“Maybe he threatened her,” I speculate.
“Seems more like a family dispute,” Elodie says. “Her parents already disowned her for simply accusing him, and that’s without her taking any kind of legal action or going public. Maybe she keeps her mouth shut publicly because she wants to mend a bridge with them someday.”
I zoom in on the photo we were just looking at, where I can see the corner of the restaurant just at the edge of the frame. The shingles are aged, painted white, distinctly New England. An old house that’s been converted. “I think I know where this is,” I say. “Foreshore Lobster Co. Waylen and I thought about using it for our wedding venue, but we ended up at some other place his mom and sister picked out for us.”
“You’re thinking we should go.” Elodie catches on. “Do a little snooping. But it’s been months—what evidence could there be?”
I down the last of my iced coffee, gather my things, and stand. “Won’t know until we get there. That’s the fun of it.”
—
On the way to the restaurant, I text Mr. X a quick update:Possibly a lead on the urder-may. Nothing on the oftware-say.
He hates when I use pig latin. Says it’s not at all cryptic, and it makes me sound like I’m a kid. But annoying him is one of the job perks. I risked my neck spending the morning in the apartment of a possible murderer, why not poke the bear a little bit?
It’s a frigid October afternoon, so it’s not a surprise to see that the parking lot of Foreshore Lobster Co. is mostly empty. It’s a small restaurant, and the outdoor seating arrangement is covered in tarps on the patio, but the indoor portion has itsOpensign facing outward. Beyond it, a modest three-story hotel advertises its vacancies.
Elodie grouses about the cold like a true Californian as we step out of the car and make our way into the restaurant.
My phone buzzes and I check it, expecting a snide comment from Mr. X about my goading, but it’s from Collette:Mom, please don’t make me tutor Finnegan. She’s awful
I type back a quick reply:We’ll discuss later
She responds with a row of eye-roll emojis. It’s about lunchtime, and the only time she can use her phone at school without it being confiscated by a teacher. I wonder what must have happened at the social hub of the school cafeteria to upset her, though it isn’t hard to imagine. That’s where most of the bullying took place when I was a kid, at least.
I’ve been lucky with Collette. She’s a diplomat and averse to the drama that often comes with being on the cusp of middle school. Sure, I worry that she doesn’t socialize nearly enough, but she has never been an active participant in bullying, nor, mercifully, has she been a target.
I knew it couldn’t last forever, though. It was inevitable that her path would collide with someone who would break her winning streak. May as well be the new popular girl who wears Sephora lashes and brings a forty-five-dollar Stanley cup to the sixth grade.
We’re greeted by the hostess at the podium, a sun-freckled brunette who smiles cheerily at us. “Table for two?” she asks.
Elodie opens her mouth to answer. She’s starving and spent the ride over here talking about how we can at least get a delicious lobster lunch as our reward for venturing all over the state in the freezing cold. But I speak up before she has a chance. “Actually, we’d like to speak to the event coordinator about the wedding venue.” I wrap my arm around Elodie, whose body stiffens in confusion. “We’re getting married.”
Seven
Once I see the hotel’s wedding venue, I remember why Waylen and I rejected it more than a decade ago. It’s funeral-parlor chic, with cloth-draped chairs and a peach carpet. The view of the ocean is pretty, at least. Elodie and I pretend to be interested as the chatty event planner leads us from room to room, detailing the catering options and how many people can be seated in the dining room. Live music optional for a fee, of course, or we’re welcome to hire our own entertainment. The sweethearts package comes with a wedding cake, baked and decorated by their own personal chef.
Elodie has recovered from the plot twist I threw at her earlier, and she’s fully embraced her fictional role as my spouse-to-be. If she finds this building half as gaudy as I do, she doesn’t let on, chattering and asking questions about floral arrangements.
“To be honest, we don’t get many winter weddingshere,” the event coordinator says. She’s in her sixties at least, with silver hair swept into a classy beehive, and her blue eyes are heavily done in matching eyeshadow. “Most couples prefer the summer, so they can be out on the beach.”
“We’re a couple of snowbirds,” I say. “We usually spend our winters down in Florida, but this year, we thought it would be fun to see the snow.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” the woman says, her bracelets and rings clattering as she presses a hand to her chest. “When’s the big day?”
“The first week of December,” Elodie says. “Call me superstitious, but I think winter weddings are good luck.” She points to me and then back to herself. “Her parents and mine both had summer weddings, and it ended in divorce.”
“She thinks it’s a curse,” I say, feigning playful annoyance.
“She thinks I’m being silly,” Elodie goes on. She leans toward the event coordinator conspiratorially. “But you must see a lot of weddings here. You tell me. How many summer weddings have ended with some sort of tragedy?”
I can’t help my wicked smile. She’s great at improv. Elodie is a chameleon, able to adapt to her surroundings, and when she ditches the snooty, uptight thing she does, she can be quite likable.
The event coordinator winks. “Most weddings go beautifully, especially here. There’s nothing for you to worry about.”
“Oh, come on,” I say playfully. “There must be something.”
“Give us the tea,” Elodie adds. “I’m right, aren’t I? Summer weddingsarecursed.”
