Watson barks with excitement as we park, his nose pressed against the window as he processes the overwhelming array of new scents. His flag bandana flutters in the breeze from the air conditioning, making him look like a very festive navigator ready for adventure.
“Hot honey on a buttered biscuit,” Carlotta gasps, adjusting her rearview mirror to get a better look at a group of cavalrymen leading their horses past our car. “Those tight pants should be illegal! I think I just pulled something, and I’m sitting down!”
The cavalrymen in question are wearing form-fitting riding pants that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination, paired with high boots that make them look like they stepped out of a romance novel cover. Their sabers catch the sunlight as they move, creating little flashes of light that only add to their swashbuckling appeal.
“Focus, ladies,” I mutter, though I’ll admit, the view isn’t exactly terrible. “We’re here to investigate a murder, not audition as extras for a historical bodice-ripper.”
“Why can’t we do both?” Niki asks, already applying lip gloss like she’s preparing for battle herself. “I’ve always had a thing for men in uniform. Something about all that disciplineand authority. You know me, I like a little hair-pulling now and again.”
Watson whines and woofs, eager to explore this new environment full of interesting smells and potential treat sources.
We climb out of the car and immediately get swept into the controlled chaos of living history. A group marches by with tiny flutes and drums that look like they came from a toy set but sound like they’re trying to wake the Civil War dead. Cannon smoke drifts across the field from a demonstration that sounds like someone’s declaring actual war.
The women are just as impressive as the men around here, dressed in full period costume with corsets that create hourglass figures that suggest both historical accuracy and some serious damage to their ribcages. Their long skirts swish as they walk, bonnets frame faces that look like they stepped out of old photographs, and they carry themselves like women wearing enough fabric to upholster a small sofa.
“Wow,” Niki whispers, watching a group of Southern belles glide past us like gravity is optional. “How do they make walking in those dresses look so easy? And more importantly, how do they get their waists that small? Are we talking corsets or full-on historical torture devices?”
“Corsets are full-on historical torture devices, honey,” Aunt Cat explains with authority as if she’s experimented with historical undergarments herself. “It pushes everything up where it needs to be and cinches everything in where it shouldn’t be. You’d be surprised how effective it is for getting male attention.”
And how effective it is in getting someone to pass out.
Watson immediately launches into an inspection tour of the festival, with his nose working overtime to process a scent lineup that includes period cooking, horse manure, and whatever theyuse to make those wool uniforms smell like they’ve been aging in a museum since the 1800s.
“Look at those shoulders,” Carlotta sighs, pointing at a group of artillerymen who are demonstrating how to load a cannon with an efficiency that assures us they really enjoy things that go boom. “I bet they could lift a woman right off her feet. You know, for historical accuracy.”
“That’s because modern men don’t have to carry sixty-pound packs of ammunition across battlefields,” I point out, but I’m talking to deaf ears. Aunt Cat and Carlotta are already drifting toward the artillery demonstration like moths to a very masculine flame.
“I wouldn’t mind being carried off by one of those cavalry hotties,” Niki muses, watching a particularly well-built soldier adjust his horse’s bridle, which suggests he knows how to handle more than livestock. “Do you think they give riding lessons?”
I shoot her a look because we all know what she’s looking to ride.
Watson trots beside us, tail wagging as he takes in the spectacle of humans dressed up and pretending to shoot each other with antique weapons. His face says he has no idea what’s happening—but he’s fully on board as long as snacks are part of the situation.
“Excuse me, miss,” comes a voice with a distinctly Southern drawl that could melt butter fifty feet away. “Are you here for the battle demonstration?”
I turn to see what appears to be Colonel Rhett Butler’s younger, more athletic brother approaching us. He’s wearing a Confederate officer’s uniform that fits him like it was tailored by someone who understands exactly how fabric should interact with well-developed chest muscles. He’s wearing a funny looking hat that resembles a funnel, his dark hair is slicked back inperiod style, and he’s got a mustache that looks as if he spends serious time grooming it.
Aunt Cat makes a sound that’s somewhere between a purr and a whimper. Funny how quick she came back.
“Actually, we’re looking for someone,” I reply, trying to maintain eye contact despite the fact that his uniform jacket is doing interesting things for his shoulders. “Julia Washington? She has a food truck here?”
“Ah, the lovely Miss Washington.” He smiles, touching the brim of his hat with old-fashioned courtesy that makes Carlotta fan herself with her hand. “You’ll find her near the sutlers’ row, just past the medical tent. Fair warning, though: there’s a skirmish about to start, so you might want to take cover.”
“What’s a sutler?” I ask, unashamed of my lack of colonial knowledge.
“A general store,” he says with a wink.
“I’ll take cover with you any day, Colonel,” Aunt Cat says with a wink right back that says a whole lot more than she’s putting into words.
“Ma’am, it would be my honor to protect such a beautiful lady,” he replies with a gallant bow that makes all three women sigh simultaneously.
I didn’t sigh. But then I’ve got Coop.
Before I can ask what he means bytake cover, a bugle sounds across the field, followed immediately by what sounds like the entire Union army charging toward us with bloodcurdling war cries.
Oh. I bet this special brand of chaos has something to do with it.
Watson’s ears flatten against his head, and he presses closer to my legs as dozens of men in blue uniforms come running across the field, waving rifles and shouting battle cries with the enthusiasm usually seen at sporting events or Black Friday sales.
