He nods my way with those glossy hazel eyes. “I’ll just put this here.” The cleaver in his hand clanks against the counter before he snaps up a handful of s’mores bars. “I’m heading out to have a smoke.”
He takes off and the brunette I was in the scene with leans over.
“Can you believe it?” She waves her hand over her nose, a giddy smile flickering on her thin red lips. “I’m betting that smoke is about to give him a serious case of the munchies. He’s as high as a kite.” A hearty chuckle expels from her as she takes up a s’mores bar herself. “Jane Olsen. I’m the director’s wife.” Her smile is quickly replaced with a frown.
“Bizzy Baker. I run the inn. And contrary to what my surname might have you believe, I can’t bake a thing without burning it.” I wink over at her. “But I’m getting married soon and I won’t have to quantify my last name anymore. That is, if I choose to change it.” The jury is still out on that one.
She belts out a laugh.
Jane is tall, on the thin side, with bony features, crow’s feet, and hard lines around her mouth. She looks to be in her late fifties, and has a fabulous figure and muscular arms as if she knows what the inside of a gym looks like.
“Don’t worry, honey.” Her voice drops an octave. “Husbands nowadays don’t give a lick how good wives can be in the kitchen. They’re much more concerned with another room of the house.” Unless, of course, your husband is Peter. She shoots a look to the irate man having a word with the production assistant a few feet away. He’ll pay for making a mockery out of our marriage. “Excuse me.” She takes off just as the production assistant Peter was berating heads this way.
“Everything okay?” I ask the woman before me with an air of apprehension.
Faith Grayson, the production assistant in question, has been my point person for the most part as far as this fiasco is concerned. She’s a sweet woman, just a touch older than me—I’m guessing early to mid-thirties—about five foot five, stocky with dark shoulder-length curls, and a pleasant face.
“Everything is just dandy,” she sings with a touch of sarcasm, and I can’t help but laugh. She cranes her neck past me as she looks to the makeup artist. “Hey, Kiki? Are you almost done with the gaping wound?”
“Gaping wound?” I say to no one in particular as a woman with long red curls bounces over. Her lips are frozen into a grin and she has a ruddy complexion and large brown eyes that look almost cartoonish in nature.
“I’ve got you covered.” The woman holds up a board in her hand with what looks like a flesh wound bulging out of it and I grimace at the sight of it. “It won’t hurt ya,” she says, landing the board onto the counter. “I’ll have to make a few minor adjustments as soon as Heather finishes with wardrobe, but for the most part, this is it.”
I look down at the bumpy peach flesh that’s sliced open with mounds of what looks like blood congealed over its sides.
“Wow, you’re really good,” I say, having a hard time taking my eyes off the realistic trauma.
Faith laughs. “Kiki is one of the best. You can bet we were thrilled when she came on to the project.” She gives a quick glance around. Now where is that witch? She makes a face. “I’d better track down Heather and make sure she’s with wardrobe. If we don’t keep time, Peter might just drop dead from all the stress.” Not that it would be a bad thing. Sometimes good things come in small body bags.
I make a face at the thought as she scurries into the crowd.
“I’m Bizzy,” I say to Kiki, and I’m just about to introduce her to Fish when she gives an exaggerated gasp.
“Oh”—she inches back, looking mildly confused—“I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to bother you. I was just—”
“No, no!” A laugh bubbles from me as I cut her off. “That’s my name. Bizzy Baker. I run the inn here. Welcome, by the way.”
“Bizzy?” She leans back to get a better look at me. “Now there’s a cute name.”
“It’s a nickname, actually. My best friend and I are both named Elizabeth, and seeing that we were always together growing up, we’ve just gone through life with the nicknames our families gave us. My parents were calling me Izzy for a while, but my big sister couldn’t pronounce it, so Bizzy it is. And my best friend goes by Emmie.” I glance over to where she sits canoodling with Leo Granger, her newly minted boyfriend.
Emmie and I share the same long dark hair and same denim blue eyes. So much so that we’re often mistaken for sisters.
