I’m collapsed at my desk, staring at a spreadsheet that might as well be written in ancient Greek, when Mom and Georgie burst through the door in their beach cover-ups.
Mom is wearing a white mesh cover-up over a retro one-piece with high cut legs that suggest the ’80s had very different ideas about modesty. Her shoulders are sun-spotted and glowing, and she’s got her sunglasses pushed up on top of her feathered red hair.
Georgie is in a tropical print kaftan over a floral tankini with enough ruffles to qualify as a craft project. Her gray tumbleweed of hair is piled on top of her head and secured with a bedazzled roach clip featuring actual peacock feathers.
Because, why not?
They’re both sandy, tanned, and radiating the type of energy that says they’ve been discussing something important.
“We’ve been talking about your case,” Georgie announces, dropping her beach bag on my desk.
“My case?”
“The murder. Keep up.” She pulls out her phone. “We have thoughts.”
Mom settles into the chair across from me. “So what’s your next move?”
I’ve been thinking about exactly that question ever since Jasper asked it last night. Between setting up sound systems and arguing with vendors about outlet placement, my brain’s beencircling back to one person.
Tamsin.
“I’d like to talk to Tamsin Rowe,” I say.
“The wellness guru?” Mom asks.That woman’s had more work done than a 1952 Buick.
“That’s her.” I choose my words with precision because Mom doesn’t know I can read minds and I’d like to keep it that way. “I noticed some tension between her and Brittany the night of the murder. And she made a comment that stuck with me. Something about real society versus playing dress-up.”
Georgie winks at me. “I got you covered,” she says and starts scrolling through her phone. “Let’s see what Little Miss Athleisure is up to.” Her fingers fly across the screen. “Tamsin Rowe... personal trainer... here we go. Her Insta Pictures account is public. Rookie mistake.”
She turns the phone so Mom and I can see. Tamsin’s feed is a parade of gym selfies, protein shake promotions, and motivational quotes about grinding and hustling and other words that make me tired just reading them.
“She’s always at her gym,” Georgie says. “Sculpt and Slay Studio in Seaview. Every single post is tagged there. The woman is either dedicated to her body or has no life outside of squats.”
“Probably both,” Mom murmurs.
Georgie looks up with a glint in her eye that I recognize as trouble. “Why don’t we drive down and corner the killer?”
Mom rolls her eyes. “I’m in, but don’t get any funny ideas about making me do hot yoga or goat Pilates or whatever ridiculous trend rich people are subjecting themselves to these days.”
“We’re just going to talk to her,” I say.
“Sure, we are.” Georgie heads for the door. “That’s how these things always start.”
Ten minutes later, we’ve changed into what can only loosely be described as workout attire.
Georgie emerges from the bathroom in a bright purple kaftan-style cover that hasNAMASTEbedazzled across the chest in rhinestones, paired with leopard print leggings and bedazzled sneakers that catch the light like a disco ball. Her hair is in a top knot secured by the same peacock-feathered roach clip from earlier, and the whole effect is somewhere between yoga instructor and Vegas showgirl.
Meanwhile Mom has gone full eighties aerobics fantasy. Hot pink leotard over black leggings, white leg warmers bunched at her ankles, pristine Reeboks, and a sweatband around her forehead with matching wristbands. She looks like she’s about to lead a Jane Fonda class, and I can’t decide if I’m mortified or impressed.
I’ve managed to pull together whatever was clean—purple leggings with a mysterious stain I’m choosing to ignore and a bright yellow tank top that saysRUNNING LATE IS MY CARDIOin block letters. My hair is in a messy ponytail that’s already giving up on life.
Mom produces three neon pink headbands from her beach bag. “I bought these for exactly this purpose.”
“What purpose?” I ask.
“Undercover fitness investigation. Obviously.”
We all put them on. We look absolutely insane.
