Emmie pretends to zip her lip. “It’ll be our little secret.” She looks back. “Nessa, can you let the kitchen staff know I’ll be back in a few hours?”
Nessa shoots me a look. “Fine. Just try not to get yourselves killed. One of these days, Bizzy Baker, you’re going to run into some real trouble.”
“It’s Bizzy Baker Wilder,” I call out as Emmie and I dash out the front doors of the inn, only to run into Georgie with a pumpkin patchwork wonky quilt strapped to her back and a smaller version strapped to her chest with three fuzzy little cuties peering out at me from inside.
“Where’s the fire?” Georgie holds out her hands and staggers from foot to foot.
“South at the Blue Horse Inn,” I say, whisking past her. “I have to ask Marigold what she knows about Flint.”
Georgie clasps onto the kittens. “Hear that, girls? We’re going south, and I bet we’re going to catch a killer!”
That would be great. But right about now, I’d settle for catching a clue.
The Blue Horse Inn is located just below Seaview in a sleepy beach town called Willow Bay. The inn has a larger-than-life powder blue stone horse that stands proudly right outside of the establishment. The building is massive in both girth and width, and could easily dwarf the Country Cottage Inn twice over. There’s a ritzy fountain just outside its doors, similar to the one my own inn has, but this one is made of gleaming white marble and the bottom tier is so large it could double as a swimming pool.
Emmie, Georgie, and I storm the entrance, and inside it looks stately, with its white polished walls and glossy white floors. It looks more like a swanky hotel you might find in Manhattan rather than a cozy seaside resort, and I’m glad about it, too. I’ve been meaning to come down and check out the competition. I mean, I’ve seen pictures of the place online, but there’s a sterile air to it only the real deal could provide.
The Blue Horse Inn butts up against the beach and has a dining room attached that overlooks the water. But whereas the Country Cottage Inn has a simple café, they have a full-blown restaurant and bar. The entire inn is geared for another type of clientele entirely, so I’ve never felt as if we were truly competitive in any respect.
Emmie grunts as she looks to the long steel reception counter.
“Not a complimentary donut in sight.” She sniffs.
I shake my head. “It’s almost Thanksgiving, and I don’t see a single pumpkin, turkey, or cornucopia in sight. I’m guessing it doesn’t fit with their color scheme.”
Georgie snorts. “And not a single pooch or cool cat here to greet you either.” She gives the kittens in her quilted pouch a jostle. “Looks like a BYOK kinda place to me.”
Emmie gives her the side-eye. “BYOK?”
“Bring your own kitten,” I say. “I’ve been around Georgie long enough to know how she operates.” Mostly.
Georgie hitches her thumb my way. “That’s why you’re the lead detective of the Seaview Sheriff’s Department.”
“That would be my husband,” I say.
“Yeah, right.” Georgie elbows Emmie in the ribs. “The next thing she’s going to try to tell us is that he’s the one that wears the pants in the family.”
Emmie cackles right along with Georgie while I make a run for the front desk. Each employee here is wearing a black suit with a red and white dotted bowtie, the only color in this rather monochromatic world.
“Excuse me,” I say, getting the attention of a blonde with her hair knotted up at the neck. I get the feeling hair is off-limits for the employees here, too. Maybe for the guests as well. “I’m supposed to be meeting with Marigold Sweet for lunch,” I say, crossing my fingers and toes. As much as I don’t like even the tiniest lie, I’m hoping to make that lunch date a reality in less than ten minutes. “Do you know where I can find her?”
The blonde’s fingers dance across her keyboard as she looks to the computer screen in front of her.
“She is a guest,” she says. “I can’t tell you which room she’s in, but you could try the Marblehead Lounge if you want to find her. It’s to your left and toward the water. Enjoy your time at the Blue Horse Inn.” She gets right back to tapping away at her keyboard while I lead Georgie and Emmie in the direction she pointed us to.
One of the kittens peering from Georgie’s quilt squeaks out a tiny mewl, Bizzy, since Sherlock Bones isn’t here, we’ve decided it’s only fair we have his bacon.
Another kitten pokes her head out. Leave her alone, Cookie. Can’t you see she’s about to nab the killer? Her little nose twitches. Ooh, I smell something delicious. I’ll have a helping of whatever that is.
The third one mewls in agreement, and soon they’re going off like a choir.
“They’re hungry,” I say before quickly relaying their message.
“You don’t have to ask me twice.” Georgie reaches past the quilt draped over her and into the pocket of her kaftan. “It’s raining bacon,” she says as she sprinkles bits of salted meat over the kittens’ heads and they go wild with delight while fighting for it.
Emmie reaches over and snatches a few pieces right out of the air.
“Don’t look at me like that, Bizzy,” she says. “I’m not above bacon.”
“Neither am I.” An elastic smile glides across my face as I help myself to a piece.
The three of us come upon the Marblehead Lounge and crane our heads in every direction at once. It’s dark inside. Loud rock music rattles our bones and thumps through our chests. The scent of grilled peppers and onions lights up our senses as a waitress walks by with a sizzling order of fajitas—and what I wouldn’t do to sink my teeth into that platter right about now. The windows have a
