“Oh no,” I mutter, but it’s too late.
A performer dressed as a sheriff with abs that could probably deflect bullets is already heading straight for our table. Behind him, two more cowboys are scanning the crowd for victims.
“Don’t even think about it,” I warn, but the sheriff isn’t listening.
“Ma’am,” he drawls in an accent that’s probably fake but effective, tipping his hat to Bea. “We’re gonna need to deputize you for some very important law enforcement business.”
“Absolutely not,” Bea says firmly.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist.” He grins, and before she can protest further, he scoops her up in his arms and carries her toward the stage.
“BIZZY!” she shrieks, reaching for me as if I could somehow save her from this nightmare.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer continues, “let’s give a warm welcome to our brave volunteers!”
I watch in fascination and horror as Mom, Georgie, and Buffy are also escorted to the stage by various cowboys. Emmie puts up a valiant struggle, actually managing to duck under one performer’s arm and dart behind a table, but she’s outnumbered.
“I’M A PROFESSIONAL BAKER!” she shouts. “I HAVE A BABY AT HOME AND STRETCH MARKS! NOBODY WANTS TO SEE THIS!”
“Ma’am, resistance is futile,” one of the cowboys drawls out the words, and somehow manages to convince her to join the group on stage through what appears to be pure charm and possibly the promise that she won’t have to do anything that requires the general public to see the aforementioned stretch marks.
“This is not happening,” I mutter to myself, just as a particularly muscular cowboy approaches my chair.
“Your turn, little lady,” he says with a grin that says he’s enjoying this way too much.
“I’m investigating a murder,” I protest weakly.
“Well then,” he says, producing a plastic badge from thin air, “looks like you’re exactly what we need for this next number.”
Before I can come up with a proper defense, I’m swept up onto the stage where I find myself face-to-face with the most mortified collection of women in Maine’s recent history.
“If we survive this,” Mom hisses in my ear, “we are never speaking of it again.”
“Deal,” I whisper back, just as the music kicks into high gear and I realize that my murder investigation has taken a turn I definitely didn’t see coming.
Because nothing says professional detective work like being abducted by half-naked cowboys at a strip club while your prime suspect gets a proverbial front-row seat as you make a complete fool of yourself.
And I still don’t know if she did the deadly deed.
Bea Van Buren nods my way, and she just so happens to be wearing a killer smile.
CHAPTER 18
There’s something deeply ironic about escaping a strip club only to spend the next hour stalking men on social media, but here we are in Emmie’s car at eleven P.M., frantically scrolling through Insta Pictures like a couple of digital detectives with trust issues. And those men we’re stalking would be Jasper and Leo.
“Check Conrad’s story again,” I instruct Emmie as she navigates the summer night streets back toward Cider Cove. The warm ocean breeze carries hints of salt air and the lingering scent of fried food from Edison’s late-night establishments through our open windows.
“I already checked it three times,” Emmie protests, but she’s already pulling up his profile. “Wait, there’s a new post from twenty minutes ago!”
“What does it say?”
“It’s a picture of him flexing in a bathroom mirror with the caption ‘Bachelor party gains,’” she reads with obvious disgust. “There’s a neon sign in the background that says... oh my word.”
“What?”
“The Frisky Filly,” Buffy answers for her.
“You’re kidding me.”
