Watson watches him go like he’s just been abandoned by his new favorite human and is seriously considering following him home.
“Nice guy,” Cooper observes, settling back at the picnic table while Watson keeps staring in the direction Mayor Nashdisappeared, like he’s hoping for a miraculous return—with treats.
“Yeah,” I say, my sandwich suddenly tasting like guilt. “Really nice.”
Too nice to murder for Uncle Jimmy’s mysterious reasons,I add silently, watching Watson still hope the mayor might magically reappear with more face-kissing opportunities.
“So,” Cooper says, unwrapping his sandwich and fixing me with a stare that’s somehow both professional and distractingly attractive, “back to that investigation. What have you learned about our victim and his potential killers?”
I take a bite of my own sandwich to buy time, the prosciutto and mozzarella briefly distracting me from the moral mess I’ve landed in.
For a second, I can almost pretend this is normal—just a lakeside dinner with my boyfriend, not a briefing on murder suspects while I quietly consider assassinating the town’s beloved mayor, who also happens to be Watson’s new best friend.
“Larry Rocket wasn’t just any food truck owner,” I begin, organizing my thoughts while Watson settles back at my feet as if he’s forced to put up with second best. “He was a legitimate food critic before he went mobile—successful enough that his reviews could make or break restaurants and apparently destroy people’s lives for sport.”
Cooper nods, encouraging me to continue while the lake laps quietly and the first stars blink on overhead.
“I’ve got three main suspects,” I say, trying not to think about the fact that tomorrow I might be one of them if Uncle Jimmy’s timeline holds. “First up is Julia Washington—except that’s not even her real name. Flip says she’s Julia Watkins from New Jersey. The whole Martha Washington family recipe thing?Completely fake. He says she lifted it from some cookbook she found at a garage sale. Sunshine hinted at the same.”
“Would that be fraud?” Cooper asks, his detective brain trying to categorize the crime.
“I don’t know, but it gets worse. Larry was planning to expose her the day after the festival. That kind of public humiliation would’ve killed her business overnight—maybe buried her in legal trouble, too.”
I take another bite, then add, “But here’s the kicker—Flip says he saw her buying pentobarbital from a shady veterinary supplier operating out of the back of a van.” I pause. “Like a very specialized ice cream truck.”
Cooper blinks.
“She claimed it was for farm animals,” I go on, “but she lives in a condo with a no-pets policy stricter than most international treaties.”
Watson’s ears perk at the mention of animals, then droop when he realizes we’re not talking about anything that might lead to treats or belly rubs.
“Then there’s Sunshine Crumpet,” I continue, watching Cooper’s eyebrows rise at the name like he’s not entirely sure he heard correctly. “The hippie food vendor with the tie-dyed everything and enough crystals to stock a whole Renaissance fair? Turns out, she’s got a chemistry degree from MIT.”
“MIT?” Cooper’s sandwich pauses halfway to his mouth like it’s been frozen by the sheer impossibility of this information.
“She knows how to make untraceable poisons from organic compounds, which is apparently what they teach you at fancy universities these days instead of useful skills like balancing checkbooks or avoiding family drama. Larry caught her selling ‘natural remedies’ that were anything but—dangerous drugs designed to separate desperate people from their money. People were getting sick, and she was making bank off sugar pills andherb mixes sold to folks who trusted her because she had crystals and spoke fluent organic.”
The evening breeze picks up, carrying pine and the distant smell of someone’s barbecue getting a head start on tomorrow. Fireworks pop here and there—test runs for the big show—like little bursts of color against the darkening sky.
“And the third suspect?”
“That’s where it gets complicated,” I sigh, watching Watson try to catch a firefly like persistence alone might turn it into a glowing snack. “There’s this whole situation with Flip’s son. He had three upscale restaurants in Boston that Larry torpedoed with fake scandals and bogus health violations. The kid lost everything and left town in disgrace, which gives Flip plenty of motive.”
I shake my head. “But I don’t think he did it. He’s got motive, sure, but not the opportunity or the means—and he strikes me as more of a punch-you-in-the-face type than a poison-your-dessert kind of guy.”
A thought hits me.
“Wait,” I say, pausing mid-bite as something occurs to me. “You never told me exactly how Larry died. I mean, I know he was poisoned—but with what?”
Cooper glances around the lake to make sure we’re alone, then leans in. “Pentobarbital. Same stuff they use to euthanize animals, just in a much higher concentration.”
“Well, according to Flip, that’s what Julia was buying from the sketchy vet supplier,” I point out.
“Exactly. But here’s the thing—pentobarbital isn’t exotic. You don’t need a chemistry degree to use it. Any veterinarian, vet tech, or someone who’s worked around farm animals would know how to handle it. Heck, you can look up lethal dosages online.”
Watson looks up at us with far too much hope, like this serious conversation might somehow lead to sandwich scraps.
“So basically, all three of our suspects could’ve done it,” I say, feeling less impressed with my detective work. “Julia had access, Sunshine has the chemistry background, and Flip…” I shrug. “He grew up on a farm, right? He’s probably put down his share of sick animals.” I sigh. “How guilty is the corn pudding looking?”
