Dog Days of Murder

by Addison Moore

  “Wait!” Nessa sags with defeat as Ginger is quickly mobbed by the crowd. “I didn’t even get to tell her I went to college with her friends.” She tosses a hand in the air. “Kevin Bacon was right when he said there was less than six degrees of separation between us all.”

  “I don’t think Kevin Bacon actually said that.” I crane my neck in an effort to get a better look at the stairwell once again.

  Jasper’s probably about done with helping his mother settle in. I’ll admit, I’m not too thrilled with the idea of my drop-dead gorgeous quasi-boyfriend roaming the ground while this place is crawling with desperate women—who, by the way, are encouraged to sink their fangs into any man without a ring.

  The nerve.

  If I had known about these less than savory dating shenanigans Ginger is pushing, I wouldn’t have agreed to book the seminar in the first place.

  “Bizzy!” My best friend, Emmie, trots this way, dressed a little fancier than usual for her job as the manager of the Country Cottage Café. It’s a large restaurant in the back of the inn, attached with a sunroom that looks right over at the Atlantic.

  Emmie leans in with her wavy shoulder-length dark hair and her frosty blue eyes shining like beacons. Emmie—short for Elizabeth—Crosby and I have been friends as far back as I can remember. Seeing that we had the same first name, we decided to stick with our nicknames, and that’s all we’ve ever been known as ever since. Emmie and I share the same dark hair and pale blue eyes, which often prompted people to believe we were sisters. We are sisters—just not blood-related.

  “Bizzy, I left the kitchen going with a skeleton crew. One of Ginger’s assistants just came back and let us all know we were welcome to sit in on the seminar.” She sings that last part. Emmie is prone to sing when she gets a little too excited. “I hope I can get a refund on that ticket I bought.”

  “You bought a ticket?” I squawk. “Emmie, this woman is a scammer. You wouldn’t believe the terrible things I just heard her say. I’ll make sure you get your money back.”

  Nessa all but muzzles me with a hiss, and Fish hisses right back at her as if coming to my defense.

  “Oh, stop.” Emmie wrinkles her nose. “I need a man, Bizzy. And believe me, I’m doing all the research I need in order to get one.” She flattens her hands over her little black dress. “Word on the street is, she’s supplying a buffet of fresh meat after the event. I gotta run.” She backtracks a moment. “Oh, and Fish?” She gives my little kitten a sly wink. “The chef may have spilled a bag full of trash behind the building. Cod was on the lunch menu,” she trills as she takes off. Even though Emmie has no idea I can read minds, nor that I can communicate with my sweet cat, it hasn’t stopped her from talking to Fish herself.

  Fish hops off the counter and makes a mad dash for the exit.

  “Fish!” I call out. “You don’t eat trash!”

  I do when there’s cod involved.

  And just like that, she’s gone.

  Fish has a brass nametag around her neck, yes, in the shape of her playful moniker, and she’s well-known as the inn’s pet mascot. I’m proud to say that the Country Cottage Inn is a pet friendly establishment, and we even have a fully functional pet sitting facility out back known as Critter Corner.

  An older woman with long gray hair and a flowing purple kaftan runs up looking every bit frazzled, and yet adorably so. The woman in question just so happens to be Georgie Conner, a familial castoff from one of my father’s many divorces.

  Nathan Baker’s vast collection of wives has come and gone, but for some reason, this once upon a mother-in-law has stuck around in our lives, and I couldn’t be happier about it. In fact, I let her stay in one of the over three dozen cottages that belong to the inn.

  Georgie Conner is the only living being I’ve told about my ability to pry into other people’s thoughts.

  “Bizzy Baker.” Her steely blue eyes narrow to slits. “How dare you not tell me there was a portal into the male mind afoot this evening.” She shakes a crumpled flyer for the event my way. “I happened to find this on my doorstep on my way to break a bag full of bottles.” Georgie is an artist who specializes in glass mosaics. In fact, the Cider Cove City Council has hired her to do a giant mural along the north side of Main Street, and she’s been happily smashing glass ever since.

  I can’t help but make a face. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t think you’d be interested.”

