Sneak Peek!
Red, White, & Blue-Collar Murder
Book Description:
It’s summer in Cider Cove and someone is about to have a killer Fourth of July.
The Country Cottage Inn is known for its hospitality. Leaving can be murder.
Chapter 1
“I’m just saying,” Georgie announces, adjusting her kaftan—today’s selection features neon pink flamingos doing the cha-cha—”if Mackenzie wanted to impress her friends, she should’ve sprung for actual glassware. These red plastic cups scream small-town budget cuts.”
Mom snorts into her drink. “Or maybe she’s trying to prove she still knows how to party.”
“In that case,” I say, “it’s definitely not working.”
The beach behind the Country Cottage Inn is packed with half of Cider Cove and what looks like the entire town council budget transformed into hot dogs and bunting. The evening air smells like charcoal smoke and coconut sunscreen, with an undertone of something floral that’s probably coming from the centerpieces Emmie spent all afternoon arranging.
The pink sunset is still hanging on over the cove, turning the water into something magical, and the sound of classic rock drifts from the speakers near the buffet tables.
It’s late June in Maine, and it’s warm enough to make you believe summer is here to stay, even though we all know better.
I crane my neck at the crowd bustling on the sand as the sky shifts to an aggressive shade of tangerine.
“From where I’m standing,” I say, “Emmie is doing all the work and Mackenzie’s doing all the schmoozing.”
Emmie glances up from the dessert table and catches my eye. She mouths kill me now.
I mouth back get in line.
Emmie would be my very best friend in the world. We’ve been BFFs since we were in preschool. Fun fact, we share the same formal moniker, Elizabeth. Although, neither of us has ever been called by that name. And funny enough, I named my sweet little baby girl Elizabeth too, but we all call her Ella. She’s ten months old and already has the biggest personality you ever did see. She’s as adorable as I could have ever dreamed my daughter would be at this age. That point might be debatable at two in the morning, but her cuteness still wins out, even then.
“Bizzy, be nice.” Mom’s red feathered hair hasn’t moved an inch despite the ocean breeze, which is either Aqua Net or witchcraft. She’s wearing shoulder pads that could double as flotation devices and enough turquoise jewelry to open a roadside stand. “This week is important to Mackenzie.”
I make a face at my sister-in-law slash mayor as she holds court on the sand with about a dozen or so of her closest friends, if you can call them that. “Do mean girls really have friends? Or do they just run around calling each other frenemies behind their backs?”
“Elizabeth Baker Wilder,” Mom snips.
And I stand corrected. I guess I’ve finally heard my formal name spoken. There’s a first time for everything. Including hosting an entire tribe of mean girls at my inn.
Mackenzie and her prep school crew have an annual reunion, and this year it’s her turn to host a week-long extravaganza, but Mackenzie, my fearless, nothing-rattles-her Mackenzie, is nervous enough about impressing this crowd that she asked to co-host the whole week at the Country Cottage Inn starting tonight, because apparently nothing says welcome, old friends like ocean views, twinkle lights, and enough guest rooms to house the entire entourage.
Georgie groans in their direction. “They’re calling it the Cider Cove Seaside Social.” She sticks a finger down her throat and pretends to gag. “Slapping a cute name on it doesn’t make it less of a seven-day ego trip.”
Georgie Conner is one of my favorite octogenarians, and my mother’s best friend. Georgie’s daughter was once married to my father, and I like to say we got Georgie in the divorce. She’s loud, wily, and not at all shy about her obsession with men, both older and younger. She has a gray stack of hair that sits on her head like a tumbleweed, and she happens to have one serious penchant for kaftans—at least when the weather permits.
“I’m calling it the Cider Cove Seaside Social. It’s sort of a welcome to summer party,” I tell her. “Since the Fourth of July is just a week away, I thought it would be fun to have a build-up celebration. Mackenzie and her friends are simply going to be in attendance.”
It’s not all about them.
But I have a feeling they’ll make it that way.
“Nevertheless,” Mom says. “Mackenzie has reminded me over and over again how important this week is. Has she mentioned that to you?” Mom’s voice is still in reprimanding mode. She can’t help it. She loves my brother Huxley so much, she really wants his marriage to the shrew to work out. And honestly, so do I. Not to mention they’re the parents of my favorite nephew little Mack—named after Mackenzie herself. Little Mack is just over two-and-a-half, and I think he’s ready to run this town right along with his mama.
“She’s told me seventeen times,” I say. “That’s how many times she’s mentioned this week is important.”
