“I said what I said.” Aunt Cat winks her way.
Before I can protest that we should stick together, they scatter like pool balls after a hard hit, leaving me standing next to Julia, along with Watson, who’s acquired what appears to be atiny flag on a toothpick and is wearing it like an antenna on the side of his hat. I have to admit, the kid has style.
“Well, your aunts seem energetic,” Julia says with a laugh.
“That’s one way to put it,” I agree, watching Aunt Cat sashay into the crowd with enough hip action to light up a strip club. Although at her age, she won’t be garnering too many dollar bills.
Watson nudges my hand with his cold nose, reminding me that I still have half a piece of chicken that requires proper disposal—preferably into his mouth.
The argument at the other end of the culinary chaos goes on undeterred, as Larry and Sunshine draw even more spectators to them.
I’m debating whether to intervene or just enjoy the show when I spot Larry breaking away from the group, his face flushed with anger beneath his aviators.
Watson lets out a soft whine, his little flag antenna drooping like even he can tell something’s about to go spectacularly sideways for me—and probably soon. I’m about due.
Larry stalks toward a quieter area near the lake, and I watch as another figure emerges from the crowd—a man I don’t recognize but who’s clearly agitated about something.
The man is short and round with a stocky build that assures us he’s spent decades sampling his own cooking and that of others. He’s somewhere in his seventies, based on the silver threading in his handlebar mustache that dominates his weathered face. His thinning hair is mostly hidden under a vintage trucker hat, and he’s wearing what appears to be a grease-stained vintage bowling shirt stretched tight across his substantial belly.
Despite his rotund appearance, he moves with the confident stride of a man who’s spent considerable time lifting heavy objects—possibly other people who’ve annoyed him. His meatyhands look like they could flip a burger or flip a person with equal efficiency.
“I should probably...” I start to say to Julia, but she’s already distracted by a customer asking about her colonial cornbread catastrophe, leaving me free to drift closer to where Larry and the mystery man are having a very intense conversation about something that involves a lot of pointing and aggressive hand gestures.
Watson follows along, his festive accessories making tiny jingling sounds as we move. He seems less enthusiastic about this particular adventure, staying closer to my legs than usual.
I’m pretending to examine a nearby display of patriotic popsicles when Larry suddenly staggers, his aviators sliding down his nose as he clutches at his chest with all the subtlety of a bad medical drama.
Watson immediately backs up, his tail tucked and his ears flattened. Dogs always know when something’s wrong before humans figure it out. Although in this case, I may have had him beat.
“What the—” Larry’s eyes go wide with a reaction you’d expect from a love letter from the IRS, or finding out your ex-boyfriend is dating your sister. Okay, so that last one was me. And after discovering what a cheat he was, I penned her a thank-you note.
Larry Rocket, food critic turned gourmet food truck owner, staggers forward and collapses at my feet like a marionette whose strings have been cut, hitting the ground with a thud that somehow manages to be both final and accusatory. Clutched in his right hand is a half-eaten ramekin of what appears to be Julia’s Paul Revere’s patriotic corn pudding, the tiny Liberty Bell design still visible on the ceramic despite the pudding scattered across the grass.
Watson gives a sharp and alarmed bark, his flag antenna wobbling as he backs away from the suddenly still figure. He looks up at me with worried brown eyes, as if asking what we should do now.
The mystery man has vanished into the crowd like smoke, leaving me standing over Larry’s body with what I’m pretty sure looks like guilt written across my face in permanent marker.
“Well,” I mutter to Watson, whose Uncle Sam hat has slipped completely over his eyes, “there goes our peaceful festival. And I didn’t even get to try the enlightenment eggplant.”
Watson whimpers in agreement, and I realize that once again, I’m about to become the prime suspect in a murder I didn’t commit.
Some traditions never get old.
CHAPTER 5
The sound that erupts from the festival crowd isn’t the cheerful chaos of people enjoying food trucks—it’s a high-pitched, collective shriek that usually indicates either a celebrity sighting or someone discovering a dead body.
Since this is Honey Hollow and not Hollywood, I’m betting on the latter.
“Oh my heavens!” screams a woman in a flag-themed sundress, pointing at Larry’s motionless form with enough drama to qualify as its own emergency. “Is he dead? Someone call 911!”
“Already on it,” comes a familiar voice that makes my stomach do a little flip despite the circumstances.
Cooper appears through the crowd like a detective-shaped solution to absolutely everything, radio in hand, his expression shifting from festivalgoer to cop faster than Watson can spot a dropped hot dog.
He moves with a purposeful stride that parts crowds, and people step aside as if he’s Moses with a badge. And holy Moses, is he ever hot.
Watson plants himself between me and the chaos, his golden fur bristling just enough to say he knows things are about to go very, very wrong for me.
