I reluctantly give her the paper, watching as she sets it ablaze with the efficiency of a woman who’s destroyed evidence more times than she’s made Sunday dinner. The flames lick at Mayor Harry Nash’s name until it curls into ash, then she dropsthe burning remains and stomps on them with her bedazzled sneakers as if she’s performing some sort of war dance.
Watson tilts his head, watching the mini bonfire with fascination like he’s never seen paper spontaneously combust in a public place. And since he’s my dog, he certainly has. One time too many, at that. His Uncle Sam hat shifts sideways, giving him a quizzical expression.
“There,” Aunt Cat says with satisfaction, grinding the ashes into the grass. “No evidence, no problems.”
“Except for the part where I’m supposed to assassinate the mayor,” I point out, my voice slightly higher than normal. “Lottie’s father. The man who just complimented our booth setup.” Not to mention he’s a repeat customer—even if he does eat for free. Come to think of it, with him gone, Lottie’s profit margins are destined to skyrocket.
“Details.” Carlotta waves dismissively. “Harry Nash has had it coming for years. Do you know how many parking tickets that man’s given me? Plus, he keeps leaving his socks on my bedroom floor.”
I blink. “Your bedroom floor?”
Watson’s ears perk up at my shocked tone, and he looks between us like he’s following a homicidal tennis match.
“We’re on again this week,” Carlotta explains with a shrug. “Though after this morning’s argument about his snoring, we might be off again by dinnertime. It’s hard to say. When someone’s in the morgue, it’s hard to get them to pay for dinner.”
“That’s right. You’re dating my target,” I groan.
“Honey, I’ve been on and off with Harry longer than some people stay married.” Carlotta chuckles. “Trust me, the man’s practically bulletproof. I’ve tried to kill him myself at least twice—once with my meatloaf, once that time I accidentally backed over his foot with my car. Turns out, a bum foot won’t do muchbut land you on crutches. I’m still learning the lethal ropes, so to speak.”
Watson wags his tail, apparently approving of the conversation’s dramatic turn. Or maybe he just smells the lingering bacon grease in the air. It’s definitely the latter, but I like to pretend he’s concerned about the things actively giving me an ulcer. He spots a fallen ice cream cone and takes off to do his thing.
“Parking tickets from your boyfriend are hardly grounds for murder,” I protest. Heaven knows I’ve got a few exes I wouldn’t mind using for target practice. And for the record, they’ve given me things far worse than parking tickets—a few required medication.
“Says you,” Aunt Cat sniffs. “Some of us have standards about municipal overreach.”
Watson, apparently deciding emotional support outranks free ice cream, abandons the fallen cone and hustles over to glue himself to my legs.
His Uncle Sam hat has slid over one eye, giving him the look of a deeply concerned, aggressively patriotic dog who’s pretty sure I’m not handling this well.
He’s not wrong.
“You know what you need?” Niki appears at my elbow, fully committed to her eavesdropping career. Only these three knuckleheads know about my career in crime—outside of Uncle Jimmy, that is. “Food. Lots of food. And old-fashioned snooping.” She links her arm through mine with the determination of someone dragging a friend to an intervention. “Let’s go scope out the competition and stuff our faces with some deep-fried patriotism. There’s nothing a bad decision on a paper plate can’t fix.”
“Isn’t that the truth,” I mutter.
Watson immediately perks up at the thought of anything dunked in oil being flung his way, and it sends his tail into full helicopter mode.
“I’m in like sin, girls,” Carlotta declares, adjusting her sequined fanny pack. “Nothing says America like eating until you can’t move.”
“Plus, we need to see what we’re working with,” Aunt Cat adds ominously. “Know your battlefield and all that good stuff.”
Before I can protest that I’m not actually planning to kill anyone—especially not Carlotta’s on-again, off-again boyfriend—they’ve formed a protective formation around me like rhinestone-studded security, and suddenly I’m being escorted to the food trucks against my will. Watson races ahead like he’s scouting the place for us, his sparkly hat bouncing with each enthusiastic step.
Our first stop is a truck selling patriotic pork skewers—chunks of barbecued pork alternating with red peppers and white onions on blue wooden sticks. The vendor, decked out in a stars-and-stripes apron, hands over our order like he knows he’s about to change our lives—and not necessarily for the better.
There’s a reason there are twice as many restrooms as usual around the lake this afternoon.
Watson sits at attention, his brown eyes locked on the skewers as if he’s running a zero-blink operation to get me to bow to his furry little whims—and my willpower just packed a bag and left town.
I take a bite and moan. “This is actually pretty good,” I admit, surprised, as the smoky flavor hits my taste buds. I slip Watson a small piece of pork, which he accepts as if he personally arranged for this outcome. And he has. The only thing this pooch has mastered is the art of manipulation when it comes to enhancing his dining experience.
“Don’t sound so shocked. Of course, it’s delicious,” Niki says, already eyeing our next culinary target—a stand advertising liberty lobster rolls that smell like heaven mixed with melted butter. “Some of these people actually know what they’re doing when it comes to meat on a stick.”
We acquire the lobster rolls—chunks of sweet meat tossed in herbs and piled into brioche buns painted with red and blue stripes and lots and lots of butter—as we continue our gastronomic tour.
Watson receives a steady stream of accidentally dropped morsels, his tail wagging because he’s just discovered the meaning of life involves following humans around food festivals.
“Check out these freedom fries with a side of independence sauce,” Carlotta announces, returning from a truck painted to look like Mount Rushmore.