“Eighteen,” Georgie corrects, popping a deviled egg into her mouth. That gray tumbleweed of hair bobs as she chews. “I’ve been counting.”
Tonight’s seaside shindig is hitting that sweet spot where people are loud enough to be fun but not boisterous enough to be obnoxious. The entire cove is thick with bodies. Ice clinks in plastic cups. People are laughing too hard at a joke that probably wasn’t funny. Kids shriek with delight somewhere near the water.
“Bizzy!” Mackenzie materializes beside me like a brunette genie with an agenda. She’s wearing white capris that are probably designer and a red halter top that’s working overtime. Her smile is all sharp and pointy teeth. “Listen up and listen up good. This week means everything to me. My friends are finally seeing Cider Cove, seeing what I’ve built here as mayor, and I need—”
“Everything to go perfectly,” I finish. “You’ve mentioned that.”
Her smile tightens. “This is no time for sarcasm, Bizzy. I’m serious. These women are important to me. We’ve been friends since college, and I want them to see that I’m not just some small-town mayor. My friends are—”
“Toxic.” Huxley appears behind his wife with a grin and little Mack drooling on his shoulder. My brother looks annoyingly put-together for a man who’s been wrestling a two-year-old all day. Dark hair, blue eyes, and the Baker family jawline that’s probably being copied by a plastic surgeon somewhere. “That’s the word you’re looking for, babe. Your friends are toxic.”
Hux says it with a smile, because somehow, he always seems to have his lips curving in the right direction. If my brother is anything, he’s happy-go-lucky. Which does beg the question why he married such a sourpuss like Mackenzie. I guess opposites really do attract. And it’s worth mentioning, he’s the world’s best uncle to Ella.
“Huxley.” Mackenzie snaps the word out and her voice could freeze the Atlantic.
“What? They are.” He adjusts Mack, who’s gone full noodle in his arms. My sweet nephew is wearing tiny red shorts and a blue shirt with a star on it, and he’s about three seconds from being completely unconscious.
Same little Mack, same.
Hux laughs. “Remember sophomore year when that girl—what was her name? Brittany?—posted that video of you falling off the mechanical bull? And tagged every fraternity on campus?” He pauses. “You weren’t wearing any clothes.”
Mom moans. “Oh honey. Please tell me someone got that footage so I can delete it.”
Mom is still figuring out how the internet works.
“That was ancient history,” Mackenzie grits through her teeth.
Hux tips his head. “Or junior year when they left you at that bar in Boston because you wouldn’t split the tab for bottles you didn’t drink?” My brother is still smiling, but his eyes have gone sharp. “Or last year when they forgot to invite you to that Hamptons weekend?”
Mackenzie’s jaw clenches.
I’ll admit, a part of me might be enjoying this a touch too much.
Time to redirect, Mom thinks, clearly sensing this is about to get ugly. Let’s talk about something nice.
“So!” Mom says brightly, turning to Mackenzie and Huxley. “Are you two all set for your trip to Santorini next month? That business development conference sounds wonderful.”
Mackenzie’s expression shifts immediately, tension melting into excitement. “Yes! Two weeks. We leave right after the August town council meeting.”
“Business development,” Huxley says with a grin. “Also known as sitting by the pool with fancy cocktails.”
“Networking is important,” Mackenzie defends.
I’m watching this exchange and trying to do the math in my head. Santorini for two weeks isn’t cheap. And Mackenzie and Huxley have that obscene mortgage on their waterfront house—the one with the gourmet kitchen and the media room and the backyard that looks like it belongs in Architectural Digest.
Huxley’s been working part-time ever since Mack was born because he didn’t want his son raised by nannies, which I respect, but still. Part-time graphic design income plus a small-town mayor’s salary?
I was sure they’d be eating rice and beans for the next thirty years.
How in the world are they affording this? Mom thinks, clearly doing the same mental gymnastics I am.
Good question, Mom. Very good question.
“Anyway.” Huxley kisses her temple, completely unbothered by the death glare she’s giving him. “I’m taking this little guy home before he wakes up and demands to swim in the ocean at midnight. I’m leaving Cane here though. He and Candy are having a moment.”
As if on cue, both white Samoyeds—Candy and Cane—come barreling past in a blur of fur and what can only be described as aggressive flirtation. It’s true, my sister and my brother’s respective cute fluffy pooches sort of have a thing for each other. And that’s when my sweet fur-babies, Fish and Sherlock, tear after them, followed by Emmie’s golden retriever Gatsby and her labradoodle Cinnamon.
