She shakes her head. “Don’t worry about the budget. Michaela gets a massive discount—and she can share it with friends and family. You more than qualify as both.” She gives my cheek a kiss before she takes off with Misty and Lucky in tow.
Sherlock growls out at the crowd. There’s a killer in here somewhere.
I nod. “Or at least there was,” I muse just as I spot that pretty brunette, Bernie, watching as the coroner takes pictures of Julian Fletcher’s body.
My feet carry me in that direction, and Sherlock follows as I try to zero in on her mind.
There he lies, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Her lips curve as if this pleased her. Filth to filth. Goodbye, Julian. I’m so very glad we will never meet again.
She turns and runs out of the ballroom before I can intercept her.
It turns out, Bernie wasn’t all that sorry to see him die.
Her words were spoken like a woman scorned.
But were they spoken like a killer, too?
Chapter 4
The next morning, the Cottage Café is bustling despite the fact a storm front looks as if it’s moving in. Coastal Maine does love fall, and I won’t say that I’m all that sorry to see those hot, humid, summer days go. It was fun while it lasted, but autumn not only ushers in a new season as far as the weather goes, it’s ushering in a new season of my life. My wedding day is almost at hand.
Emmie strides forward with her arms full of dirty dishes.
“Where did all these people come from?” She blows a loose hair from her face.
I give a quick glance around at the café brimming with bodies, and speaking of bodies, that might just be the reason.
My lips twist at the sight. “There might be a chance that some of these people are here for the deadly ambiance.” I shrug. “Remember Lottie Lemon, my new friend from Honey Hollow? While I was there for a visit a few months back, we stayed at her mother’s haunted B&B. She runs tours through the place for eighty bucks a pop. It turns out, people love the macabre.”
“Eighty bucks a pop?” Emmie’s denim blue eyes expand on cue. “Bizzy, we need to get a couple of ghosts, stat.” She shudders. “And with all the homicides in Cider Cove just this last year alone, you’d think we’d have enough to haunt all of Maine.”
My lips invert in an effort to keep from telling Emmie that the ghosts that Lottie sees are primarily there to help her solve a murder.
“Never mind the ghosts,” I say. “Any chance you can get your shift covered? I’m thinking about heading out to Rolling Oaks this afternoon.”
“I’m sorry.” She shakes her head. “We’re catering a ladies’ luncheon on the patio this afternoon and I still need to bake up a storm. Are you tracking a suspect?” She gasps. “You are!”
“I didn’t say anything.” I raise a hand as if to declare my innocence, even though we both know I’m far from it when it comes to tracking down suspects. I can’t help it. If something goes wrong at my inn, I want to fix it. It’s a natural inclination on my part. And if that not-so little detail that goes wrong has to do with death, then I’m all that much more determined to settle it.
A wry look takes over her face. “You didn’t have to say a word.”
The door to the café opens and Georgie Conner shuffles up in a pumpkin orange kaftan, a pair of sunglasses, and her house slippers.
She leans in our way. “Anyone see an older gentleman with a beard big enough to fit an eagle’s nest?”
Emmie and I give the place a once-over.
“Nope,” I say. “Do I want to know why?” I’m guessing no.
“Whew.” Georgie takes off her sunglasses and sighs with relief. “Let’s just say I worked a little magic last night myself and took one of the roadies back to my place.”
“Georgie.” My shoulders rise to my ears as I cringe. “You had a one-night stand?”
“Oh, honey.” She gives a cheeky wink. “There wasn’t a whole lot of standing involved in the things we were doing.”
Emmie retches. “I gotta put these dishes down.”
“So what gives, kiddo?” Georgie does an odd little shuffle and nearly trips over her sheepskin slippers. “Where are we off to now? I heard the wizard got stuck in the pickle jar.”
I examine my sweet frazzled friend a moment.
“It wasn’t a pickle jar. It was a dunk tank—and that’s a terrible analogy.”
“Dunk tank, shmunk tank. Pickle jar sounds better. Who’s on first?”
My lips twitch a moment. “Michaela Harvey, sister of the bride. She had some kind of an argument with the deceased yesterday, and I want to see what I can get out of her.”
Georgie has been on more than one investigation with me. It’s safe to say she knows the drill. She’s not to be trusted with the drill, but she knows it.
“Ooh.” She rubs her hands together. “Where are we off to? A seedy bar? A house of ill repute? A diner that serves hot apple pie with a slice of anchovy pizza?”
“None of the above.” I wince at the pizza remark. “She works at a place called Minty’s out in—”
Georgie gasps. “The Minty’s? I know all about that place. It’s super snazzy. They have a security guard stationed every six feet within their department store. Nothing but the best and the brightest. I’d better let Juni know we’re headed to the meat market.”
She takes off before I can correct her, but with Georgie’s and Juni’s track record with security guards, she’s not wrong about the meat market.
Speaking of beefcake…
A smile glides across my face as Jasper Wilder steps into the café along with my father and his mother—an odd pairing if ever there was one. Jasper’s mother is more high
