She startles like someone caught doing something they shouldn’t, which immediately sets off every amateur sleuth alarm I own. Her usually perfect colonial dress is wrinkled, her bonnet askew, and her expression says she’s having a day she’d like to return for a refund.
“Oh! Effie,” she manages, trying to pull herself together while clearly struggling with the weight of whatever’s in that bin. “I’m fine, really. Just cleaning up from the dinner service.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say, grabbing one end before she can protest. “This thing weighs more than my dog after a particularly successful day of snacking.”
Together we carry it toward her truck, and I can’t help noticing the bin is packed with enough supplies to feed a small army—along with several ramekins she uses for her famous corn pudding.
“Busy day?” I ask as we set it down near the back of her wagon.
“The busiest,” she sighs, then quickly corrects herself. “But good busy. It’s been very profitable. The festival has been wonderful for business.”
We’re standing in the shadow of her truck now, away from the main festival chaos. She’s reorganizing containers that don’t need reorganizing—nothing but busy hands and nervous energy.
“Julia.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “We need to talk about what happened to Larry Rocket.”
She freezes. Doesn’t look up.
“I’ve been putting some things together,” I say. “About the corn pudding. About your recipes. About what Larry was planning to do.”
Now she looks at me, her expression unreadable.
I take a breath.
“Julia… did you kill him?”
The words hang in the air between us like smoke from the distant grills, and Julia’s reaction is immediate. Her face goes white, her hands fly to her chest, and she takes a step backward that makes her bump into the side of her truck.
“What?” She gasps, her voice high and shocked. “Effie, that’sinsane! I would never... Larry was—I didn’t kill anyone!”
“The pentobarbital,” I continue, watching her carefully. “Flip saw you buying it from that sketchy veterinary supplier. It’s the same drug that killed Larry. The same drug they found in a sample of your corn pudding.”
“You don’t understand,” Julia says, her hands shaking as she fumbles with her bonnet. “I wasn’t buying that medication for myself. Mrs. Henderson down the road—she has a farm, and her old horse was suffering. Tumors everywhere. The vet bills were astronomical, and she couldn’t afford humane euthanasia, so I… I helped her.”
She takes a shaky breath, tears pooling in her eyes. “I picked up the medication because she was too embarrassed to do it herself. Too proud to admit she couldn’t afford proper care. But I never used it for anything else. I swear.”
Watson lets out a soft growl at the stress in her voice, then immediately glues himself to my legs like I’m the designated emotional support human—which, apparently, I am.
“There was someone,” Julia whispers. “They seemed harmless at the time. Curious. But the questions they asked…”
She trails off, her eyes widening as if she’s just realized something important.
“Who?” I ask urgently. “Who was asking questions?”
“I can’t.” Julia shakes her head frantically. “I won’t accuse someone without proof. But Effie, be careful. If someone was willing to kill Larry and let me take the blame, they won’t hesitate to hurt anyone else who gets in their way.”
With that, she hurries off toward the front of her truck, leaving me in the shadows with Watson and a head full of puzzle pieces that suddenly refuse to stay where I put them.
The first fireworks explode overhead, painting the sky in violent reds and blues that ripple across the lake like it’s been set on fire. But I barely notice the spectacular display because my brain is busy processing what Julia just told me, and suddenly all the pieces of this particular puzzle are clicking into place with a clarity that makes me wonder how I missed it before.
I think I know who killed Larry Rocket.
Someone’s been playing a long game, and I’ve been dancing to their tune—with a gun strapped to my thigh and a deadline that’s getting way too close.
Fireworks explode overhead while my brain calculates exactly how screwed I am.
Land of the free, home of the brave.
And apparently, the occasionally homicidal.