  “Oh, I’m interested.” She pulls out a tube of lipstick from her purse and gives her mouth a quick swath of purple. “At my age, you need all the help you can get.” She dashes off before I can remind her she looks great for her age, despite her insistence to reek of questionable patchouli products procured from my sister’s shop.

  Speaking of my sister, both she and my mother stride my way looking as if they were about to paint the town red with regret. Macy has dyed her dark locks blonde and wears it in a bob that just dusts her neck. Macy is older than me by a year and has always been far more cunning and quick to employ her sarcastic superpowers on whomever she chooses.

  A small rush of patrons head this way simultaneously and Nessa begins processing them in haste. I’m guessing her need for speed has everything to do with the fact doors for the seminar will be closing soon.

  Macy widens her eyes a moment as she looks my way. “You have to get someone to cover and join us.”

  Mom offers a furtive nod. “This is going to be big, Bizzy.”

  “This is going to be a disaster.” I frown over at my mother. My mother, Ree Baker, is a beauty queen at any age with a svelte figure that can rival either of her daughters, dainty cut features, and warm blue eyes. But she’s as fierce a businesswoman as they come. She just retired from her real estate empire not too long ago, but rumor has it, she still does her best to nosey around the office. Currently, she’s making it a practice to help my sister out at Lather and Light, the aforementioned shop Macy would rather burn down than run. But it fell into my sister’s lap when she needed it the most, so she continues to slog along. Macy has always been better suited for Wall Street rather than Main Street.

  “Mom,” I moan. “Please tell me you’re not into this, too.”

  “Nope.” She pulls out a silver compact and checks her look in the mirror. “I’ve got me a good man.” She gives a sly wink, and I wince because I happen to know that she’s dating Jasper’s brother, Maximus Wilder. He owns his own restaurant in Seaview. Although at the moment, only Mom and I know that she’s dating Jasper’s bother. I haven’t even confessed the familial malfeasance to Jasper yet.

  Mom stretches her lips back as far as they’ll go in a mocking smile to my sister. “I’m just here supporting my daughter in an endeavor to learn all about the male species.”

  “Yes, well,” I grunt. “Believe me, you’ll want to unlearn it as quickly as you can.” I pull out a few ID badges from the drawer beneath me. “Here, show them these, and give one to Georgie, too. They’ll let you in for free. The last thing we want is to pay for this catastrophe.”

  They take off just as a trio of pretty girls heads this way. They all look to be somewhere in age between Nessa and me. And since Nessa is in her early twenties and I’m mid-to-late, that sounds about right.

  There’s a strawberry blonde with her hair in an adorably messy bun, a sweet brunette with a tiny nose and big pouty lips, and a copper-haired girl with a short precision cut that sits just underneath her ears. The copper-haired girl’s eyes keep flitting around as if she were expecting to see someone in the crowd. She looks shifty and altogether uncomfortable.

  Nessa gasps at the sight of them as she flags them down. The copper-headed girl on the end gives a slight wave and shouts that they’ll catch her inside before they speed off to the registration table.

  Nessa leans in. “That’s Chelsea, Shelby, and Scout Pratt. Those are the friends that I went to school with.” She says friends with air quotes. “They’re the ones that know Ginger. Chelsea and Shelby both run really succes
sful socials.” She wrinkles her nose as if the idea disgusted her.

  “Socials?” I shake my head while still looking in the direction of the girls.

  “Yup. Social media. They’re some of the most sought-after influencers on the planet.” She sighs. “And poor Scout. Chelsea and Shelby pretty much hazed her last year. She was just getting out the gate as an influencer and was high in demand until Chelsea and Shelby pulled a few stunts. It was all in fun, but after the disaster that ensued, Scout had to give up her dreams of being an influencer. Believe me, no one is crying for her. She opened up a PR company and landed Ginger King as her first client. I really do like Scout. But don’t get me started on how I feel about Shelby Harris. Now there’s someone I wish I never had to see again.” Nessa turns and offers a spastic wave to Grady Pennington, our other co-worker, who just so happened to walk through the door. “Grady’s here to man the fort. I’ll see you inside, Bizzy.”

