Watson barks, reminding everyone that he’s the only one in the car with his priorities straight.
The drive to Ashford County turns into a mobile craft supply disaster as fabric samples flutter around the car like festive butterflies every time I hit a bump.
Watson serves as our unofficial navigator, occasionally barking at particularly interesting cows despite the fact that he’s being buried under star-shaped confetti that keeps escaping from poorly sealed bags.
“According to Sunshine’s posts,” Aunt Cat reports, scrolling through social media, “she’s set up her enlightenment cuisine booth right next to something called the Aura Cleansing Station.She’s been posting pictures of her organic smoothies and consciousness raising wraps all morning.”
“Perfect,” I mutter, taking a turn that sends a cascade of Independence Day ribbons flying through the car. “Nothing says natural living like interrogating someone about poisoning a food critic.”
“Maybe we should try to blend in,” Carlotta suggests, examining her sequined tracksuit in the rearview mirror. “Think I can pass for a free spirit?”
Niki laughs. “Ladies, you both look like a sparkler had a head-on collision with a flag. I don’t think there’s enough patchouli in the world to make you blend in at a hippie festival.”
Watson wags his agreement, then immediately tries to eat a piece of star-shaped confetti that’s been floating around his head like edible snow.
“That’s okay,” Aunt Cat says with a severe case of confidence because clearly, she’s never met a social situation she couldn’t handle. “We’ll just tell them we’re there for the... What did they call it? Chakra alignment. Everyone could use better chakras.”
Carlotta nods. “I hear you’re supposed to align it every thirty thousand miles.”
“Do any of us even know what a chakra is?” I ask.
“It’s one of those spiritual energy things,” Niki explains with the authority she’s achieved watching exactly one yoga video. “You’ve got them all over your body, and they need to be lined up properly or something bad happens.”
“Sounds like a transmission,” Carlotta points out. “And I understand transmissions.”
We pull into what appears to be a field full of tie-dyed tents and enough incense smoke to create its own weather system.
I can’t help but think that questioning a murder suspect at a consciousness-raising festival while my car explodes with craft supplies might be the most surreal thing I’ve done this week.
And considering this week included watching Nona Jo try to scalp Cooper’s sister with a breadstick, that’s really saying something.
Watson looks out at the sea of hemp clothing and crystal vendors, not entirely sure what he’s gotten into but willing to go along if organic dog treats are involved.
“All right, ladies,” I announce, parking between a van painted with peace signs and a car covered in bumper stickers about saving various whales. “Let’s go ruin someone’s spiritual awakening.”
Let’s see if the hippie’s third eye saw anything useful.
CHAPTER 12
The Harmony & Hemp Festival at Moonbeam Meadows looks like Woodstock collided with a farmers’ market and decided to sell crystals.
We’re standing at the entrance to what can only be described as organized chaos with a side of patchouli. Tie-dyed tents dot the field like psychedelic mushrooms, while the air shimmers with enough incense smoke that I’m afraid might alter our cognitive states.
The scent of hemp, organic granola, and what I’m pretty sure is medicinal marijuana mingles with the distant aroma of festival food that promises to align your chakras while it feeds your face.
A band called Earth Mother’s Children is performing on the main stage, their music a hypnotic blend of drums, flutes, and what sounds like someone having a very spiritual experience with a tambourine. Scattered around the field are people in flowing clothes practicing yoga on colorful mats, their poses ranging from enlightened warrior to confused pretzel.
Some enterprising vendors have tried to blend Fourth of July themes with the hippie aesthetic, resulting in cosmicindependence tie-dyed American flags and booths advertisingFreedom Through Consciousnessworkshops.
There’s even a smoothie stand selling patriotic peace drinks in tri-colored layers, though I’m pretty sure the red is beet juice and the blue is spirulina—both of which feel like a personal attack.
Watson surveys this scene, bewildered, like he’s not entirely sure what planet he’s landed on. His flag bandana, which looked perfectly fine at the craft store, now makes him look like a tiny conservative protester who’s wandered into the wrong rally.
Really wrong rally.
“Madonna Mia,” Aunt Cat breathes, adjusting her sequined tracksuit as she takes in the sea of hemp clothing and crystal jewelry. “It’s like nobody here has ever met a hairbrush.”
“And they haven’t been to Hairway to Heaven,” I say. That would be the name of the beauty shop my mother works at and her sister owns. If I had a few business cards, I might have been able to drum up some decent clientele for them.