I’m still not sure how I feel about Emmie being with a noted womanizer. Although I do like Leo. Like me, he has the strange ability to read minds. I glance back to that bloody blob of goo before me then back to Kiki, its creator.
“And I mean it”—I say—“your work is spectacular.”
“Thanks.” She shrugs it off as if it were no big deal. “It’s just rubber and some makeup that I’m about to slather onto the cleaver. Any fifth grader can do it.”
“I highly doubt that.”
She coos over at Fish and gives her tiny head a quick pat. “I just love animals.” Her lips press tight. “And that sweet dog running around has become my best friend.”
“He probably thinks you’re working with bacon,” I say and we share a quick laugh on Sherlock’s behalf. “Are you local?”
She rocks her head back as she nods. “We’re all basically local.” She motions to the slew of bodies buzzing around this inadvertent hive. “I’ve lived in Breckinridge all my life.” Her cheeks begin to heat and her already ruddy complexion turns a bright shade of plum. “I’ve got to get out of this room. It has to be at least a thousand degrees in here.”
“I’m so sorry. We have the air conditioner on, but the doors are wide open for the crew and equipment.”
She glances out those opened doors and shudders. “Don’t ever apologize for anyone. Least of all Peter.” She gives a quick wink as she picks up her bloody project and takes off.
I make my way around the counter to break up Camila’s accost-your-ex-boyfriend party, but I don’t see them standing off to the side anymore. Instead, I spot Jasper talking to Leo and Emmie. Leo and Jasper used to be good friends up until Leo snatched Jasper’s fiancée away. The fiancée in question would be Camila Ryder, the vampy ex that keeps popping up onto the surface of our lives like a stubborn cork.
I’m about to head their way when Georgie and Macy step before me.
My surly sister plucks Fish right out of my arms.
“Come here, you,” she bleats as she gives a caustic look around. “They say pets and small children are chick magnets. I think I’ll check to see if it works the other way around.” Macy dyes her dark hair blonde and wears it in a blunt cut just above her shoulders. Her icy blue eyes are always on the hunt for a male victim to grace her presence with, and this moment is no different. She starts to take off then backtracks. “Oh, and Mom says she’s open for wedding dress shopping this Saturday. They serve mimosas at those kinds of places, right?”
I make a face in lieu of a response and she waves me off.
“I’ll bring my own liquor,” she whispers to Fish just as Bates Barlow comes barreling back in this direction and bypasses us.
Macy fans herself with her fingers in his wake, and I can’t help but avert my eyes.
He’s way overhyped as far as I’m concerned.
Georgie links her arm to mine as her bright pink kaftan brushes up against me.
“So what do you think of Milk of Magnesium, P.I.?” She nods over to the older man in the Hawaiian shirt she was seated with during taping. Normally, the moniker she just gifted him might be an insult, but coming from Georgie, I think it’s a compliment.
“He looks decent. Is he normal?” I shoot her a wry look and she swats me.
“Now what would I want with normal? Darby Atwater is out of his ever-loving mind, and I’ve lost ahold of my good senses because of it. He’s an artist, Bizzy, just like me. In fact, he said he’d come down to Main Street tomorrow and get a look at how my mosaic
is coming along.”
Almost a year ago, Mayor Woods invited Georgie to be a part of the Cider Cove beautification project and she’s allowed Georgie to create an expansive mural on the retaining wall that takes up the lower portion of the street. It’s made up almost entirely of sea glass and broken pottery that Georgie herself finds along the coast, right here in Maine.
“Speaking of your mural, how’s it coming along? It looks as if you’re almost finished.”
Georgie’s created a succinct snapshot of life in coastal Maine with pictures of the shoreline and large seagulls soaring above sparkling sandy beaches. She’s even got a gray stone structure that represents the inn, not to mention miniature people and a bright big orange sun.
Georgie grunts, “Mayor Woods wants it wrapped up by September.”
