Julia fidgets with her apron strings. “Do they know what happened to him? I mean, was it natural causes? A heart attack or something?”
“Right now, the detectives are treating it as a murder,” I offer, and she flinches a little. “Or so rumor has it.”
Mostly because I was present when it happened, and my murder to natural health disasters ratio is way off-kilter.
No need for Julia to know that I’m canoodling with the hot homicide detective night after night. Speaking of which, I’m looking forward to our regularly scheduled canoodling session later. Cooper is very thorough when it comes to his investigative techniques, both professional and personal.
“Murder,” she pants it out like she can’t even say it.
Watson whines, sensing the tension in Julia’s voice, and she absently reaches down to pet him, which seems to calm her nerves.
“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” she adds. “Larry made a lot of enemies in this business.”
Before I can press further, a massive cannon explosion rocks the battlefield, sending up enough smoke to hide a small army. When the air clears, I realize Julia has vanished from behind her wagon, leaving only Watson and me standing among the abandoned cornbread and that suspiciously delicious corn pudding.
Watson barks sharply and trots around to the back of the wagon, his nose working overtime. I follow him to find a wooden crate filled with what appears to be modern spice containers and some bottles that definitely don’t look like they belong in a Civil War sutler’s supply.
One bottle catches my eye—a small vial labeledNatural Corn Sweetenerin handwriting that looks suspiciously fresh for something that’s supposed to be a family recipe from Martha Washington’s era. Okay, so I’m reaching, but again, I’m ready to wrap this up and enjoy the upcoming holiday. I really need something to work with here.
I scoop up my cute pooch. Now I just need to collect the chaos crew I came with from their respective romanticconquests and figure out exactly what Julia Washington has been putting in her famous corn pudding.
Some murder investigations involve fingerprints and forensic evidence. Others involve cautiously sampling what might be the murder weapon while the happy harlots I came with flirt with historically costumed strangers in the middle of a fake battle.
I’m starting to think my investigative techniques might need some work.
CHAPTER 10
Mangias Italian Restaurant sits across Main Street from the Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery like a delicious dark cave filled with old-world charm that makes you want to speak with your hands and call everyonebambino.
The place is all dark wood paneling and red-and-white checkered tablecloths that have witnessed more romantic confessions than Valentine’s Day.
Sinatra croons from hidden speakers about flying to the moon and getting under someone’s skin, while the walls display a museum-worthy collection of vintage family photos, empty wine bottles, and enough hanging garlic to ward off every vampire in New England.
Tonight, the usual Italian decor has been invaded by Fourth of July decorations that somehow manage to look charming rather than ridiculous. Star-spangled bunting drapes between the Italian flags, and tiny American flags sprout from the wine bottle centerpieces like festive flowers.
The air smells like heaven, if heaven had a really good Italian grandmother running the kitchen with garlic, basil, oregano,fresh bread, and a simmering marinara sauce that could make my entire ancestry proud.
Watson plants himself beside our corner table like he’s part of the reservation, his flag bandana giving him the look of a dog fully prepared to pledge allegiance to anything that hits the floor.
The owner, Tony Mangaccio, has a simple philosophy about pets. “Dogs welcome. It’s the human animals I’d like to keep out.”
Cooper and I have ordered enough food to feed a small Italian army, because apparently romantic dinners make us both lose our minds and our portion control. The antipasto platter between us looks like edible art—prosciutto draped like silk scarves, fresh mozzarella that came from very happy cows, and salami arranged in meaty rosettes because evidently this place takes their cured meats seriously.
“Try this,” Cooper says, spearing a piece of prosciutto and offering it to me with an intimate gesture that makes my toes curl inside my shoes.
I lean forward to take the bite, and somehow manage to make eating processed pork products look seductive. Or at least that’s what Cooper’s expression suggests as he watches me chew.
“Mmm,” I manage around the salty perfection. “That’s almost as good as your interrogation techniques.”
“Almost?” Cooper raises an eyebrow, his blue-green eyes taking on that predatory look that makes my internal temperature spike. “I’ll have to work on my technique later tonight.”
Watson looks between us with an expression that reads he’s not entirely sure what’s happening but suspects it involves food he’s not going to get to sample.
Our Caesar salad arrives courtesy of a waiter who looks like he’s seen it all and lived to tell the tale, followed by chicken parmigiana that’s the size of a small country and veal marsalathat smells like it was personally blessed by an Italian saint. The garlic bread announces itself from three tables away, and the linguine with clam sauce has me wondering if I’ve died and gone to carbohydrate heaven.
“This is better than foreplay,” I announce, twirling the linguine around my fork like I’ve been practicing Italian food seduction for years.
“It’s better than most people’s foreplay,” Cooper counters, stealing a bite of my chicken parm with a wicked grin. “Though I happen to know yours is in a league of its own.”
