“Yours,” I decide quickly. “You’ve got a better security system.”
Some romantic dinners end with candlelit kisses and whispered sweet nothings. Others end with geriatric catfights and emergency plumbing issues.
Welcome to dating in Honey Hollow, where romance comes with a side of chaos.
CHAPTER 11
My Honda looks like the Fourth of July detonated inside it and then refused to clean up after itself.
It’s the very next afternoon and Aunt Cat, Carlotta, Niki, and I are standing in the parking lot of Honey Hollow Crafts & More, surveying the aftermath of what can only be described as holiday shopping gone horribly wrong.
Red, white, and blue supplies spill from every available surface of my poor car like confetti from a very aggressive parade float. Watson sits perched on top of a bolt of star-spangled fabric like a furry king surveying his sparkly kingdom, his flag bandana coordinating perfectly with our purchases.
“I think we might have gone a little overboard,” I say, watching Aunt Cat try to stuff another bag of star-shaped sequins into what used to be my backseat.
“Nonsense,” Aunt Cat declares, her beehive hair slightly disheveled from the battle we just waged in the craft store. “If we’re going to beat the competition for that one-thousand-dollar Williams Saltonoma gift certificate and magazine feature, we need to go big or go home.”
“Plus,” Carlotta adds, wedging a package of bunting into my glove compartment, “Lottie said to go crazy with the credit card. This is us being responsible with other people’s money.”
I wonder if Lottie will have a different definition of responsible—starting with the fact I’ve taken two days off to finish a mission that should have taken one afternoon.
Watson barks his agreement, though he might just be commenting on the fact that someone dropped a pretzel in the craft store parking lot and he’s been eyeing it like an opportunity.
The past four hours have been a master class in how not to shop for craft supplies. What started as a simple mission to make the booth festive turned into a full-scale assault on every decoration within a fifty-mile radius. We now own enough festive bunting to wrap the Washington Monument, enough star-shaped twinkle lights to blind a small town, and enough glitter to haunt my floors until the end of time.
Watson had his own adventure in the craft store, nearly getting lost in the fabric bolt maze before charming every employee into giving him treats. At one point, he was helping carry ribbon in his mouth until he got so tangled in flag bunting that he looked like a very celebratory mummy. The store manager actually took pictures.
“Do you think we have enough glitter?” Niki asks, holding up her fifteenth bag of sparkly stuff. “Because Aunt Cat says if it doesn’t sparkle, it’s not festive enough.”
“We have enough glitter to blind every person in Italy—from here,” I reply. “I think Mayor Nash will be sufficiently impressed by our commitment to ocular assault.”
The mention of Mayor Nash makes my stomach do that familiar flip-flop that reminds me I’m supposed to assassinate the man who’s judging our booth. It’s an ethical dilemma that doesn’t come up in normal people’s lives, but then again, normalpeople don’t moonlight as a reluctant hitwoman for a mob boss who happens to be their uncle.
“Speaking of impressive,” I say, finally managing to squeeze into the driver’s seat while Watson relocates to Niki’s lap, “we should get back to our other project. You know, the one involving the dead food critic?”
“Oh right,” Niki snaps. “Murder. I knew we were forgetting something.”
“Where to next, Sherlock?” Aunt Cat asks, pulling out her phone with the determination of a woman who’s mastered social media despite being old enough to remember when you had to dial the operator to make a call.
“Sunshine’s Groovy Grub,” I reply, starting the Honda and praying that all our star-spangled purchases don’t shift and bury someone during transport. “Time to find out what kind of history she had with our dearly departed Larry Rocket.”
Watson wags his approval from Niki’s lap, though he might just be expressing relief that we’re leaving the craft store before anyone decides we need more star-shaped anything.
“Let me track down that hippie chick,” Aunt Cat calls out as her fingers fly over her phone screen with surprising dexterity. “I’ll check her Instagram, Facebook—oh, look at this!” She holds up her phone triumphantly. “She’s at something called the Harmony & Hemp Festivalin Ashford County. Located at...” She squints at the screen, “Moonbeam Meadows.”
“What kind of festival did you say it was?” Carlotta asks, leaning forward with great interest now that hemp is involved.
Aunt Cat reads from the festival description. “It says it’s a celebration of natural living, organic consciousness, and spiritual awakening. Features yoga workshops, crystal healing, organic food vendors, sustainable living demonstrations, and chakra alignment sessions.”
“Sounds like my kind of party,” Carlotta declares. “Lots of free spirits and some very flexible men in yoga pants.”
“I bet the guys there have man buns and meaningful tattoos,” Niki adds dreamily. “And they’re very deep and spiritual. I could use some consciousness raising.”
“Do you think they’ll have wine?” Aunt Cat wonders aloud. “Or just wheatgrass shots and kombucha?”
“And lots of hemp?” Carlotta adds.
“Focus, people,” I say, navigating out of the parking lot while Watson’s nose presses against the window, making little fog patterns on the glass. “We’re investigating a murder, not shopping for crystals or spiritually enlightened boyfriends. And we are certainly not getting high.”