“That’s still a couple of weeks away.” Believe me, I know. My wedding takes place in September, and I’m counting down the days until I become Mrs. Jasper Wilder.” Mrs. Bizzy Baker? Baker Wilder?
“A couple of weeks away?” Georgie squawks. “Oh, it might as well be tomorrow. Where else am I going to find a job that pays by the hour? With the kind of money I’ve made from that beautification project, I could have retired.”
“You still can.” And I don’t want to break it to her, but she essentially is. Prior to the project, she was selling sea glass necklaces at craft boutiques about once or twice a year. If she sold a dozen necklaces, she called it a boon.
“No, I can’t. There’s still a lot of artistic get up and go left in these bones. I’m not ready to hang up my hammer. Besides, I just can’t do it,” she says as Sherlock Bones trots up.
I’ve lost Fish! He lets out a sharp bark. I think someone’s taken that cleaver and they’re about to chop off her tail. Quick! Tell Georgie to fill her pockets with bacon and we’ll go looking for her.
I’m about to translate to Georgie, since outside of Leo and Jasper she’s the only other person who knows about my strange ability to pry into people’s minds, but something she said stops me from doing just that.
“Georgie, why can’t you retire? What happened to all the money you’ve saved from the beautification project?”
She clucks her tongue. “I’m giving it all for the cause. Darby’s opening a night club for the senior sect called Silver Shufflers.”
“Who’s Darby?” So many questions—I’m not sure why I started with that one.
“It’s Mr. Milk of Magnesia, P.I. You really don’t pay attention, do you?” She pulls a piece of bacon out of her pocket and gives it to Sherlock. “Come on, kid. I can tell by that look on your face you’re worried about your furry little girlfriend. Let’s go find her.” She takes off with Sherlock before I properly gag or shake her to keep from giving her retirement fund to the Hawaiian shirt wearing shuffler, or hustler as he’s turning out to be.
I’m about to head on after her when a familiar spiced cologne engulfs me, and I’m pulled into the strong, capable hands of the most handsome man in all of Maine—oh, what the heck. If I’m being honest, the entire universe.
“Let me guess”—I pull Jasper in—“you’re here for Heather Kent?” I bite down over my lip. Just about every male who works at the inn has come around to get a look at the newfound local celebrity.
His lips twist at the thought. “If you changed your name to Heather Kent, then I’d say you’re right.” Jasper’s silver eyes bear into mine. “How are you holding up?”
I gently grip him by the tie. Jasper came right over after work and has been on the sidelines watching, along with the rest of us, ever since.
“Better now,” I say, reaching up and giving the scruff on his cheeks a playful scratch. “You have no idea how much I love it when you wear your suit after hours.”
His left brow arches high into his forehead and it only amplifies his good looks.
“Why’s that?”
“So I can take it off myself.” I wince. “I meant your tie.”
“Just my tie?” He gives my ribs a quick tweak and I jump. “It’s two hundred degrees in this room. If we don’t get out of here soon, I’ll strip for everyone to see.”
“And I’ll be right there behind you. You don’t think we’ll get arrested, do you?” I tease.
“I’m the one wielding the handcuffs in this place. I think you’re safe with me. How about I get you someplace private and you can take off whatever you like to feel better?”
“Very funny.” A thought comes to me. “Hey, maybe we should tell someone to keep an eye on that weapon?” I say, glancing to the counter, but the cleaver that was set there a moment ago is gone. “Never mind. It looks as if someone already took care of it. I hope it turns up before Peter Olsen busts a gasket over it.”
Jasper navigates us out into the sweltering summer night, and I’m not lying when I say I’d swear you could see the heat radiating off the sand even at this late hour.
Jasper and I make a beeline for the shore where the breeze is slightly cooler. His lips find mine and we trade kisses as we talk about our day and the melee that’s taken over the inn. And as soon as we reach the quiet end of the cove, I pull Jasper in closer to get right back to the serious business of kissing my future husband on a moon-washed summer night. I’m about to do just that as I take a step backward and trip over something soft, landing myself flat onto the sand.
