I gasp at her. Good grief. Where’s the killer when you really need them?
Huxley steps up and frowns at both of them. “You two realize you’re swooning over a man whose wedding planner just got murdered, right? There’s literally a corpse at our feet.”
Camila looks down at Tessa’s body for the first time and gasps, her face going pale. “Would you look at that? She’s, like, really dead.”
“Yes,” I all but hiss her way. “She’s, like,reallydead. And you’rebeing really rude, so I’d appreciate it if you kept your lusting after the groom to a minimum.”
Within seconds, Leo starts stringing up yellow caution tape around the scene, creating a proper perimeter just as a warm breeze picks up. Jordy reappears, looking harried but determined, and does his best to push the growing crowd back toward safer ground, but still no dice in that department.
Face it, if there’s a body to be seen, a crowd will form, and there’s no stopping that human wall of looky-loos from getting what they want. And sadly, most of the time, what they want is a picture for posterity, and maybe their social media accounts.
“Nothing to see here, folks,” Jordy calls out. “Let’s give the authorities some room to work.”
Of course, no one is listening to him. But in his defense, the crowd’s murmurs sound more like a deafening roar at this point. So, I doubt anyone really heard him anyway.
Huxley steps over to Piers and Conrad with a somber expression. “I’m so sorry about your friend. This must be terrible for you both.”
Apparently, Hux knows the groom and most of the groomsmen as well. Emmie and I were the only two out of the wedding loop.
Both men give appropriately grave nods, though I notice Conrad’s eyes keep darting around the crowd as if he’s looking for someone. Most likely the killer. Unless he’s the killer. Then he’s most likely waiting for his impending arrest.
A woman with dark chestnut hair approaches, flanking Charlotte on one side. This is the same woman I saw arguing with Tessa earlier—the one who darn near slapped the woman’s face off.
The silver-haired woman from the supply table steps up on Charlotte’s other side, and all three look soberly down at the body.
The crowd has grown to at least fifty people now, all craning their necks to get a better look at our latest tragedy. The murmurof voices creates a low buzz that mixes with the distant sound of approaching emergency vehicles.
And then the thoughts start hitting me.
She’s gone forever,someone muses, and I can’t tell if it’s sad or relieved.
She’s dead. I couldn’t be happier,comes another voice, definitely pleased.
Is it too early to pop the champagne?This one is practically gleeful.
My head whips around, trying to pinpoint the sources, but with this many people crowded together, it’s impossible to tell where the thoughts are coming from or even if they’re from men or women unless I’m standing right in front of them.
I have never seen a better use of a butcher knife,thinks someone else, clinical and cold.
The very best part of the night? This one. Because dead women tell no secrets.
That last thought sends a chill down my spine that has nothing to do with the ocean breeze.
I scan the faces around me—friends, family, wedding guests, strangers—and realize that somewhere in this crowd of concerned mourners stands a killer who’s absolutely thrilled with tonight’s entertainment.
I’m not thrilled. But I will be once I land them in handcuffs. And I certainly won’t stop until that happens. My inn, my rules, and the very first rule at the top of the list—justice.
CHAPTER 4
If someone had told me a week ago that I’d be running a hospitality boot camp for a traumatized Chihuahua while my nine-month-old daughter practices her new shrieking skills in the background, I’d have suggested they seek professional help.
But as it turns out, the one needing professional help is me.
The sun filters through the inn’s bay windows in golden streams, carrying the scent of dewy grass mixed with coffee and leftover kalua pork that’s somehow still clinging to the air from last night’s disaster. Seagulls cackle outside like they know something I don’t, which, considering my track record with murder investigations, they probably do.
“Truffle, sweetie,” I say to the coffee-colored ball of anxiety currently barking at our mail depository, “guests generally prefer to be greeted with tail wags, not death threats.”
She thinks the mail slots are a portal to enemy territory,Fish mewls from her perch on the marble reception counter.Can’t say I blame her. Have you seen what comes through there? Bills, flyers forquestionable pizza places, and last week, that thing from your stepmother about proper baby feeding schedules.
