“Duty calls,” he says, angling the phone so I can see the text—something that reads more like a military directive than a message. “Sheriff Turner wants me to start lake patrol. Apparently, there are concerns about festival security.”
“What kind of security concerns?” I ask, though knowing Honey Hollow, it’s probably someone worried about aggressive geese or unauthorized pontoon boats disrupting the celebration.
But then again, Lottie Lemon is here, and everyone knows that wherever Lottie goes, the Grim Reaper follows.
And lately? He’s been eyeing me, too.
“The dangerous kind of security concerns—the kind that involve making sure nobody drowns in holiday enthusiasm,” Cooper replies, stepping closer until I catch his cologne mixed with sunscreen and summer air.
He kisses me, and my toes curl inside my star-spangled sneakers, along with my ability to remember why public displays of affection used to embarrass me.
Okay, fine. They never did. I’m always up for a good public smooch.
“Try to stay out of trouble while I’m gone,” he murmurs against my lips, and I frown.
“Me? Trouble?” I flutter my lashes at him. “I’m just here to sell cupcakes and look festive.”
“Famous last words,” he mutters, then turns to Watson with mock seriousness. “You’re in charge of keeping her out of trouble, buddy. I’m counting on you.”
Okay, fine. He’s dead serious.
Watson barks and raises his paw like he’s taking an oath.
“I should get going, too,” Mayor Nash says, checking his watch with the efficiency of a man running on a tight schedule. “I promised to make the rounds and glad-hand with all the vendors before the opening ceremony at four.”
“Translation: he wants to sample everything before the judging officially starts,” Lottie says with a laugh that suggests she’s watched her father’s appetite derail many a diet. I’m pretty sure her baked goods have played a part.
“It’s called thorough preparation,” Mayor Nash insists with a wink. “A good leader always does his research.”
“I’m a strong believer in culinary research myself.”
They head off toward the food trucks, Mayor Nash already eyeing a funnel cake stand as if he’s on a mission of national importance. I watch Cooper walk away, admiring the way his jeans fit and thinking that maybe—just maybe—this festival might actually be a peaceful, murder-free event where my biggest concern is stopping Watson from eating someone’s abandoned corn dog.
And then I remember who I am.
And what town I’m standing in.
I’m about to head back to the booth and shove a cookie into my pie hole when I spot a couple of familiar troublemaking faces cutting through the crowd like two sequined nukes locked on target.
And guess who that target is.
Aunt Cat and Carlotta are making their approach with a determined stride, as if they’ve been planning this moment since they got dressed this morning. And they probably have.
They’re wearing matching aggressively American tracksuits that could be seen from Washington, D.C., complete with bedazzled eagle pins and enough red, white, and blue sequins to outfit an entire army of Vegas showgirls.
Aunt Cat, a woman in her seventies with teased hair that defies both gravity and common sense, is carrying what she claims is a picnic basket—though knowing her, it could contain anything from potato salad to evidence that needs disposing of.
Carlotta, equally bedazzled and sporting a beehive that adds six inches to her already impressive height, has an oversized purse covered in flag patches that’s definitely big enough to hide a small body. I wouldn’t put it past her to try.
The sight of them sends my stomach dropping faster than the stock market on Black Tuesday.
“Sweetie!” Aunt Cat calls, waving enthusiastically enough to make me think she might actually be bringing good news. Or better yet, no news at all. But I’m not that lucky. “We brought potato salad for the booth!”
“And deviled eggs,” Carlotta adds with a cackle that could wake the dead in three counties. “Nothing says America like eggs from hell!”
I frown at the thought. If this conversation is going where I think it is, hell might be a destination I’ll be all too familiar with one day soon.
They boot-scoot their way over, and something about their expressions—equal parts excitement and mischief—makes my stomach clench with a familiar dread that usually precedes complications. The kind that start with a small request from a mob boss and snowball into a homicide.