Then out of the blue, a Jack Russell terrier I’ve never seen before rockets through the group like he’s got somewhere very important to be.
Move, move, MOVE! That kid dropped a hot dog and I SAW IT FIRST! The perky terrier’s thoughts blast through my brain at maximum volume before he disappears into the crowd.
“What a cutie,” I say. “Whose dog is that?”
“Probably one of the guests,” Mom says. “He’s a sweet little thing. He was begging for a cookie earlier so I had to share mine. I’m a sucker for big brown eyes.”
“Join the club,” Georgie grunts. “I’m a sucker for big brown eyes, and big blue eyes, and big green eyes, and whatever other color big might come in.”
Mom nods. “And you’ve got a bottlecap collection in your bedroom to prove it.”
It’s true. Some people put a notch on their bedpost, Georgie prefers bottlecaps. And let’s just say her collection is big. At this rate, Georgie is going to need a storage unit for that bottlecap collection.
Before I can get a word in about bottlecaps or cute little pooches, Mackenzie grabs my arm with a grip that lets me know she’s mapped out my murder more than once. Her manicured nails dig in just enough to make a point.
“You listen to me very carefully, Bizzy Baker.”
I frown at her because she just so happened to leave out my most valued moniker. My married name, Wilder. Otherwise, the threats are par for the sister-in-law course.
“There will be no bodies at this event. Do you understand?” She snips it hard. “No mysterious deaths. No suspicious accidents. No tragic mishaps. These people are important to me, Bizzy. I need this week to be perfect. In fact, this week will be—”
Georgie snickers. “I believe the word your handsome hubby used was toxic.”
Mackenzie’s growl could register on the Richter scale.
“Lucky for you I don’t have any homicides on my agenda.” I try to take my arm from her death grip but to no avail. For a woman who’d like to exclude the Grim Reaper, she sure is acting a lot like his assistant. Although, some might argue that would be me. “In fact,” I continue, “I never plan for any murders to take place. They just sort of happen around me.”
Hauntingly true.
“Well, they’re not happening this week.” Mackenzie releases my arm and smooths her hair. Her smile clicks back into place like a light switch. “In fact, you’re going to stick by my side all night. That way I can keep an eye on you and make sure you’re not sending anyone else up to the great fireworks factory in the sky.”
“Or more to the point, I’ll be sticking by your side all night so when someone inevitably drops dead, you can’t blame me for it.” I blink a smile at her and she all but detonates—in silence, thankfully.
My aforementioned bestie, Emmie, glides by with a tray full of bacon-wrapped dates. Hanging out with Mackenzie all night? Have fun with that one. She wrinkles her nose.
This might be a good time to mention that my name is Bizzy Baker Wilder, I stand at an average height, have dark medium-length hair, and denim blue eyes—and I can read the minds of both people and animals. Not every mind, not every time, but most of the time, and believe me, animals almost always have better things to say. Always.
Not everyone knows I can pry into other people’s gray matter, but of course my bestie knows, as does her husband and mine, and well, Georgie.
“I mean it Bizzy, no dead bodies,” Mackenzie continues her assault on my sanity.
“Believe me, Mackenzie, nobody is dropping dead,” I’m quick to assure her—however false that assurance might be.
She says that now, Mackenzie thinks, but give it ten minutes and she’ll be tripping over a corpse like it’s a party favor.
I make a face at the thought. Little does Mackenzie here know that I can do it in less than five.
Not that I’m proud.
The smell of burgers on the grill drifts over from the outdoor portion of the Country Cottage Café, the eatery attached to the back of my inn, and that heavenly scent mixes with salt air and someone’s aggressively tropical perfume. The music shifts to something louder and far more upbeat as people start migrating toward the food and the makeshift dancefloor in equal measure.
Just across the beach, I spot my handsome hubby, Jasper—Homicide Detective Jasper Wilder.
Jasper is tall, dark, and handsome in the classical sense with a shock of dark hair that I love to run my fingers through, light gray eyes that could see straight into my soul, and a body that I don’t mind warming up to night after night.
And that last point would be exactly why he’s holding our sweet baby girl, Ella, in his arms. Our daughter’s dark hair is fluffing up like cotton candy from the ocean breeze, her blue eyes heavy with sleep. She looks like a miniature carbon copy of her daddy—same serious expression, same way of surveying everything like she’s filing it away for future reference.
