“It would be such a shame if someone were to report any irregularities in his business practices,” I continue, watching Mayor Nash’s expression. “Especially when there are other irregularities happening in town that people might find equally interesting to discuss. With certain people. Like Carlotta. And those other women you keep company with.”
Here’s hoping I’ve got the leverage right.
Mayor Nash’s face cycles through several colors before settling on one that suggests he’s just realized he’s being blackmailed by someone who knows entirely too much about his extracurricular activities. And everyone knows Carlotta is a career-ending event waiting to happen.
“I think we understand each other perfectly,” he says after a moment, his politician’s smile never wavering even though his eyes say he’s just been cornered by a very polite shark.
I bare my pearly whites to prove his point.
Watson gives a quick bark, which I’m choosing to interpret as relief that I won’t be solving this problem with a firearm just to bring doggy food to the table.
“Wonderful,” Uncle Jimmy says with a lethal wink. “I do appreciate working with reasonable people, Harry. You’re a credit to public service.”
“Well,” Mayor Nash says, straightening and giving Watson one final pat, “I should head home. I’ve got that budget meeting first thing in the morning.” He starts to walk away, then turns back with a grin that suggests his sense of humor is still intact despite being maneuvered into ignoring illegal fireworks sales.“Jimmy, have you ever considered running for city council?” he asks. “I think you’d be a natural at politics.”
Uncle Jimmy chuckles. “I’ll stick to private enterprise. Less paperwork, more creative freedom.”
Mayor Nash disappears into the crowd of departing festivalgoers, and Uncle Jimmy turns to me with a look that’s equal parts approval and mild concern for the future of my soul.
“That was well done, sweetheart,” he says, adjusting his expensive watch as if his evening has just improved considerably. “I’m glad Harry gets to live to see another day.”
“Why’s that?” I ask, even though I already know I’m not going to like the answer.
“Because now that I know he’s been two-timing my girl Carlotta, I’m going to kill him myself,” Uncle Jimmy replies with a cheerful tone of discussing weekend plans rather than premeditated revenge. “But first, I think I’ll make his life miserable for a while. It’s much more satisfying that way.”
I swallow hard.
He gives Watson a final pat and strolls off like a man who’s just wrapped up a productive evening and is looking forward to future chaos. And future felonies.
Watson and I watch him go, both of us processing the fact that I may have just saved the mayor’s life…temporarily.
“Well,” I say, glancing down as Watson sniffs the ground as if he’s gathering evidence, “at least I didn’t have to shoot anyone tonight. That feels like a win.”
Some Fourth of July celebrations end with peaceful reflection. Mine ends with blackmail, a murder arrest, and the promise of future municipal problems courtesy of my crime boss uncle.
I’m starting to think my family’s definition of patriotism might be slightly more creative than most people’s, and I’m oddly okay with that.
CHAPTER 23
The aftermath of Uncle Jimmy’s announcement about his plans for municipal revenge is still sinking in when I spot Cooper making his way back across the festival grounds. I lean in and squint—the man is soaking wet and carrying what appears to be my beloved Buttercup like some sort of aquatic treasure hunter who just discovered the holy grail of personal protection equipment.
The lake has settled into evening tranquility, its surface reflecting twinkle lights and the occasional leftover fireworks from people who apparently bought more explosives than they could detonate in one evening.
The air smells like summer, barbecue, and dicey decisions that involve a lot of beer, while music drifts through the speakers.
Most of the crowd has cleared out, leaving behind that soft, romantic quiet that makes you understand why people write poetry about nights like this.
“Please tell me you didn’t jump back in that lake for my gun,” I call out as Cooper approaches, though the evidence suggests that’s exactly what happened and my heart is doing things that have nothing to do with the evening’s earlier adrenaline rush.
“I had a fishing net in my car,” Cooper says, water dripping everywhere in a way that should be illegal given how good he still looks. “Took me ten minutes. But here she is.”
He holds up Buttercup as if he just pulled off a grand romantic gesture—one that’ll definitely get talked about in certain circles where retrieving your girlfriend’s firearm from the bottom of a lake counts as true love. It sure does in mine.
“You fished my Glock out of Honey Lake,” I say, taking her back and checking her over like a long-lost child. “That’s either incredibly romantic or deeply concerning.”
“Probably both,” he says with a grin. “When the woman you love loses her weapon while apprehending a homicidal hippie, you do what needs to be done.”
“You love me?” I inch back as I take him in.
