I think it’s festive,Sherlock says with a cheerful bark, trotting alongside the stroller.It’s very spirited. Patriotic, even. I betthere are hot dogs involved.
And here’s hoping. There are always hot dogs involved when hoomans start waving flags around,Biscuit Gravy adds, and I have to admit, the little Jack Russell has a point.
I scoop him up with my free hand. He’s surprisingly well-behaved for a dog who spent last night at a crime scene, though his thoughts are running a mile a minute, mostly about food, and right now about the treats he can smell coming from the café.
Ella coos and reaches for him, her chubby fingers grabbing at his ears. My sweet baby girl is wearing a blue and white sundress with matching ribbons in her adorable little pigtails. And, well,pigtailsis a strong word for what amounts to two spikes of hair that somehow resemble very thin palm trees.
Be gentle, small hooman, would you?Biscuit Gravy adds.These are designer ears. Or at least they would be if someone would spring for the grooming appointment I deserve.
It turns out, Biscuit Gravy got his name due to the fact biscuits and gravy was Brittany’s favorite food group. Or at least it was while she still allowed herself to nosh on carbs freely. When it comes to his moniker, she just decided to eliminate theand.
Clearly, she had a hankering when she named the cute little guy.
“Here, sweetie.” I fish a container of organic puff snacks from the diaper bag and hand a few to Ella. “Toss these to the boys.”
She giggles and flings a puff toward Sherlock, who catches it mid-air with the grace of a seal at feeding time.
Excellent technique. She’s got potential,Sherlock notes.
She tosses a few to Biscuit Gravy as well, and he, too, doesn’t let a single nugget fall to the floor.
Fish couldn’t care less about them because there’s not even a hint of seafood in them. And believe me, if they had any hint of seafood in them, Ella wouldn’t touch them.
The scene from last night runs through my mind.
Poor Brittany.
In fact, I feel bad for all of the women in Mackenzie’s friend group. They might not be the kindest people on the planet, but no one deserves any of this. After the dust cleared and the coroner’s van left, Jasper let me know there was a pale yellow handbag left near the dunes.
There was no ID in it, and Brittany had hers with her when she was murdered. It could belong to anyone. Although a part of me wonders if it belongs to the killer.
Grady Pennington looks up from the registration desk where he’s been charming an elderly couple who are clearly more interested in his charm than in their room assignment. He’s got that sun-kissed glow that comes from spending too much time on the beach and not enough time worrying about SPF, and the smile he flashes my way is pure mischief.
Grandy and Nessa are two of my faithful employees that have been with me for quite some time.
“Heads-up, Bizzy,” he says once the guests disperse toward the elevator. “You’ve got a live one searching the grounds for you.”
Nessa Crosby appears from behind a tower of luggage, her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, her eyes glittering with glee like she’s got something to say. She and Grady are more or less an official couple now, and watching them is like watching a rom-com on repeat.
“Mayor Woods is outfor blood,” Nessa adds, leaning against the desk. “Although according to rumors, she already got a pint or two last night.”
I wince at the thought.
“Please tell me she’s a vampire and this whole thing is about to get interesting,” I say.
Grady laughs. “The drinking kind of blood. Merlot, specifically. Huxley had to carry her out of the Beach Club at midnight.”
That’s better than the blood knife I assumed she was referring to.
“We want all the dirty details,” Nessa says, moving closer. “Is it true you found the body?”
“Is it true Mackenzie pulled the knife out like some kind of horror movie?” Grady adds.
So they do know.
I open my mouth to answer when a voice cuts across the lobby.
“There you are.” Mackenzie strides toward me in white linen pants and a navy blazer that probably has a designer label I can’t pronounce. Her hair is perfect despite the humidity, and her expression all but says I’ve personally ruined her morning. “I expected you here an hour ago. You really are a slacker.”