He’s walking toward his mother, Gwyneth, who’s set up camp in one of the Adirondack chairs and a very large glass of wine.
Smart woman.
And fun fact, she’s married to my father.
Again, smart woman. Although judging from my father’s track record with divorce, she may not be as smart as she thinks.
“I’m serious, Bizzy.” Mackenzie’s still droning on. “My friends are going to be here for seven days. Seven,” she says it like the threat it is. “We have planned activities, coordinated outfits, a whole—”
“Schedule of opportunities for someone to get murdered?” Georgie suggests with a cackle.
Mom elbows her. “Georgie.”
“What? I’m just saying, if Bizzy’s involved, we should probably get a betting pool going. I’ve got twenty bucks on Thursday.”
“Thirty on Saturday,” Mom says without hesitation. “Right before the fireworks show. Her track record says she goes for maximum drama.”
“Mother,” I snip.
“Oh, she’s no slacker.” Emmie scoots in close on her way back to the kitchen. “I say my BFF strikes tonight.” She winks my way and I gasp. “What? You’re not one to procrastinate,” she calls out with a laugh as she takes off for the café.
I might own and run the inn but Emmie runs the café for me. Although, right about now I’m reconsidering her employment status.
However, she’s right about that whole procrastination thing.
I love my family and friends, but sometimes I wonder if they’re actively trying to get me arrested. And other days, I wonder if I deserve to get arrested.
Mackenzie closes her eyes and takes a breath that probably has a yoga instructor’s voice attached to it somewhere. When she opens them, her smile is back and sharp enough to bite my beating heart right out of my chest.
“Just… try not to be yourself this week, okay?” She pats my shoulder. “Think bland. Think boring. Think completely and utterly forgettable.”
Bizzy is technically all of those things,she muses to herself. But I’m in no position to point that out now that I need her to play nice for the week.
“Wow. What a pep talk.”
But Mackenzie is already walking away, hips swinging, heading toward a whole new group of women who just landed on the sand and look like they were headed to the country club.
Emmie appears at my elbow once again, this time with a tray of mini baked brie bites with raspberry jam—I’ve been sampling them all day. Her dark hair is pulled back in a ponytail and she’s got flour on her sleeve. “Those are her friends?”
“Apparently.”
“They look…”
“Expensive,” I supply.
“I was going to say high maintenance, but that works too.”
One of them, a tall blonde, throws her head back in a laugh like she runs on champagne and diamonds.
Another one, thin with ash blonde hair cut in a sharp bob, surveys the party like she’s already decided who matters and who doesn’t.
And I already know what side I fall on.
A third woman with auburn hair falling in perfect waves stands slightly apart from the group, waiting for someone to notice her.
They all look like they walked out of the same boutique, the same salon, possibly the same factory that produces people who make the rest of us feel underdressed.
“This is going to be a long week,” I mutter.
“Or a very short one,” Mom says cheerfully, “depending on how fast you can kill them all off.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“I wasn’t joking,” she counters.
The sun finally gives up and sinks below the horizon, leaving behind streaks of orange and pink rich enough to hypnotize all of Maine. Twinkle lights flicker on around the beach and around the inn, spilling a warm, golden glow over everything.
Someone cranks the music louder for good measure.
Fish trots over and sits at my feet, her black and white fur somehow still pristine despite the beach. Bizzy, that tiny menace is unhinged. He ate seven hot dogs. Seven. I counted.
Sherlock bounds up behind her, tongue lolling, ears flopping. But he shared three with me so he’s not ALL bad.
“Aww,” I coo as I give Sherlock a quick scratch behind his ears. Sherlock Bones was a package deal when I got together with Jasper and I couldn’t have been happier with the dynamic duo. “That was very nice of him.” I give my black and white tabby a quick pat too. “You’re supposed to be socializing,” I tell her.
I am social. I socialize with Sherlock. That’s two of us. That’s social.
She’s got me there.
The evening settles in around us—warm air, the distant rush of waves, the steady hum of conversation and clinking glasses.
Cider Cove is gearing up for a week of patriotic excess and whatever chaos Mackenzie’s friends are about to bring with them.
Seven days of this, I think, watching Mackenzie air-kiss her way through the blonde brigade.
Seven days of toxic friends, coordinated outfits, and Mackenzie watching my every move like I’m a loaded gun in a room full of targets.
What could possibly go wrong?
Everything.
The answer is everything.
***I hope you enjoyed this preview! Thank you for reading!****