Sneak Peek!
Fetching a Felony
Book Description:
There’s a wedding at the country cottage Inn! Get ready for something borrowed, something blue, something dead, and someone getting sued.
The Country Cottage Inn is known for its hospitality. Leaving can be murder.
Chapter 1
“Listen up, girls! Now that the wedding shenanigans have arrived, I’m going to hunt down a man tonight,” Georgie announces, strutting across the sand in her coconut bra like she’s heading into battle. “And by hunt, I mean the good kind of hunting, not the kind that requires a shovel. Unless of course, he gets on my bad side. In that case, I’ll need you ladies to help me hide the body.”
You know you’re in trouble when your eccentric friend Georgie shows up to a luau wearing a coconut bra and announcing her intention to snag or land in a body bag an entire litany of eligible bachelors.
The sweet scent of coconut sunscreen battles it out with the smoky kalua pig roasting in the sand pit, while some guy with a ukulele is doing his best to make “Margaritaville” sound tropical. Tiki torches flicker to life as the late afternoon sun starts painting everything in that golden glow that makes even the most disastrous beach party look like a postcard from paradise. The air is thick enough to swim through—humid and sticky in that special Maine summer way that makes you question every life choice that brought you to this sweaty moment.
Mom grunts in Georgie’s direction. “You leave those poor, innocent souls alone. There’s not enough therapy or insurance to cover the damage you’re capable of causing.”
Mom is a redhead on the wrong side of sixty who never met an 80s fashion trend she didn’t want to resurrect, adjusts her enormous shoulder pads while bouncing nine-month-old Ella on her hip. Her hair is teased higher than gas prices, and she’s wearing enough neon to guide aircraft safely to landing.
Georgie happens to be pushing eighty-something and obsessed with both men and breaking expensive things, has a tumbleweed of gray hair sitting on her head, and never met a kaftan she didn’t love—much like the lime green one she’s wearing now with pink flamingos dotted all over it. That’s basically Georgie in a nutshell—tropical bird obsession and complete chaos wherever she goes.
She and Mom are not only besties but they’re business partners too. And partners in crime on the side, but I’d rather not think about that right now.
The Country Cottage Inn is buzzing with more chaos than usual this evening, which is saying something considering I run a bed and breakfast in Cider Cove, Maine—a town that attracts trouble like seagulls to French fries.
Three weeks ago, I’d never heard of Charlotte Van Buren or Piers Pemberton, but when their original wedding venue mysteriously “fell through” just seven days before their big day, Piers called my husband Jasper in a panic. Apparently, old college friendships come with obligations, because before I knew it, I’d agreed to host what’s turning out to be the most elaborate last-minute wedding in Maine history.
The bride wants everything documented for her social media empire, the groom seems shadier than my beach umbrella, and their wedding planner showed up this morning with enough tropical decorations to transform my peaceful inn into something that looks like Hawaii exploded all over the coast. Now I’m standing on my own beach watching this circus unfold, wondering what exactly I’ve gotten myself into.
And tonight, we just so happen to be hosting a luau to kick off their wedding week.
I look over at their engagement picture, and I can’t help but wrinkle my nose. I’ve seen a lot of questionable engagement photos in my day—one on a paddleboard that ended with a broken front tooth, one with matching camel rides that felt legally dubious—but this might take the wedding cake.
Eight feet tall, four feet wide, and staked dramatically into the hot sand like it’s announcing a crime scene instead of a commitment, the billboard looms in front of me with all the subtlety of a marching band. It features the happy couple—Charlotte Van Buren and Piers Pemberton—locked in a windswept embrace, posed just off-center from a very real tornado funnel barreling toward them.
Yes, a tornado.
Like I said, the Country Cottage Inn is hosting this unexpected wedding extravaganza for an entire week, and judging by this photo, we’re in for one wild ride.
“I’m telling you,” Georgie says, peeling off her sandals and letting her toes sink into the sand like she’s about to manifest something inappropriate, “tonight is the night I land a man. I can feel it. Right in my ankles.”
“Could just be the humidity,” Mom replies, bouncing baby Ella on her hip while adjusting her enormous, wide-brimmed hat. “Or poor circulation.”
“Are you kidding, Red? It’s destiny.” Georgie squints toward the outdoor bar, where shirtless groomsmen are lined up like human bait. “Preferably tall, preferably shirtless, possibly dumb.”
“You need something to keep you occupied other than men,” Mom mutters. “We’ll find you a project. Preferably one that doesn’t own three types of hair gel.”
And please let it be something that doesn’t require supervision, I muse to myself while nudging a sand toy out from under my chair.
“I’ll help you brainstorm,” I offer, sipping a frozen coconut concoction that tastes like sunscreen and regret. “Maybe something that doesn’t end with bail money.”
