“And Watson!” Lottie coos, dropping to her knees to praise him like the furry hero he is. “You are such a good boy! Such a brave, smart boy for barking and alerting Cooper and Noah!”
Watson’s tail goes into overdrive, and he immediately flips onto his back for belly rubs—because heroism, like everything else, should be rewarded properly.
“Oh my goodness, I almost forgot!” Lottie jumps up, pulsating with excitement. “Effie, we won! The booth contest—we won!”
“Wait, what?” I blink at her, still processing the whole nearly-drowned-by-a-murderous-hippiesituation.
“Mayor Nash announced it right before you went all action hero in the lake,” Lily explains, grinning ear to ear. “We were voted the most festive booth. We actually pulled it off!”
“The hardware store is already talking about filing a formal complaint,” Suze adds with a touch of satisfaction. “Apparently, they think our booth was excessively decorated and created an unfair visual advantage. Which is just code forwe’re jealous and petty.”
“They can cry into their hammers,” Lottie says smugly. “Our booth was a masterpiece, and Effie’s decorating genius is now officially award-winning.”
I look at the three of them—my boss, my coworkers, my friends—and feel a weird swell of pride that has nothing to do with catching killers and everything to do with winning a contest with enough glitter to fill Honey Lake.
“So not only did I solve a murder,” I say, “but I also won us a bunch of fancy kitchen equipment?”
“Best employee ever,” Lottie declares. “And I’m splitting the gift certificate four ways. We all earned this.”
The cheers that go up could rival the fireworks.
“And I think this calls for some time off,” Lottie announces, brushing dog hair from her festival apron with the authority of a woman making an executive decision. “Effie, you officially have the rest of the night to yourself. Go home, get dry, celebrate not dying.”
“We’ll handle the booth and the cleanup,” Lily volunteers, which is incredibly generous considering the amount of glitter involved in our over-the-top display. They might need a shovel. “Suze and I can get everything packed up and loaded.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, though I’m already imagining a hot shower and dry clothes that don’t smell like lake water and hippie perfume.
“Absolutely,” Suze confirms, already moving toward our booth like a professional disaster manager. Which, given our track record, is basically her job description. “You’ve had enough excitement for one evening. Go enjoy your victory.”
The last fireworks pop in the distance as families start packing up, the air still thick with barbecue smoke and patriotic pride. Somewhere, a brass band drifts through “America the Beautiful,” and the whole thing feels like the closing scene of that proverbial movie I just inadvertently starred in.
That’s when I spot them.
Mayor Nash and Uncle Jimmy, standing near the Colonial Kitchen truck, deep in what looks like a very polite conversation—complete with relaxed smiles and the kind of body language that saysbusiness is being handled.
Municipal takeovers and criminal enterprises come to mind.
Watson notices, too, and immediately perks up, his tail wagging as if he’s just spotted his second-favorite human—after Cooper, of course.
“All right, boy,” I murmur, following my furry wingman toward what promises to be either a very interesting conversation or a disaster of epic legal proportions.
Uncle Jimmy looks exactly like a man who could order dessert or a hit with equal ease—his silver hair is perfect, his clothes are expensive, and his presence impossible to ignore.
“I appreciate your understanding about the fireworks situation,” Uncle Jimmy says as we get close enough to eavesdrop without appearing to eavesdrop, which is a skill every Italian family teaches early and often.
“Not a problem at all,” Mayor Nash replies, all small-town charm. “I believe in supporting local entrepreneurs, especially ones who provide such spectacular displays of patriotism.”
Watson announces us with a single bark and immediately sits at the mayor’s feet like a campaign prop.
“Well, hello there, handsome,” Mayor Nash says, bending down to scratch Watson behind the ears like a politician who knows the value of being photographed with adorable animals. “Heard you were quite the hero tonight.”
Uncle Jimmy’s gaze shifts to me, sharp and assessing. “Effie, sweetheart. Perfect timing.”
My brain immediately kicks into overtime, processing the conversation I just overheard and the possibilities it presents for solving my current Uncle Jimmy problem without actually having to commit municipal homicide.
“Mayor Nash,” I say with my sweetest smile, the one I learned from watching Aunt Cat manipulate men into doingexactly what she wants. “I couldn’t help but overhear something about fireworks. Uncle Jimmy’s been in that business for years.”
“Among other things,” Uncle Jimmy agrees smoothly, his eyes gleaming with either amusement or approval of my conversational direction.