“What the heck?” I ask, struggling to sit up on my elbows, only to find someone staring right at me—a woman lying on her stomach. The moon washes the woman’s expressionless face blue, and I startle before I notice something protruding from her back and I let out a sharp scream.
The woman—I recognize her.
It looks as if that cleaver just turned up—embedded in Heather Kent’s back.
Heather won’t have to worry about how the critics will receive her latest film.
Heather Kent is dead.
Chapter 3
My vocal cords do their best to shrill into the night as I crawl away from the body before jumping to my feet. To my left I note a set of footprints heavily impressed into the damp sand, and I quickly pull out my phone to take a picture before the tide comes in and washes them away.
Jasper checks the poor girl for a pulse before offering me a disparaging look. He pulls out his phone and calls it in just as a set of footfalls treads in this direction.
“What the hell is going on?” a male voice booms, and as he draws near, I can make out his dark wavy hair and boyish face. It’s Bates Barlow.
“Step back,” Jasper barks. “This is a crime scene.” He heads over and wraps an arm around my waist. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” I glance back to Bates and watch as his eyes round out in horror.
“Is that?” He staggers a few steps forward despite Jasper’s warning. “My God, is this real?”
Before we can answer, Leo runs down, and in less than a few minutes, sirens light up the night with their menacing howls and their seizure of blue and red strobe lights.
A crowd begins to gather, but I make a beeline for Bates before he can slip away.
“Bates,” I pant. “I’m Bizzy Baker. I run the inn. What are you doing down at this end of the cove?”
“I needed some privacy.” Perfect. The witch is dead. Now if I can just get the others off my back, I might actually get my life on track again.
I glance over to Heather as the moon casts a spotlight over that cleaver still lodged in her back.
“Bates, did you see anything or anyone who might be suspicious?” I ask, hoping to prod his mind into a confession.
“No. I wanted to have a smoke. I needed some alone time. Peter was making me nuts. Heather wasn’t helping either. I heard someone scream, and I thought you were being roughed up. The last thing I expected to see was Heather lying there, dead.” Not that I was truly caught off guard, but she doesn’t need to know that.
I frown over at him. Something is very off with this man. My God, he could be the killer.
Fish weaves her
way over to me with Sherlock on her tail, just about literally.
No sooner does Fish jump into my arms than Bates ducks into the blooming crowd of onlookers. A few women gasp, and a man belts out an entire string of salty words.
Oh, Bizzy. Fish mewls as she looks to Heather before quickly burying her tiny face in my chest. Please tell me this is all an act, and every last one of these people will be headed back to wherever they came from tonight.
Sherlock barks as if agreeing.
I’m not sure if it’s through the sounds they make or if they’re telepathic themselves, but the animals always seem to understand one another for the most part.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” I whisper. “But I do know it’s real.”
Leo shouts at everyone to create a wide berth and the crowd slowly slogs backward.
I spot the makeup artist, Kiki Woodley, with that wound board of hers clutched to her chest.
“Kiki.” I run over. “Did you see anything? Was anyone upset with Heather?”
She swallows hard. My God, everyone hated the girl, but I’m pretty sure this isn’t the time to share that bit of non-news.
“No.” She closes her eyes. “I don’t know.” A flash goes off and her eyes dart in that direction. “Are people really taking pictures?” Her voice breaks. “Has anyone called her family?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“Oh goodness, I’d better see if I can figure this out.” She lowers the board and her chest is covered with the rubber goo from the bloody prosthetic she’s been toting around. “Oh goodness,” she repeats in a panic as she turns and heads back toward the café.
I give a shudder just as Georgie and Macy come upon me.
“Oh, thank God.” Georgie takes Fish right out of my arms. “The last thing I want is for something fishy to happen to you.” She cranes her neck past me and gasps. “I gotta get out of here. Juniper Moonbeam is heading this way to meet my new man, and there’s no way I want to expose my baby to this.”
Cat Scratch Cleaver Page 2