Some murder investigations begin in sterile interrogation rooms. Others begin in the middle of a Civil War battle, where your biggest challenge is avoiding getting dramatically shot by your dentist while trying to question someone about corn pudding.
I’m starting to think my life might be slightly more complicated than average.
CHAPTER 9
Iweave through the mock Civil War battlefield, carrying Watson like he’s a furry flag of surrender, dodging dramatically dying soldiers and enough cannon smoke to choke a horse.
Julia’s Colonial Kitchen has been transformed into something that looks like it rolled straight out of 1863, complete with a hand-painted wooden sign advertising everything from chili to cornbread. She’s standing behind her sutler’s wagon, wearing a full period dress that makes her look like she walked straight out of a history book, serving hard crackers and salted pork to reenactors who are taking their historical immersion very seriously.
“Why, hello there!” Julia calls out as we approach, her face lighting up as she recognizes us. “I believe we met at the lake yesterday, didn’t we? And this must be Watson—I remember that adorable little hat he was wearing! You’re Niki’s sister, aren’t you? That girl is such a delight.”
And now I wonder if she really does know Niki after all.
Watson wags his tail with enough enthusiasm to power a windmill as Julia reaches over to scratch behind his ears. Hisflag bandana has survived the battle chaos and still makes him look festive and adorable.
“That’s right,” I say, setting him down so he can properly investigate all the fascinating food smells emanating from Julia’s setup. “We were at the festival when... Well, when that unfortunate incident happened.”
Julia’s expression grows somber for a moment. “It’s terrible what happened to poor Larry. Such a shock for everyone. You know, Larry wasn’t just any food truck owner—he was a top chef in his own right. Before he opened that gourmet truck, he was one of the most successful food critics in New England. He still writes reviews, actually. Or he did up until yesterday. His opinion could make or break a restaurant.” She shakes her head sadly, then brightens a notch. “But life must go on. There’s nothing like a good battle to work up folks’ appetites. You simply must try some of my offerings. I made sure it’s all authentic battlefield cuisine, prepared exactly as our brave soldiers would have eaten.”
She bustles around her wagon, producing a wooden plate piled high with enough food to sustain a small army.
There’s cornbread that smells like heaven mixed with butter, pork that’s been seasoned with something that makes my mouth water, and—my stomach drops—a generous helping of her famous corn pudding.
The same corn pudding Larry Rocket died clutching in his rapidly cooling fingers.
“Oh, you really don’t have to—” I start, but Julia’s already pressing the plate into my hands with determination because clearly, she takes her hospitality very seriously.
“Nonsense! That corn pudding is Martha Washington’s authentic recipe. I’m a Daughter of the American Revolution. My lineage goes back eight generations. My great-great-great-grandfather fought at Yorktown. People don’t follow me forrecipes, they follow me because Iamthe real thing. My bloodline is my brand. I can’t fake that, and I won’t compromise it.”
Watson sits at my feet with perfect posture, fully committed to the idea that good behavior equals snacks. His brown eyes track my fork like it’s the most important development of the day, while I sit there wondering if I’m about to eat the same thing that sent Larry to the great food court in the sky. Although I highly doubt Julia is ready to conduct a mass poisoning. I’m guessing that meal was tailored to Larry for very specific reasons. Like, maybe a bad review?
I take a tiny cautious bite of the corn pudding, prepared to detect any hint of poison, arsenic, or whatever deadly substance might be lurking in the sweet corn mixture. Instead, I get a mouthful of the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted—creamy, sweet, with a hint of something I can’t quite identify that makes my taste buds do a little happy dance.
“Oh my word. This isincredible,” I say, and I’m not lying. If this corn pudding was used as a murder weapon, at least Larry went out with style.
“It should be incredible. It’s been one of my family’s best-guarded secrets for generations,” Julia says, ladling more onto my plate despite my protests. “Seven generations of Washington women have guarded that recipe with their lives.”
Before I can probe further about exactly what makes this corn pudding so special, a Confederate soldier stumbles back and collapses dramatically right next to Julia’s wagon, clutching his chest and moaning about thecursed Yankees.
Julia steps over thecorpsewithout missing a beat and continues serving cornbread to a Union officer who’s trying to maintain his historical character while obviously checking out her period-appropriate cleavage—because apparently some things, like men, haven’t evolved much over the centuries.
Watson approaches the fallen soldier with concern, undecided on whether this is a game or a full-blown emergency. He gives the man’s face a careful sniff, then a tentative lick—just enough to break character and earn a very un–Civil-War chuckle.
“Good boy,” thedeadConfederate whispers, scratching Watson’s ears. “You’re the best medic I’ve had all day.”
I’m about to ask Julia more pointed questions about her relationship with Larry when the cavalry literally arrives.
“Ladies!” Aunt Cat’s voice carries across the battlefield with enough volume to be heard over the cannon fire. “I’ve found us some authentic entertainment!”
She appears through the smoke, leading three Confederate officers by what appears to be their collective testosterone. They’re all tall, dark, and handsome in that way that suggests a Civil War reenactment might be the world’s most effective dating strategy, and they’re hanging on Aunt Cat’s every word like she’s about to reveal the location of buried treasure.
Lord only knows what she’s promised them.
“Tell me more about your cannon,” Aunt Cat purrs, giving his buttons a slow, knowing glide. “It looks impressive. I assume you know exactly how to fire it off when it counts.”
A hard groan escapes from me.
“Yes, ma’am,” the officer stammers, his historical character wavering under Aunt Cat’s assault. “It requires a very firm touch and steady rhythm.”
