CHAPTER 16
Okay, I decided to leave Fish, Sherlock, and Truffle with Gwyneth and my father, who volunteered to pull babysitting duty this evening. I had fully planned on bringing the four-footed detectives along for the ride, but Emmie assured me tonight’s venue wasn’t exactly animal-friendly. Ella was more than delighted to have them with her anyway.
And true to her word, Emmie picked up Georgie, my mother, Buffy, and me and drove us out to the exact locale where tonight’s crime against bridal shenanigans is taking place—den of choreographed sin.
There’s something deeply philosophical about attending a strip club for women while investigating a murder suspect, but I haven’t figured out what that something is yet.
“I have to say,” I announce as Emmie pulls into the parking lot of what can only be described as Vegas’s trashy younger sister. “I completely agree with Charlotte and Piers about ditching the rehearsal dinner. Walking down a beach to get hitched doesn’t exactly require a practice run.”
“Unless you’re planning to trip over your own feet,” Georgiepoints out from the backseat, where she’s been primping in her compact mirror for the past ten minutes.
“Or trip over a dead body,” I mutter under my breath.
“What was that?” Mom asks from the passenger seat.
“Nothing. Just commenting on the romantic ambiance of Edison after dark.”
Edison would be the seedy town just west of Cider Cove. Everyone knows that nothing good ever happens in Edison—certainly not after dark—and certainly not in the nude.
The neon sign attached to the boxy brick building blazesTHE SAUCY STALLIONin letters so bright they could probably cause retinal damage, complete with a flashing silhouette of a rearing horse that strobes every three seconds.
The air carries the intoxicating blend of summer heat, car exhaust, and what smells suspiciously like deep-fried everything wafting from the food trucks parked along the street. I’d much rather visit the food trucks.
“Well,” Buffy says cheerfully, taking in the establishment with the wide-eyed wonder of a sister who’s clearly never been to a strip club, “this is certainly... educational.”
“That’s one word for it,” I say, watching a group of women stumble out of the entrance shrieking with laughter and clutching drinks that glow in colors not found in nature.
We migrate our way inside and immediately are hit with sensory overload. The hot pink swirling lights, the boisterous boom-chicka-bow-wow music, and last but certainly not least, the scent of burgers and fries. That last one actually brings me a modicum of comfort.
The inside of The Saucy Stallion is exactly what happens when someone with more money than taste decides to create their version of Western sophistication. Red velvet drapes hang from the ceiling alongside rope and horseshoe decorations, weathered wooden beams support a mirrored disco ball the size of a small car, and neon lights flash in patterns that could trigger seizures injust about anyone. The bass from the country-rock fusion music thrums through the floor so hard I can feel it in my ribcage. There are throngs of bodies in the room—mostly women screaming their heads off, and a stage that eats up half the room is currently occupied with scantily clad police officers. Have I mentioned the throngs of women begging to be arrested?
I’d like to arrest someone, all right. Macy and Camila, to be exact.
“Holy moly,” I breathe, taking in the dimly lit scene.
“Welcome to Edison’s finest entertainment establishment,” Emmie grins, clearly enjoying our collective shell-shock.
“This place makes What Ales You look like a monastery,” Mom points out, clutching her purse like it might protect her from whatever is about to happen. Fat chance there. But she might be able to use it as a weapon to ward off any half-dressed officers of the law.
The hostess, a woman in her twenties with platinum blonde hair piled high enough to flirt with the ceiling and wearing what appears to be a sequined cowgirl outfit with fringe that defies physics, approaches us with a smile bright enough to power the neon sign outside.
“Ladies! Welcome to The Saucy Stallion!” she beams at us with a toothy smile. “Are you here for the Van Buren bachelorette party?”
“That’s us,” Georgie announces with far too much enthusiasm. “Lead the way to the testosterone!”
“Excellent! Your party is seated front and center in our VIP corral. Follow me!”
“VIP corral?” Mom whispers to me as we follow the hostess. “Are we cattle now?”
“In Edison, I think maybe everyone is,” I whisper back.
She leads us through the controlled chaos, through an entire forest of overly enthused women, toward what can only be described as ground zero for bachelorette party mayhem. Tablesloaded with nachos, fruity cocktails in mason jars the size of fishbowls, and enough screaming women to wake the dead in three counties fill the front section of the club.
I notice the tables are actually designed to look like wagon wheels, because apparently, The Saucy Stallion commits fully to its theme.
“BIZZY! EMMIE! BUFFY! REE! GEORGIE!” Charlotte’s voice cuts through the music like a lunatic with a megaphone. She’s waving both arms above her head from her front-row table, bouncing in her hot pink cowboy boots. “GET OVER HERE! The night is young, and so are these cowboys! I’ve already scoped out the talent. There’s enough man-candy here for everyone to go home satisfied! Well, except me because I’m getting married, but the rest of you better saddle up because it’s about to get WILD!”
A little laugh rumbles through me. “I’m sure my husband will be thrilled.”
