Good gravy, these men are playing right into her unscrupulous hands.
Watson barks as if commenting on the increasingly obvious double entendres, then returns to the serious business of convincing Julia to share more cornbread—which she happily does.
“Hey,Eff!” Carlotta’s voice booms from the opposite direction. “Come meet my boys!”
She emerges from behind a supply tent with what appears to be half the Union army in tow, all of whom are seemingly competing for her attention.
What in the world? These men are acting like Aunt Cat and Carlotta are catnip. More like witches with a working knowledge of casting one serious spell. Either that or these men really have been out in the battlefield for far too long.
“Ma’am, did you know that the average Civil War soldier carried forty pounds of equipment?” says a private who looks like he moonlights as a fitness instructor.
“That’s nothing,” counters a sergeant with biceps that suggest he’s been lifting more than historical equipment. “Some cavalry units could ride for twelve hours straight without stopping.”
“Twelve hours?” Carlotta fans herself with her hand. “My word, that’s impressive stamina. I do admire a man who can go the distance.”
I’ll bet she does.
Before I can process the full horror of this flirtation campaign, Niki appears with her own entourage of battlefield medics who seem more interested in her than in treating wounded soldiers.
It’s safe to say there’s been a woeful shortage of women at these events.
“They’re teaching me about first aid techniques,” Niki announces, though the medics appear to be demonstrating bandaging procedures that involve an unusual amount of touching. “It’s a very hands-on learning experience. I might need mouth-to-mouth resuscitation myself,” she adds with a wink that makes all three medics volunteer simultaneously.
Julia watches this circus with a bewildered look, like she’s not entirely sure if she’s at a historical reenactment or a very patriotic speed dating event.
“Your crew is very committed,” she points out as politely as possible.
They should be committed.
“That’s one way to put it,” I agree, taking another bite of the corn pudding. “You mentioned yesterday that you knew Larry Rocket from the festival circuit.”
“I sure did know him.” Julia’s friendly expression flickers like a candle in the wind. Her hands pause in their cornbread preparation, and she glances around as if checking for eavesdroppers among the mock battle chaos. “Larry was difficult to please,” she says as her voice loses some of its hospitality. “He could be very demanding about authenticity and quality. Being both a top chef and an influential food critic made him... Well, let’s just say his opinions carried a lot of weight.”
“I bet,” I say, watching her reaction. “He struck me as the type who had strong opinions about food.”
“The man had strong opinions about everything,” Julia mutters, then seems to catch herself. “Not that I should speak ill of the dead, but Larry had a way of making enemies wherever he went. When you can destroy someone’s business with a single review...”
Watson has stationed himself next to Julia’s prep area like he’s been assigned there, clearly banking on the possibility that distraction leads to more cornbread.
“Enemies?” I probe, keeping my voice casual while mentally taking notes.
Julia nods. “He’d been visiting various vendors on the circuit. Making suggestions about how we could improve our operations. For afee, of course.” She rolls her eyes.
The way she sayssuggestionsmakes it clear we’re talking about something significantly less friendly than constructive criticism.
“That must have been frustrating,” I muse. The man sounds like a mob strongman if ever there was one.
“He told me my food wascafeteria slop worthy of prison inmates,” Julia says, and her voice is bitter, her hands are shaking. “Said he’d write reviews that would destroy my business unless I paid him forconsultation services. And with his reputation, he could do it, too. One bad review from Larry Rocket could end a career.”
“That’s terrible,” I say, and I mean it. “What kind of consultation was he offering?”
“The kind where you pay him money, and he doesn’t write scathing reviews that ruin your reputation,” Julia replies, then immediately looks like she regrets revealing so much.
She glances around nervously, then leans closer. “If you’re really interested in who might have wanted Larry dead, you should talk to that hippie girl with the tie-dyed food truck. Sunshine something-or-other. She and Larry had some serious bad blood between them. More than just the usual vendor rivalry, if you know what I mean.”
“Sunshine Crumpet?” I ask, remembering the purple-haired woman from yesterday’s festival drama.
“That’s the one.” Julia nods, her voice dropping to a whisper. “She’d know more about why someone might want to see Larry permanently out of the food business. Those two had a history.”
