“We’re in Edison,” Georgie corrects. “Different rules for different fools.”
Mom rolls her eyes.And this room is certainly filled with its fair share of those.
Macy stands up on her chair, waving her glow stick like she’s conducting an orchestra—a near-naked orchestra. “BRING ON THE HOT COWBOYS!” she bellows.
This is the most fun I’ve had in months,she thinks with satisfaction.I should get out of Cider Cove more often. Jordy can’t get mad over this. I mean, I’ll just let him go to the gentlemen’s club across the street.She gives an audible gasp.If he even thinks about a gentlemen’s club, he’s a dead man. On second thought, he can never find out about this. It will be my fun, flirty, filthy secret. Besides, every relationship needs a little mystery. Isn’t that how Jasper and Bizzy keep the flames of love alive? Via corpses? Everyone knows Bizzy’s love language is murder.
I make a face. Technically, she’s not too far off base.
“MACY, GET DOWN FROM THERE!” Camila shouts, laughing so hard she’s crying. “YOU’RE GOING TO FALL!”
“I’M FINE! I’M INVINCIBLE!” my sister shouts back, then promptly proves she’s not by wobbling dangerously and nearly breaking her neck.
Mom clutches at her chest as if she’s just had ten heart attacks.
Kiki, moving with the reflexes of a legal eagle who’s spent years in courtrooms dealing with dramatic witnesses, reaches up and steadies Macy before she can topple into the nacho platter.
“Crisis averted,” she announces to no one in particular.
“Don’t anyone else dare drop dead before my wedding!” Charlotte shouts with a giggle. “I need all my bridesmaids vertical and my cowboys horizontal!”
Good grief, I’m starting to understand why Piers was attracted to Charlotte,Kiki thinks with sharp resentment.She’s the perfectmark—stunning, loaded, and naive enough to believe everything he tells her.
Bitter much? Or does she know something the rest of us don’t?
“WOO-HOO!” Charlotte howls while managing to position herself for optimal selfie angles while the chaos unfolds around her. “This is going to be such great content!” she announces. “Hashtag bachelorette party, hashtag squad goals, hashtag Western nights!”
I hope none of this ends up on the evening news,Bea thinks desperately from her corner of misery.What will people think? What will the country club say about The Saucy Stallion? The ladies who lunch will have a field day with this gossip. I can already see the headlines:Van Buren Heiress Celebrates at Strip Club. My bridge club will never let me live this down, and the hospital auxiliary will probably ask for my resignation. Frank’s gambling addiction was embarrassing enough—now I have to add “mother of the bride caught at male revue” to my list of social disasters.
Perfect. Bea is in full panic mode, which means her defenses are down. Time to make my move.
The lights suddenly flash, the music reaches ear-piercing levels, and somewhere a fog machine starts pumping out enough artificial clouds to simulate weather patterns.
“LADIES!” the announcer booms. “PUT YOUR HANDS TOGETHER FOR THE SAUCY STALLION’S FINEST! INTRODUCING... THE WILD WEST RIDERS!”
The collective shriek from the assembled women could probably shatter windows in a three-block radius.
And as the first performer takes the stage, wearing what appears to be a fireman’s costume and enough oil to lubricate a small planet, I realize that this ridiculous, over-the-top, completely insane Western-themed bachelorette party is about to give me the perfect cover to finally corner my prime suspect and get some answers about a certain murder.
CHAPTER 17
The pounding Western music provides a perfect cover as I slide into the chair next to the mother-of-the-bride, who’s gripping her mason jar mojito like it’s a life preserver in a sea of sequins and testosterone. And judging by the way The Saucy Stallion just exploded with screams, it just might be.
“Bea,” I say warmly, leaning in close enough to be heard over the chaos. “I heard from Piers that your late husband made a fortune in medical supplies. That must have been fascinating work. My father was once in medical sales.” It’s true in a roundabout way. When he was a teenager, he worked in the local supermarket, and everyone knows you can buy all the bandages you want there.
Bea all but rolls her eyes, and I catch her thoughts crystal clear.That lying snake of a gold digger couldn’t even get it right. He wants all the financial glory but is willing to do none of the work—even as far as finding out how they really made their fortune.
She arranges her face into a polite smile. “Actually, it was the canning industry. Frank built Van Buren Industries from the ground up—we owned factories all over the world. Food preservationwas our specialty. We revolutionized how the world stores and distributes canned goods. We did donate generously to medical facilities around the world, so I can see where the mix-up must have been. We made millions.”
Not that it lasted long,she thinks bitterly.And thanks to Frank’s inability to leave well enough alone, we lost all those millions gambling on bad investments and worse business partners.
They lost all those millions? As in they’re broke? That can’t be.
“That’s incredible,” I say, watching her face carefully. “It must be quite an empire. What happened to the business after Frank passed?”
Sold it all to pay off his debts,she thinks grimly.The great Frank Van Buren, captain of industry, left me with more red ink than a butcher shop and a daughter who thinks money grows on social media trees.
“We transitioned out of the business,” she says without missing a beat. “Frank always said it was important to diversify investments.”
