CHAPTER 5
G eorgie Conner goes flying just as she knocks over a chair and lands splat on her rear, right here in the Country Cottage Café, in the middle of my mother’s Friendsgiving dinner.
“Oh, for Thanksgiving’s sake,” Mom grunts. “I’d better go stop her before she crashes through the window. And this is exactly why I’ve been trying to get her voted off of our float. We’re just one Georgie Conner away from crashing that float into every business on Main Street.”
I can’t help but laugh, mostly because it’s true. Mom and her cohorts have been working hard for months, planning the Seniors Can Soar float. And from the sounds of it, they’re super excited to make their debut on the flowery wonder come Thanksgiving Day.
She takes off just as Emmie comes this way.
“The dessert table is once again fully stocked,” she says, patting her tummy.
“Yay for me,” I say. “Because I’m going to hit that pumpkin cheesecake hard.” I bite down on my lip as I look at her tiny tummy with envy. My husband, Jasper, and I have recently decided to start trying to have children of our own, but so far no dice—or babies. But it’s a relatively new venture and, well, let’s just say we don’t mind the venture.
“Eat all the cheesecake you want,” she says. “Because if you don’t, I will. Oh, and before I forget, don’t these ladies just have the best names? There’s a Millicent, a Margene, a?—”
“Magda, a Blythe, a Claudia, and a Vera. All fabulous names,” I say as the two of us share a conspiratorial laugh.
Emmie and I have been playing one long name game ever since she found out she was expecting. We definitely want to give our babies wonderfully old-fashioned and/or meaningful names.
“ Ooh , Blythe.” Emmie’s eyes round out like golf balls—denim blue golf balls. “Oh, I love that name. I think that’s a winner.”
“I think it’s a winner, too.” No sooner do I get the words out than someone calls for Emmie from the kitchen.
She takes off and I make my way to the cheesecake as predicted. The evening wears on, and after more than a couple of slices of that pumpkin cheesecake with its gingersnap crust, I spend the next twenty minutes petting just about every pooch who has made its way into the café this evening.
I spot two bushy Pomeranians by the back door, dancing and prancing and looking as if they need to hit the sand for a quick potty break. I’d better help them out before there’s an accident.
I head that way and open the door to let them out, and both Fish and Sherlock zip out of the door as well so I take off after them.
It’s icy out, and not only can you hear the waves crashing along the shoreline from here, but the whitewash has taken on a vibrant baby blue hue as the moonlight washes the entire cove the same ethereal shade. The back patio is empty despite the fact the twinkle lights that crisscross above it look as inviting as can be.
But before I can properly take in a lungful of the fresh sea air, both of the Pomeranians take off running for the shoreline while barking up a storm.
“Oh geez,” I say, darting right after them. “It never even occurred to me that they might run away.”
Don’t worry, Bizzy, Fish mewls sharply. I’ll make sure they don’t get far, she says, zipping right after them.
And I’ll make sure they don’t eat Fish! Sherlock barks before taking off like a bullet as well.
“And I’d better make sure none of the above get washed away by the surf,” I say mostly to myself as I run across the sand as fast as I can—which isn’t fast at all when you take into account the fact my feet keep sinking a good six inches with every step I take.
But thankfully, all four of my fur friends seem to have gathered around a pile of what looks to be seaweed washed up on shore—only that pile of seaweed looks suspiciously a pale shade of blue. And the closer I get, the less it looks like anything I’ve ever seen before.
“What in the world?” I pant as I come upon the scene, and just as I arrive, both of those cute Pomeranians begin to howl like mad.
Bizzy, Fish hisses. Call for help now!
I’ll get Jasper, Sherlock barks as he darts in the direction of the cottage I share with my husband.
“Why would I need to call for help?” I ask as my eyes struggle to adjust in this dim light. “Why do we need Jasper?”
No sooner do the words leave my lips than the scene comes into focus.
That’s no lump of seaweed. It’s a woman in a blue velour dress with a crimson stain blooming across her chest. And in her right hand lies a small black gun, looking every bit the lethal menace it is.
I glance back at the woman’s face and gasp.
Blythe won’t have to worry about the nuisance that’s been following her around anymore.
Blythe Betty is dead.