Carlotta pauses to take in a group of men with elaborate man buns and colorful tattoos covering their arms. “Look at all this man-candy on the loose! They all look very spiritually developed to me.”
Among other things.
“I wonder if they do private meditation sessions,” Niki muses, watching an athletic-looking instructor demonstrate something called the Transcendent Tree Pose to a group of admirers—or students. Probably both.
“Focus,” I remind them, though I’ll admit, the guy demonstrating the Cosmic Warrior pose has some impressive spiritual development himself. “We’re here to question Sunshine about a murder, not shop for enlightenment. Or hot men in yoga pants.”
Watson barks, reminding everyone that he’s the only one maintaining any semblance of investigative priorities.
We make our way through the festival, dodging barefoot people carrying crystals, avoiding eye contact with anyone offering to read our auras, and trying not to trip over the meditation circles that seem to spring up randomly throughout the field.
“There it is!” Niki points toward a tie-dyed food booth decorated with enough peace signs to negotiate a small war. “Groovy Grub!”
Sunshine Crumpet looks completely in her element behind her organic food setup, wearing a flowing hemp dress that makes her previous tie-dyed chef’s duds look conservative. Her purple space buns have been replaced by long hair adorned with a flower crown that looks like it was assembled by very artistic fairies. Multiple crystal necklaces catch the afternoon light, and her vegetable tattoos now seem like perfectly reasonable fashion choices.
“Oh wow!” she calls out as we approach, her face lighting up at the sight of us. “It’s you ladies from the lake! What brings you to our little consciousness festival?”
Watson immediately gravitates toward her booth, his nose twitching at the scents of organic dog treats displayed in a hemp-woven basket. He knows what side his snacks are buttered on.
“We were just in the neighborhood,” I reply, pretending to examine her menu of consciousness raising wrapsandenlightenment smoothies. “We thought we’d check out the festival. It’s all so very cosmic.”
“Isn’t it amazing?” Sunshine beams, handing Watson a treat that he accepts with far too much glee. Let’s hope they agree with him. “The energy here is so pure, so aligned with the universe’s natural harmony. Plus, there’s lots of pot.” She nods as if that’s a plus. And judging by Carlotta’s expression, that’s a selling point.
Before I can figure out how to steer the conversation toward murder, Aunt Cat wanders off toward something called an aura photography booth, where a bearded man who looks like Santa’s hippie brother is promising to capture people’s spiritual energy on film. And maybe steal their souls.
“I bet my aura is red, white, and blue, honey!” I hear her announce to the photographer, who immediately waggles his brows.
Good grief.
Carlotta drifts toward a chakra balancing with sacred stones station, where a woman with waist-length hair is placing crystals on various clients while explaining their energetic blockages.
“My chakras feel very out of alignment,” Carlotta declares. “Or I’m blocked. Like really blocked. The kind that requires a toilet, patience, and a prayer. Can you fix that?”
Niki, meanwhile, has been recruited for a cosmic consciousness yoga session by an instructor whose smile suggests he’s offering more than just spiritual guidance.
“Figures,” I mutter to Watson, who’s working his way through what appears to be his third organic treat. Here’s hoping it doesn’t give him the runs. “Leave it to my traveling circus to get distracted by crystals and auras when I need backup.”
“Your friends seem very energetic.” Sunshine laughs while watching Aunt Cat interrogate the aura photographer about the spiritual significance of sequins.
What is it with those women and sparkles?
“Energetic, yes. That’s one way to put it,” I agree, pretending to be fascinated by her display of enlightenment energy bars. “Speaking of energy, that whole thing at the lake really threw off everyone’s vibe, didn’t it? Such a shock about Larry.”
Sunshine’s flower crown seems to wilt slightly. “Larry Rocket was a poison to the entire food community,” she says with a sigh. “That man destroyed lives for sport.”
Tell me something new.
Watson sits at attention, clearly sensing that things are about to take a turn toward homicide.
“That’s pretty harsh,” I say, hoping to egg her on to continue.
“You want to know who really hated Larry? Flip Flapjack,” Sunshine says, her voice dropping to an angry whisper. “Larry didn’t just write bad reviews about Flip’s diner. He destroyed Flip’s son’s entire restaurant chain with fake reviews and planted evidence of health violations.”
I blink. “Flip has a son?”
She nods. “Flip’s son had a restaurant empire, too,” Sunshine continues, her crystals jangling as she gestures with her hands. “He had three upscale dining establishments in Boston. Larry manufactured a scandal that cost the kid everything. He left town in disgrace, and Flip’s been carrying that grudge ever since.”
Watson gives a soft woof, sensing that we’ve just uncovered something important.
