“This way, ladies!” the Confederate officer shouts, grabbing Aunt Cat’s arm and pulling her toward what appears to be a supply tent. “Best to let the Yankees pass!”
“I don’t mind getting caught by a few Yankees,” Niki mutters as she eyes the approaching soldiers with far too much appreciation. “Some of them look very... Let’s just say vigorous.”
Suddenly, we’re caught in the middle of what I can only describe as organized historical chaos. Union soldiers rush past us with their bayonets glinting in the sun, while Confederate defenders emerge from behind trees and tents to ambush them in a way that would make any mob boss proud.
Watson decides this is either the best game ever or the beginning of the end, and starts barking like he’s been personally invited to participate, making a valiant attempt to chase soldiers who are clearly very committed to their weekend hobby.
“Watson, no!” I call, but he’s already bounded toward a group of Union soldiers who’ve taken position behind a wooden fence. “You can’t participate in the Civil War!”
“Take that, you Rebel scum!” shouts a soldier who looks suspiciously like my dentist, Dr. Chatterley, as he aims his musket at a Confederate who’s clearly my neighbor, Mr. Rodriguez, from three houses down.
“Oh wow,” I muse with a newfound horror.
“That Dr. Chatterley is looking mighty fine in blue,” Carlotta points out, shading her eyes to get a better view. “Who knew my root canal magician had such nice biceps?”
“Death to tyrants!” Mr. Rodriguez shouts, clutching his chest and collapsing behind a hay bale with a level of theatrics that feels a little ambitious for a summer afternoon. Also, I’m moved to call a medic.
Niki lets out a low whistle. “Mr. Rodriguez is freaking hot. Do we have his number?”
Uniforms really are her weakness.
Watson barks approvingly at the performance, then immediately goes to investigate whether Mr. Rodriguez is actually injured and might need comfort in the form of enthusiastic face licking.
“Girls, this way!” Carlotta calls from somewhere to my left, where she appears to have been adopted by a group of Confederate cavalry officers who are treating her like their personal mascot. “These gentlemen are going to protect us! And they have seriousequipment!”
Good grief. The innuendos never end with her. Or with Niki. Or Aunt Cat.
Okay, fine. I appreciate a good innuendo now and again myself.
I spot Aunt Cat surrounded by Union soldiers who seem to have completely forgotten there’s a battle happening. She’s posing for pictures while they take turns explaining their regimen with an enthusiasm that feels a lot less about history and a lot more about landing her in a tent. Little do they know they don’t have to try that hard.
“Boys, tell me more about these uniforms,” Aunt Cat coos, running her hand along a soldier’s brass buttons. “Are they as hard to get out of as they look?”
Niki, meanwhile, has somehow made herself useful to a group of reenactors loading medical supplies into a wagon, all while asking very specific questions about their uniforms that feel severely unrelated to the task at hand.
“So when you say this cracker is calledhardtack,” Niki says to a particularly attractive medic, “are we talkingbreak-a-tooth hardor just hard enough to keep things interesting?”
“This is insanity,” I mutter to Watson, who’s now inspecting a cannon that may be loaded with blanks but sounds like it couldtake out a small building. “We came here to question a murder suspect, not accidentally enlist.”
Watson woofs his agreement, then immediately gets distracted by a soldier who’s eating what appears to be that hardtack cracker and might be convinced to share.
The battle rages around us with enough smoke, noise, and dramatic death scenes to satisfy even the most demanding history buff. Men fall with theatrical groans, officers wave swords while shouting orders, and somewhere in the distance, a brass band plays period music with enough gusto to resurrect the entire Confederacy.
I’m trying to navigate through the controlled chaos when I spot her.
Julia Washington stands near her Colonial Kitchen food truck, which she’s somehow managed to transform into a period-appropriate general store complete with wooden signs advertisingAuthentic Battlefield Victuals—I take it that means food—andMrs. Washington’s Renowned Cornbread.She’s wearing a full Civil War-era dress in deep blue with white trim, her graying hair tucked neatly under a bonnet that makes her look like she stepped out of a time machine.
But what catches my attention isn’t her historically accurate costume—it’s the way she’s standing perfectly still in the middle of all this chaos, watching the battle with an intense focus that says she’s either really into Civil War history or she’s thinking about how she poisoned a man less than twenty-four hours ago and hasn’t been caught.
Okay, so my brain is working in overdrive. Let’s face it, I’d love to pin the murder on her and call it a homicidal day.
Watson barks because he’s spotted our target, too.
“Come on, boy,” I say, scooping him up before he can get recruited into the Confederate Navy or whatever maritimereenactment might be happening near the creek. “It’s time to go investigate our first victim.”
I correct myself mentally as we head toward Julia’s setup.Suspect. Not victim. Although in my experience, the line between those two categories tends to be surprisingly flexible.
“Julia Washington, here we come,” I mutter.
