“And to create content for Charlotte’s Hot Mess Heiress brand,” I mutter under my breath from the back.
“What was that?” Buffy asks.
“Nothing. Just appreciating the sanctity of social media matrimony.”
The officiant continues, and I find myself studying the faces of everyone involved. Piers looks nervous but determined. Charlotte looks blissfully happy and completely focused on her performance. Conrad looks like a man who’s gotten away with something. And Bea looks like a woman who’s relieved that her financial nightmare is about to become someone else’s problem. I think.
Kiki, on the other hand, looks like she’s planning something dubious.
“Do you, Charlotte, take Piers to be your lawfully wedded husband?” the officiant asks.
“I do,” Charlotte beams. “And I promise to love, honor, cherish, and document every moment of our lives together. I vow to build our brand, monetize our adventures, and always, always pull myweight in this partnership. You can never say I’m not contributing my fair share! Except for money. That’s your job,” she titters.
A murmur of amusement ripples through the crowd because only Charlotte would include social media strategy and financial responsibility in her wedding vows.
“And do you, Piers, take Charlotte to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
“I do,” Piers says, though I notice his smile looks slightly strained. “I promise to love, support, and... help you reach your follower goals.”
The crowd chuckles, but I catch the slight desperation in his voice. Poor guy has no idea he’s just promised to help monetize a marriage to a woman who’s already cheating on him with his best man.
The officiant continues, and just as he reaches, “If anyone objects to this union, speak now or forever hold your peace,” I see Kiki’s hand spike into the air.
But before she can say a word, Bea suddenly lets out the loudest, most dramatic sneeze in the history of nasal disturbances, drowning out any potential objection and causing half the guests to jump and clutch at their hearts—including me.
“Bless you!” several people call out.
“Sorry!” Bea says, dabbing at her nose with a tissue. “Seasonal allergies!”
More like a bomb detonating in the middle of the ceremony.
Kiki’s hand drops back to her side as the moment slips by, and I watch her face crumple with frustration.
“Well then,” the officiant says quickly, clearly wanting to avoid any further interruptions, “by the power vested in me by the state of Maine, I now pronounce you husband and wife! You may kiss the bride!”
Piers and Charlotte lock lips in a smooch to end all smooches while Camila films, the photographers snap away, and the crowd erupts in applause. Rice flies through the air (because apparently,bird-safe rice is a thing), and the newly married couple beams at their guests.
And as I watch Charlotte hug her new husband while winking over at his best man, I realize that this wedding isn’t the end of the drama—it’s just the beginning of a whole new level of complicated that’s going to make solving one murder look like child’s play.
As the newly married couple runs down the aisle through a shower of rice and rose petals, the wedding party immediately breaks apart like a disbanded flash mob. Guests begin mingling, champagne glasses appear as if by magic, and the photographers start herding people into groups for formal photos.
I’m scanning the crowd for potential drama when I spot Kiki standing off to the side near the edge of the reception area, looking like someone just stole her last chance at happiness. She’s staring at Charlotte and Piers with an expression that could melt a couple of wedding rings with her hands clenched into fists at her sides.
Perfect. I think it’s time for a little heart-to-heart with the woman who just watched her ex-boyfriend marry someone else while she was dubiously prevented from objecting.
I make my way toward her, weaving through clusters of chattering guests and dodging a waiter carrying a tray of champagne flutes. Because if I’m going to solve this murder, I need to talk to every suspect while their emotions are running high and their guards are down.
And who knows? Maybe I’m about to have a conversation with Tessa Greene’s killer.
CHAPTER 20
There’s something deeply satisfying about approaching a murder suspect when they’re at their emotional breaking point, mainly because people tend to tell the truth when they’re too upset to remember they should be lying.
“Kiki,” I say gently, approaching her like I might approach a wounded animal—carefully and with an escape route planned.
The champagne reception is in full swing around us, the afternoon sun casting everything in golden light while guests laugh and toast the happy couple who may or may not stay married past the honeymoon. If there’s a betting pool, I’d like to be a part of it.
The Maine summer heat is starting to build at an aggressive rate, and I can smell the mingled scents of sea salt drifting up from the harbor, blooming hydrangeas from the small army of flowers, and the faint sweetness of the desserts being laid out in the catering tent. A gentle breeze rustles through the white silk ribbons adorning the reception chairs, and the soft splash of waves against the shoreline creates a backbeat to the festivities.