  She takes off just as Grady, a dark-haired Irish god, as the girls around here like to call him, takes over at the helm. Grady, too, came to the inn after graduating from college last year, and he’s been an invaluable employee ever since. Both he and Nessa keep telling people this is just a stepping stone in their lives, but I’ve grown so used to them I’d hate to see either of them step away anytime soon.

  “Mmm mmm.” Grady shakes his head with an approving, somewhat greedy, grin blooming on his lips as he looks to the crowd thick with beautiful women. “Is it my birthday, Bizzy? Because you really didn’t have to go overboard with the pretty girls. It’s not against the law for me to demand their phone numbers, is it? I mean, of course, I’ll be needing their numbers for official inn business.”

  “How about you just mind your own business?” I laugh as I give him a quick rundown on those who have checked in and those who are checking out before I step around the counter and join the thick crowd milling around in the lobby.

  The Country Cottage Inn feels every bit my own, but it happens to belong to a wealthy earl in England. He pays me to run the place as if it were my own, and I do just that. I love every last inch of this beautiful place. And the inn is just as stately inside as it is outside with its stone façade and its blue shutters adorably ensconcing each of the many windows. Ivy runs up over every speck of the exterior, giving it a true Ivy League appeal. The estate sits on a vast acreage and boasts of over thirty cottages that we rent out as well. I happen to live in one as does Emmie—and as does my quasi-boyfriend, Detective Jasper Wilder. Jasper recently transferred to the neighboring town of Seaview after he had an abrupt breakup with his girlfriend.

  Another robust crowd streams into the inn, and a part of me wonders if we’re breaking fire code with all of these dolled-up bodies. I can feel my stress levels start to go up, and I cringe because I know what’s coming.

  I could just kill.

  When I get my hands on her.

  If only I can land myself a sugar daddy.

  A bevy of voices go off at once in my head. It’s exactly what happens when I’m stressed. I hear every thought in the vicinity.

  Thankfully, it’s nothing I deal with on a daily basis, but something tells me that until Ginger King and her minions vacate the property, I’ll be listening in on one too many internal conversations all at once.

  For the last time—

  I hope they have at least one man who knows how to use his tie.

  I gasp at that last one as the mental snippets come in faster and faster.

  There will be heck to pay.

  Won’t get away with it.

  “Bizzy Baker?” an all too familiar deep voice strums from behind, but before I can turn around, his spiced cologne permeates my senses as his arms find their way around my waist. He lands a soft kiss to my cheek before I spin in his arms and take in this six-foot-two, dark-haired, gray-eyed deity.

  Jasper and I haven’t openly discussed being an official couple, but we sure do enjoy spending all of our free time together glued at the lips. You’d think we were training for the kissing Olympics the way we’ve been going at it—and believe me when I say, we would definitely medal. And who could blame me for training so hard? Jasper Wilder is a god among men.

  A slight titter goes off in the crowd as the women around us stop in their tracks to ogle him.

  A whistle goes off near the ballroom, and soon everybody in the foyer drains in that direction.

  “Careful,” I say, hiking up on my tiptoes and gifting him a kiss on the lips. “You’re causing a scene.”

  A warm laugh strums through his chest before it stops abruptly and his eyes widen as he looks to something at the door.

  I follow his gaze to find a stunning woman with long, wavy, dark hair, eyes that shine like fiery ambers, and a face that has probably graced every magazine cover from here to France—she’s just that beautiful.

  The woman stops cold once she spots Jasper and their eyes lock for a moment before she quickly takes off for the registration table and hustles into the ballroom herself.

  “Jasper, do you know her?” I ask.

  She looked angry with him, or terrified to see him, or both, but I don’t dare say that out loud.

  “Yes, I do.” His muscles tense around my waist for a moment. “That’s Camila Ryder.”

  My heart sinks at the thought of Jasper knowing such a beautiful woman—and the fact he still seems stunned to see her doesn’t make me feel all that great either.

  “Can I ask as how you know her?” I keep my voice steady as I try not to freak out. And yet something in me is demanding to do just that.

  Jasper twists his lips with a look of disdain. “She’s my ex-girlfriend.”