We’re all sprawled under a massive striped umbrella that’s doing its best impression of shade while the sun beats down on our little corner of chaos. My sweet daughter Ella babbles happily and claps her chubby hands together—a trick she mastered last week, along with pulling herself up to standing and saying what Jasper swears is “dada” but sounds more like “ba-ba” to everyone with functioning ears. Her wispy dark hair sports a tiny flower lei that makes her look like the world’s most adorable beach baby, assuming beach babies came with the ability to grab anything within a three-foot radius and immediately try to eat it.
“Brainstorm all you want,” Georgie waves us off with one perfectly manicured hand, “but I’ve got my sights set on that delicious best man. Did you see those shoulders? Those eyes? That jawline that could probably open cans?”
Before I can point out that using someone’s jawline as a kitchen utensil might be taking things too far, my sweet pets Fish and Sherlock Bones come tearing past our umbrella in a blur of fur and determination.
The little yappy one is trying to organize a shrimp heist, Fish pants, without slowing down. This could be the best luau ever, or the start of my criminal career.
My money is on both, Sherlock adds, tongue hanging out as he bounds after her. Don’t worry, Bizzy, I’ll protect the inn from the furry little hurricane.
A small brown and coffee-colored Chihuahua barks after them in a voice that could shatter glass, then takes off like a tiny furry missile. The whole pack quickly joins up with Cinnamon and Gatsby, plus Candy and Cane, turning the beach into their personal furry racetrack.
My name is Bizzy Baker Wilder, 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 when I say that animals almost always have better things to say.
The cove is packed tighter than a subway car during rush hour. Wedding guests, inn staff, and what appears to be half of Cider Cove are all jockeying for position around the outdoor bar, which is currently three people deep with folks waiting for those famous frozen concoctions that taste like a vacation in a glass. The luau buffet has been demolished and restocked so many times I’ve lost count, and the steel drum band that materialized from somewhere is currently making “Sweet Caroline” sound like it was always meant to be played on the sand.
“Bizzy!” Emmie appears at my elbow, holding one-year-old Elliot, whose dark hair is sticking up in all directions thanks to the humidity. He’s sporting tiny board shorts that make him look ready to hit the waves, assuming the waves were located in a kiddie pool.
Emmie and I are besties. In fact, we’ve been best friends since preschool. We share the same medium-length dark hair, same denim blue eyes, and same name, Elizabeth. But thankfully, we go by the nicknames our families have given us to avoid confusion. In fact, I gifted my daughter the same moniker, Elizabeth, so she could join the Elizabethan party too. But we just call her Ella.
Emmie leans in. “Can you believe how lucky Charlotte and Piers got that you had room for their entire wedding circus?”
I follow her gaze to where our husbands are tossing a football with what appears to be every male within a fifty-yard radius. Jasper and Leo look like they’re having the time of their lives, which makes sense since they went to college with Piers back when their biggest worry was whether the dining hall would run out of pizza.
“Lucky is one word for it,” I say. “Though I have to admit, three weeks ago I’d never heard of either of them. Then Piers calls Jasper out of the blue, and not only are Jasper and Leo now groomsmen but their venue canceled, and suddenly we’re hosting the wedding of the century.”
“More like the wedding of the week,” Emmie grins. “But everything looks amazing. You really outdid yourself with all the tropical touches.”
“Yeah, this place looks like Hawaii exploded all over Maine,” Georgie chimes in, appearing beside us wearing not only the requisite lei and rose-colored sunglasses, but also that coconut bra I mentioned and a grass skirt that’s seen better decades. “And I mean that in the best possible way.”
“I’d love to take credit for the tropical explosion,” I admit, scanning the crowd, “but I can’t. The woman responsible is right over there.” I point toward a redhead with a sleek bob who’s currently directing my staff with the efficiency of an air traffic controller. “She showed up this morning with a truck full of decorations and turned my peaceful inn into Club Med. I’ve been trying to meet her all day, but between squeezing wedding guests into every available closet and making sure nobody drowns in the punch bowl, I haven’t had the chance.”
“Well, now’s your opportunity,” Emmie says. “I’ll come with you for moral support.”
“And I’ll come for the entertainment value,” Georgie adds, because of course she will.
No sooner do I take another step on the sand than two women all but accost the poor wedding planner with a shouting match—a blonde and a woman with long chestnut locks. I happen to recognize both of them—the blonde would be the bride, and the woman with the chestnut locks just so happens to be my husband’s ex.
“I should kill you for this!” the bride shouts at the wedding planner, her voice carrying over the steel drums and party chatter.
“Well, that escalated quickly,” I say, watching the two women square off like they’re preparing for a cage match.
The last thing I need is to break this up before there’s an actual murder at my inn—it wouldn’t be the first time, and I have a sinking feeling it won’t be the last.
***I hope you enjoyed this preview! Thank you for reading!****