“I had to see my favorite baker before court,” he replies, pulling her into an embrace that’s probably illegal in several conservative states.
If I had a man who looked at me like Everett looks at Lottie, I’d abandon my responsibilities, too. Although in my case, abandoning responsibilities might mean someone doesn’t get assassinated, which is a net positive for society.
Come to think of it, Cooper sort of does look at me like that. I’m a lucky, lucky girl.
Lethal but lucky.
As Lottie and Everett disappear into what I assume is her office for a private consultation, Suze and Lily take over handling the crowd that’s decided witnessing romance is more entertaining than ordering baked goods.
The bakery door chimes again, and Aunt Cat and Carlotta traipse in like two sequined hurricanes with a very special cargo.
Watson bounds toward me like he just remembered life is one long, glorious parade of snacks and poor decisions—and he plans to be involved in all of it.
He’s rocking a flag bandana, and his tail is wagging hard enough to create a breeze. His golden fur catches the morning light, and his brown eyes sparkle with the kind of intelligence that says he knows exactly how cute he is—and fully intends to weaponize it.
“Morning, Effie!” Aunt Cat calls, adjusting her flag-themed outfit like she personally took on the responsibility of representing the entire country. “Since we’re on Watson duty today, we figured he’d rather spend the day with his favorite people than stuck at home.”
Watson immediately begins his inspection tour of the bakery, his nose working overtime to catalog every dropped crumb and potential treat source. He pauses at each customer to offer his services as official bakery greeter, complete with tail wags and what I swear is his most charming smile. The boy knows how to work it.
“We heard about the competition.” Carlotta is wearing a flag-themed tracksuit, too, which looks as celebratory as it does offensive. “This place looksfantabulous,” she beams. “Great job, Lot Lot. I bet your booth will be twice as tacky, too. Harry will be impressed, and you’ll kill your competitors.”
“Speaking of death,” Niki says, popping out of the diner with flour in her hair and syrup on her apron, “when are we going to start investigating Rocket Man’s murder? Because I’ve been thinking about it all morning, and that whole death-by-pudding thing seems pretty delicious.”
“You mean suspicious,” I correct.
She shrugs. “I meant delicious.”
She would.
Watson barks like he’s agreeing with Niki, then returns to the serious business of charming a customer out of a piece of bacon from her breakfast sandwich. He’s good, I’ll give him that.
“We’ll start this afternoon,” I say, waving Lottie’s credit card. “I’ve got the rest of the day off to go decoration hunting, but that doesn’t mean we can’t hunt down a killer first.”
“Where should we start?” Niki asks, her eyes bright with the prospect of amateur detective work. Because let’s face it, she’s garnered a pretty hot date or two out of it before.
I glance toward the diner, where Watson has already secured hash browns through charm and light manipulation, then back at my investigation team—my usual suspects, none of whom should be trusted with anything resembling a plan.
“The man died clutching your friend’s corn pudding,” I say, stating the obvious because I’ve seen enough crime shows to be dangerous. “Julia Washington, here we come.”
Watson wags his tail in approval of this plan, probably because it involves visiting someone who works with food and might be convinced to share.
Some investigations start with evidence and witness statements. Others start with the realization that when someone dies eating your signature dish, you automatically become suspect number one.
Julia Washington better have some very good explanations, because my track record with finding dead bodies suggests this isn’t going to be your average corn pudding social call.
CHAPTER 8
Twenty minutes later, we pull into what looks like a full-blown time warp where the Civil War is alive and thriving—complete with enough period costumes to outfit a movie set and a level of historical commitment that might actually fool my high school history teacher into thinking we’ve been transported in a time machine.
The Battle of Hollyhock: A Civil War Remembrance Festival sprawls across a field that looks like it was specifically designed for reenacting America’s bloodiest conflict.
Canvas tents dot the massive acreage like military mushrooms, and as we roll down the windows, the air hits us—woodsmoke, roasting meat, and what I’m pretty sure is authentic nineteenth-century body odor from people who take their historical immersion very seriously.
“According to Julia’s Instagram,” Niki announces, scrolling through her phone while Watson pants excitedly in the backseat, “she’s here with her Colonial Kitchen setup, servingauthentic battlefield cuisineto hungry reenactors. She even posted a picture of herself in full period dress about an hour ago.”
“Spicy pickle in a pickle jar!” Aunt Cat breathes, pressing her face against the passenger window like a kid in a candy store. I’mnot even going to ask what that euphemism means. “Would you look at all those men in uniform! It’s like Christmas morning for my ovaries!”
She’s not wrong. Everywhere we look, there are men dressed as Union and Confederate soldiers, their wool uniforms somehow managing to look both historically accurate and surprisingly attractive. Blue and gray jackets fitted to show off shoulders that suggest these particular soldiers spend more time at the gym than the average Civil War participant, brass buttons gleam in the afternoon sun, and there’s enough facial hair to supply a barbershop convention.