  I hold my breath for a second.

  “Your ex? The one that left you for your best friend?” My fingers pop to my lips, but it’s too late. I’ve already unleashed the words. And yes, that’s exactly what happened. Jasper’s ex hightailed it out of his life for best friend pastures. A totally unkosher thing to do. I say good riddance.

  “That’s the one.” He shakes his head as he wraps his arms around me tightly. The last person on earth I wanted to see here tonight.

  I glance in the direction of the ballroom, trying my hardest to see if I can pick up on her thoughts, but it’s just a jumbled choir of voices.

  She’ll have to go.

  This had better work.

  I’ll want my money back if I don’t land a decent catch.

  I’ll have to kill her.

  I crimp a wry smile up at Jasper.

  Something tells me the rest of the evening will be murder.

  Chapter 2

  The ballroom of the Country Cottage Inn is buzzing with excitement as Ginger King stands at the front of the room, holding sweet little Peanut in her arms as she preaches and teaches about all things bawdy and slightly distasteful.

  Mayor Mackenzie Woods made the introduction, and that put a sour taste in my mouth right at kickoff. Mack and I used to be friends until she all but tried to drown me in a whiskey barrel when we were kids. And it just so happens that soon after that oxygen-deprived, panic-inducing event, I’ve had the strange ability to pry into other people’s minds. I also have Mack’s whiskey barrel attack to thank for the fact that I’m terrified of bodies of water and confined spaces. But despite her effort to snuff me out—accidentally she says—our friendship hobbled on right up until high school where Mack saw fit to steal every one of my boyfriends. Suffice it to say, we weren’t friends for very long after that.

  Rows and rows of white ladder-back chairs have been set up here in the ballroom, and each one is filled with a warm, beautiful, mostly youthful body.

  Ginger has been rambling on and on, giving all her best tips and tricks on how to snag a man. So far they consist of suggestions to whiten your teeth, find a medical spa that will inject botulism into your face in an effort to paralyze your wrinkles into submission, take a small loan to buy out the beauty counter at your local mall, and piece together a wardrobe that consists of leath
er and lace. But the meat and potatoes is offered up at the end when she brazenly suggests women go after much older men—preferably those with money.

  “Stalk the man you’re interested in, show up where he shows up,” she chants, much to the enthusiastic applause of the room.

  Ginger goes on to extrapolate on the finer points of ambush dating—that’s where the stalking comes in.

  Is he enjoying his coffee alone? Join him.

  At a bar having a drink? You make sure you’re right there next to him.

  And let’s not forget the lip plumping, the intense hair color analysis, and the ridiculous six-inch stiletto requirement.

  In my opinion, a woman should only do any of those things if she wants to—and only for herself. Sure, I’ve whitened my teeth and chosen an outfit that I thought looked vampish a time or two—but I didn’t do it in an effort to snag a millionaire. Okay, fine. I did it in an effort to snag a homicide detective, but Jasper was well worth a high heel or two.

  And speaking of millionaires—that’s another thing Ginger expounded to the masses. Millionaires are no longer a hot commodity. Apparently, you can find a run-of-the-mill millionaire driving around in a sedan while wearing argyle sweaters.

  I had to roll my eyes at that one. I happen to like both sedans and argyle sweaters, and I couldn’t care less that Jasper wasn’t rolling in billions.

  Macy jumps out of her seat and heads to the refreshment table in the back, so I give Jasper a quick pat to the knee before following her over.

  I can’t believe I invited Jasper to join me.

  What was I thinking?

  He’s going to laugh for a year straight after listening to this bobble-headed brainwashing taking place. Not that I could blame him.

  Macy snaps up a handful of the pumpkin spice mini muffins the Country Cottage Café delivered fresh and hot. Emmie and I thought up the recipe ourselves.

  All my life I’ve wanted to be a baker, and considering my surname, it only seemed natural. But, unfortunately, I’m anything but natural in the kitchen. I tend to burn, undercook, or on rare occasions, both, anything I attempt to create—and honest to God, that itself seems to take a talent. But it doesn’t stop me from trying my hand at baking up a sweet treat.