Blaire smiles, swirling her champagne. “Preston and I are doing the Amalfi Coast in September. We rented a villa.”Santorini?Blaire tips her head with a look of surprise.On a mayor’s salary? Right. Someone’s spending taxpayer money.
“The Amalfi Coast sounds gorgeous,” Mackenzie gushes. “Tamsin, what about you?”
Tamsin shrugs, looking uncomfortable. “Nothing fancy. Just a long weekend in Vermont with my family.”I can’t believe Mackenzie gets two weeks in Greece,she thinks to herself, eyeing Mackenzie.Huxley works part-time and she’s asmall-town mayor. Where’s that money coming from? Actually, I don’t want to know.
“Vermont’s lovely,” Mackenzie says quickly, like she’s trying to salvage Tamsin’s answer. “So peaceful.”
The conversation shifts, but I catch the look Blaire and Tamsin exchange—just a flicker, but it’s there.
It seems they’re both having thoughts about Mackenzie’s summer getaway—as am I.
A crew member in a crisp white uniform appears with a tray of appetizers—shrimp cocktail, smoked salmon on crackers, what might actually be caviar—and Sherlock’s entire body quivers with hope.Please tell me some of that is falling on the floor. Something. Anything.
“We should do a toast,” a woman in head-to-toe rhinestone holds up a glass as she says it. “To Brittany!”
The suggestion lands like a dead fish on the deck. Nobody moves. Nobody speaks.
Each one of them is standing here holding drinks and pretending not to be relieved that Brittany Vanderbilt is no longer around to make our lives miserable.
Sloane finally raises her glass. “To Brittany. May she forever rest in peace.”
It’s possibly the most insincere toast I’ve ever heard, and I’ve been to a lot of weddings where the bride and groom clearly hate each other. In fact, there was one just last month.
Everyone else raises their glasses in a halfhearted salute, and we all take awkward sips while the yacht rocks gently beneath us.
“Did they say what time she died?” Blaire asks, and her voice cracks just slightly. “I mean, for the investigation?”
“Between nine and ten iswhen I last saw her,” Mackenzie says, and she’s eyeing this crowd like they owe her money. In the least, they owe her an alibi. But then, I suppose that’s what I’m here for. Playing amateur detective despite the fact that she’s the one who literally had the murder weapon in her hand. “Which means whoever did it was still at the party. And whoever did this, is definitely not me.”
Blaire gives a little laugh. “Me thinks the killer doth protest too much.”
A round of titters circles the vessel.
I’ll admit, I had to bite back a laugh myself.
“We were all at the party,” Kennedy says with a shrug. “And that doesn’t mean anything.”
It means one of us is a killer and the rest of us are sitting ducks.She winks at Mackenzie with the thought.
What was that wink for? Is she the killer? And is Mackenzie next?
Oh good grief, it wasn’t bad enough that I have to help clear Mack’s name, do I have to stop her from being the next victim, too?
And more importantly, would I?
“I saw her arguing with someone,” one of the background friends offers. “Near the dunes. Around eight-thirty?”
“Who?” three people ask at once.
“I don’t know. I couldn’t see from where I was standing. But she was definitely upset.”
I saw that argument. That was Kennedy. But I don’t dare say anything because right now, I’m more interested in watching how everyone reacts to the information.
They’re all so predictable,Sloane thinks.Give them something to gossip about and they’ll tear each other apart without any help.
Preston better not mess this up.Blaire’s thoughts race.If anyone finds out about the money...
Kennedy’s eyes dart around the group like she’s expecting someone to point at her and yell “Murderer!”I should have just paid her. This is so much worse.
