen strides through the doors, wrapped in a blue and white striped beach towel, her red bathing suit peeking out from underneath. She has a beach bag slung over her shoulder and a strip of zinc oxide slashed on the bridge of her nose.
“Good morning,” I say, trying my best to sound chipper.
“Good morning to you.” She laughs as Sherlock trots her way and she gives him a gentle pat. “You have the friendliest pets here. I never want to leave.”
“I’m actually surprised”—I catch myself before it’s too late—“you haven’t hit the beach already.”
She tucks a stray hair behind her ear and gives a playful frown my way.
“Nice save, Bizzy, but I’m guessing you heard about the divorce papers.” She gives a nonchalant shrug. “It was bound to happen. But I’m not leaving the set. I don’t believe in giving Peter peace with his hussies. Besides, I’m financially vested in this film, too, you know.” She sinks a wide-brimmed sunhat onto the top of her head. “I’ll be on the sand if anyone comes looking for me.” She gives a two-fingered wave as she disappears in the direction of the café.
Sherlock bounds from side to side and gives a cheerful bark. Let’s follow that woman, Bizzy. She’s headed toward bacon land.
Fish swats her tail in his direction. She’s probably just picking up coffee before she hits the sand. Not everyone is as obsessed with bacon as you. I don’t care for the stuff myself.
“That’s right,” I say. “Your drug of choice is catnip.”
Catnip! Her ears twitch just as Camila runs in with her hair disheveled, that same silver dress she was wearing last night sits askew on her body, and Sherlock barks at the sight of her.
Believe me, I’m moved to bark, too.
“Bizzy! You have to help,” she pants. “Quick, call Jasper. There’s an emergency.”
“Let me guess, you broke a heel doing the walk of shame from Peter’s trailer?”
She groans hard my way as the veins in her neck pulsate.
“No. I was about to leave when I found a cleaver sitting on the driver’s seat of my car.”
“What?” My heart pounds against my chest as I quickly text Jasper. His truck was still in his driveway when I walked to the inn this morning. And considering that our cottages are just a stone’s throw from the entrance, he should be here any—
“Bizzy?” Jasper speeds into the foyer at a quickened clip, his suit jacket latched over his back by way of his fingers, and you can see the gun in his holster sitting on his side.
Camila wastes no time before tossing herself at him.
“Oh, Jasper. It was horrible!” she shrills. “The killer is out to get me, and I’m terrified out of my mind.”
A small crowd of guests gathers around and begins to whisper amongst themselves.
Jasper and Camila speed out the door and I follow them all the way to the parking lot, where Camila’s sedan sits baking in the sun. And sure enough, gleaming on the driver’s side seat is a cleaver—identical to the one that killed Heather Kent—identical to the ones that were peppered around here at the inn.
Jasper calls it in and a forensics unit shows up to take prints of the car and the cleaver. It takes a couple of hours before Jasper heads off to Seaview for the station with Camila by his side. I frown as I wave to Jasper as he takes off.
I won’t lie. That cleaver seems to be playing right into Camila’s hungry clutches, and I don’t like it one bit.
There’s only one thing to do. Solve the damn case and get Camila out of my hair, and Jasper’s, for good.
Grady and Nessa have control of the registration desk, so I put on my bikini, grab a towel, and head for the water. Okay, so I haven’t exactly made a practice of going near anything that qualifies as a body of water ever since Mack held me under in that whiskey barrel and essentially told me to breathe. But Jane Olsen doesn’t need to know that.
There she is. Sherlock barks as he heads in her direction.
I let both Sherlock and Fish in on my plan to interrogate the woman while I was doing a quick change. I’ll admit, it was a bit odd talking to a couple of pets while jumping around in the nude, trying to wiggle my way into a swimsuit. Sherlock made a comment about me not having a tail like Jasper, and Fish let me know she wouldn’t discriminate against me just because I was hairless.
Sherlock leads us to the canopy the inn has set out over the sand with rows of wooden lounge chairs laid out for those guests who prefer not to burn to a crisp. It’s still early out and the entire cabana is empty, save for Jane lying on one of the loungers on her stomach while reading a book. She looks happy, in a youthful way, with her legs kicking back and forth in the air behind her.
“Is this seat taken?” I ask as chipper as can be while landing right next to her.
“Not for you and your furry little friends,” she says, scooping Fish into her arms as she quickly sits upright.
