Main Street is dressed for the Fourth with copious amounts of buntings, flags, and music that, for once, isn’t trying to blow out our eardrums.
The lake catches the last of the sun and throws it back like it has something to prove. Pine trees line the shore, the air finally cooling off, and for a second, I get why people fall for this place.
Then I remember the murder.
Picnic tables dot the shoreline, most already claimed by early arrivals staking territory like it’s a competitive sport. Which, let’s be honest, it is.
Flag-themed tablecloths snap in the breeze, and someone’s strung lights between the trees that are clearly planning a full takeover once it gets dark.
Watson begins his inspection tour of the lakefront, nose working overtime to catalog whatever earlier visitors left behind—dropped hot dogs, spilled sodas, and what I’m pretty sure is potato salad that’s been out longer than medically advisable.
We settle at a picnic table near the water’s edge, the wood still warm from the day’s sun. Cooper unwraps his sandwich like he’s earned it—after surviving family warfare and making it to Italian cured meats, which in my family basically counts as a win.
The lake laps at the shore, peaceful enough to almost make you forget that less than an hour ago, women were using dinner rolls as ammunition and threatening to off each other with breadsticks.
“So,” Cooper says after a bite that makes him close his eyes in bliss, “this is nice. Peaceful. No one throwing anything or threatening anyone with decorations.”
“The night is young,” I point out, already relaxing as Watson settles at my feet like he’s hit his entertainment quota for the evening. “Give them time. They’re probably regrouping at Mangias right now, planning their next insurrection.”
“Speaking of family drama,” Cooper continues, his detective instincts clearly still working despite the romantic lakeside setting and the way the evening light is doing interesting things to his cheekbones, “I know you’ve been investigating Larry’s murder. Tell me what you’ve got.”
I’m about to launch into my findings when the sound of approaching footsteps makes Watson’s ears perk up like furry radar dishes.
Mayor Harry Nash emerges from the tree line like a man making rounds, wearing a red polo and khakis that say he’s ready to lead a Fourth of July parade single-handedly.
My stomach sinks like a bullet-shaped stone.
This is the man I’m supposed to assassinate in less than twenty-four hours, and he’s strolling up to our lakeside dinner like he’s been personally invited to join the investigation.
Why does my target have to make this so easy?
“Cooper! Effie!” Mayor Nash calls out with cheerful enthusiasm, like he didn’t just miss a full-blown food fight—and has no idea one of us is quietly considering his untimely demise. “Beautiful evening for a lakeside picnic, isn’t it?”
“Mayor Nash,” Cooper replies, standing to shake hands with the man whose death is apparently on Uncle Jimmy’s Independence Day wish list. “Getting ready for the big day tomorrow?”
Bigger than either of them knows.
“Absolutely! Should be our best Fourth of July celebration yet,” Mayor Nash beams with genuine enthusiasm that makes you want to either hug him or warn him to avoid food from strangers. Or me. “The fireworks display alone is going to be spectacular!”
He spots Watson, and my evening gets infinitely more complicated.
“And who’s this handsome fellow?” Mayor Nash asks with the voice of a dog person who volunteers at animal shelters in his spare time.
Before I can intervene—or build some kind of protective barrier between my assassination target and my dog—MayorNash scoops Watson into his arms and the two of them kiss each other silly.
“Well, aren’t you just the most adorable pup!” He laughs as Watson melts against him, tail wagging hard enough to propel them both to Mars. “I bet you’re excited for tomorrow’s fireworks, aren’t you, boy?”
Watson responds with the enthusiasm he usually has for bacon and that one spot behind his ears that turns him into a puddle. His flag bandana pairs perfectly with Mayor Nash’s polo, making them look like they’re running for office together on a platform of canine welfare and civic pride.
Great, I muse, watching my dog bond with my assassination target like they’re long-lost relatives reunited at a family barbecue. Now I have to kill someone Watson actually likes. Fantastic.
This job just found a whole new level of complicated—and that’s impressive.
“He loves everyone,” I add weakly, though Watson is currently demonstrating a level of affection he typically rolls out for people who dispense treats on demand and respect the sacred importance of belly rubs.
“Dogs are excellent judges of character,” Mayor Nash says, setting Watson down with clear reluctance. Watson looks up at him like he’s just met his personal hero. “Well, I should let you two get back to your romantic evening. See you tomorrow at the festival!”
He heads off toward town with a spring in his step that makes me feel like the world’s worst person.
